THE BRASS BOWL
hold up anybody 't tries tuh leave th' buildin'. There ain't no other entrance, I s'pose, what?"
"Basement door an' ash lift's round th' corner," responded the officer. "But that had ought tuh be locked, night."
"Well, 'f anybody else comes along yeh put him there, anyway, for luck. … What 'n hell's th' matter with this elevator?"
The detective settled a pudgy index-finger on the push button and elicited a far, thin, shrill peal from the annunciator above. But the indicator arrow remained as motionless as the car at the top of the shaft. Another summons gained no response, in likewise, and a third was also disregarded.
Hickey stepped back, face black as a storm-cloud, summed up his opinion of the management of the building in one soul-blistering phrase, produced his bandana and used it vigorously, uttered a libel on the ancestry of the night-watchman and the likes of him, and turned to give profane welcome to the policeman who had noticed the cab at Twenty-third Street and who now panted in, blown and perspiring.
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