“I’m going to write a complaint to the Commissioner,” he threatened.

The sound of a siren grew quickly in the night.

“Here comes the ambulance,” Anderson said with relief.

The red eye of the ambulance was coming up 125th Street fast, from the direction of Lenox Avenue.

Grave Digger addressed Mr. Zazuly directly. “And that’s all you saw?”

“What did you expect him to see?” Haggerty cracked. “Look at those specs.”

The ambulance double-parked beside a prowl car, and the cops stood by silently while the intern made a cursory examination.

“Can you give him something to bring him to?” Anderson asked him.

“Give him what?” the intern replied.

“Well, when will he be able to talk?”

“Can’t say, Inspector, he might have concussion.”

“I see you’re going to get ahead fast,” Anderson commented.

Nothing more was said while Casper Holmes was rolled onto the stretcher and moved.

Anderson glanced at his watch. “Homicide ought to be getting here,” he said anxiously.

“The stiffs won’t spoil in this weather,” Haggerty said, turning up the collar of his overcoat and putting his back to the ice-cold, dust-laden wind.

“I’m going to see how Ed’s making out,” Grave Digger said, and strolled toward the entrance to the Paris.

When Coffin Ed entered the Paris Bar, not one person looked in his direction.

It was a long, narrow room, with the bar running the length of the left side, taking up hall the space. Customers sat on bar stools or stood; there were no tables.

The usual Saturday night crowd was gathered, bitchy young men wearing peacock clothes with bright-colored caps, blue and silver and gold and purple, perched atop greasy curls straight from the barbershops at seven dollars a treatment. And the big, strong, rough-looking men who made life wonderful for them. But there was not a woman present.