Which Way to Die? Read Online Free PDF Page A

seen through the subterfuge. Harry Barber, now Martello. The news media weren’t on the ball on this one. The place should have been crawling with reporters and cameramen.
    â€œI think, Marty,” Corrigan said, “it would improve your public relations if you ordered Benny here to turn right around and keep going till you hit the city.”
    â€œThat’s if you was me,” Martello said. “But you’re not.”
    â€œI’m asking you nicely.”
    â€œWhat law am I breaking, Captain?”
    Corrigan struck his head through the rear window, causing Little Jumbo to draw back hastily.
    â€œYou got no jurisdiction here,” Martello said. His eyes had slitted.
    â€œMarty,” Corrigan said in a soft voice, “don’t make me get tough with you. The two of us could take your three goons on with one hand tied behind our backs.”
    â€œYeah, man,” said Chuck Baer.
    â€œYou gonna give us a sample of police brutality?” Martello asked. “This isn’t your turf, Officer.”
    â€œI’m not telling you, Martello, I’m asking you. Just this once: You going back?”
    Little Jumbo glanced out of his elephant eyes at his employer. The pair in front stared rigidly ahead. Martello seemed to be weighing something.
    Corrigan and Baer waited patiently.
    Finally the gang lord said in an even, slightly thick, voice: “Get going, Benny.”

4.
    They found Alstrom, Mrs. Grant, and Andy Betz in the Warden’s office. The released men’s attorneys, Narwald and Fellows, were there, too.
    The lawyers were equally well-fed-looking and red-faced. They might have been brothers. Narwald was completely bald and Fellows had gray hair cut theatrically long at the neck. They were a slick pair.
    The Warden said, “Hello, Tim.” Corrigan introduced Baer. Neither said anything to Narwald and Fellows, who both had a mingled look of triumph and anxiety that was almost comical.
    â€œThey’re being processed, Tim,” the Warden said. “They’ll be along any minute.”
    A few moments later a guard brought in the two young men.
    Corrigan and Baer looked them over curiously. Prison often speeded up time where non-habitual criminals were concerned. These two were astonishing. At twenty-three neither looked a day older than he had looked at nineteen. The only appreciable difference was in their weight. They had both been well-fleshed at the time they had murdered Audrey Martello. Now they were lean and fit as athletes.
    Gerard Alstrom looked remarkably like his father. He was the taller of the pair, with a sharply intelligent face and thick blond hair. The typical Nordic—with the typical Nazi mentality, Corrigan thought. The hair was cut short in prison fashion, as was Grant’s. Frank Grant looked nothing like his mother. He was a skinny kid with a delicate build and probably tipped the scales at no more than one-thirty-five. He wore thick-lensed glasses over eyes that had a perpetual peering look; Corrigan remembered the same look from the trial. His hair was black. With a young beard and tight pants he could have passed for a Greenwich Village poet.
    Elizabeth Grant flew to her son like a mother eagle defending her young. Frank submitted to her embrace with no enthusiasm; if anything, he looked bored.
    â€œOkay, Mother, okay,” he said.
    â€œOh, Frankie, Frankie …”
    â€œIt’s enough.” He pushed away from her. Corrigan could have pushed his face in. The clinging variety of love his mother bore him was probably a pain, but elementary decency should have dictated at least an affectionate toleration. This punk had the decency of a mink.
    From the corner of his eye he caught the expression on Baer’s face. So Chuck wanted to push his face in, too. Well, we don’t have to love him, Corrigan reminded himself, just protect him. And he mentally called the Commissioner a disrespectful name.
    John M. Alstrom