The Murderers

“I didn’t say that,” Washington said. “What I’m saying is that we have yet to come up with a motive for Mr. Atchison being involved in the deaths of his wife and partner. No large amount of recently acquired insurance, et cetera, et cetera.”

“And if we confront Atchison with lying about Foley, he confesses to ru

“Precisely,” Washington said. “And we have little physical evidence, except for the bullets removed from the bodies of Mrs. Atchison and Mr. Marcuzzi. That’s useless unless we have the guns and can tie them to Foley or somebody else. Maybe there were two robbers.”

“Well, we could send Matt to have a drink with Frankie and talk about guns,” Milham said jokingly.

“He might not be too sharp, but he’s shrewd,” Matt said. “I don’t think I’d get anything from him.”

“Neither do I, but let’s think that through,” Washington said.

“Jesus!” Matt said. “Can I let my imagination run free?”

“Certainly.”

“Foley likes to talk. Boast. I have the feeling that working in Wanamaker’s embarrasses him.”

“So?”

“So maybe he would boast to somebody else.”

“I don’t follow you, Matthew,” Washington said. There was a tone of impatience in his voice.

“A guy comes up to him in a bar. Tells him he’s heard that Frankie has co

“That’s stretching, Payne,” Milham said. “You don’t think he’s going to sell the guns he used at the Inferno, do you? They’re probably at the bottom of the river.”

Matt met Washington’s eyes.

“Hay-zuz,” he said. “Wearing all his gold chains.”

It was a full thirty seconds before Washington spoke.

“I think Matthew may have something.”

“Hay-zus?” Milham asked.

“Detective Jesus Martinez,” Washington said. “Let me run this past Lieutenant Natali, maybe Captain Quaire, too. It would help if I could say the assigned detective had no objections.”

“Anything that works,” Milham said.

“I would suggest to you, Matthew, that while Mr. Foley presented a picture of complete composure in the Roundhouse, he may start to worry when he has had time to think things over. It is also possible that he may communicate with Mr. Atchison, or vice versa, which may make Mr. Atchison less confident than he was when we left him. In any event, there is nothing else that I can see that any of us can do today. I suggest we hang it up for the night.”

“I’ll see if I can get anything out of Helene,” Milham said. “And I’ll check with Homicide and see if anything new has come up.”

Every evening except Sunday, between 8:00 and 8:15 P.M. an automobile, most often a new Buick, stopped near the middle of the 1200 block of Ritner Street in South Philadelphia. A man carrying a small zipper bag would get out of the passenger seat, walk to the door of the residence occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Francis “So

The door would be opened, the man would enter, and the door would be closed. Usually less than a minute later, the door would reopen, and the man, still carrying what appeared to be the same small zipper bag, would appear, descend the stairs, and get back in the car, which would then drive off.

There were, in fact, two bags. The bag the man carried into the house would more often than not be empty. The bag the man carried from the house would contain the records of Mr. Boyle’s business transactions of that day, and the cash proceeds therefrom, less Mr. Boyle’s commission.

Mr. Boyle was in the numbers business. His clientele would “buy a number,” that is select a number between 000 and 999. The standard purchase price was one dollar. If the number selected “came up,” that is, corresponded to the second comma-separated trio of numbers of activity on the New York Stock Exchange for that day, the lucky number holder received $500. For example, if 340,676,000 shares were traded on the stock exchange on one particular day, the wi

The operation of Mr. Boyle’s business was quite simple. Most of the sales were conducted through small retail businesses, candy stores, grocery stores, newspaper stands, and the like. Individual customers would buy a number and be given a receipt. The storekeeper would turn over his carbon copy of the number selected, and his cash receipts (less a ten percent commission for his trouble), to one of Mr. Boyle’s ru

Sale of numbers was closed off at half past two in the afternoon. The New York Stock Exchange closed at three. By three-fifteen, the day’s transactions had been reported on radio and television, and Mr. Boyle was made aware which number had hit, if any. Or, far more commonly, that no number had been hit. Or, far less commonly, that two or three individuals had purchased numbers that had hit. Only once in Mr. Boyle’s experience (and he had been a ru

But in any event, the laws of probability were not Mr. Boyle’s concern. All wi

At 7:15 P.M. Mr. Boyle was sitting in his shirtsleeves at his kitchen table concluding the administration of the day’s business when he heard the doorbell ring.

He was idly curious, but did not allow it to disturb his concentration. His work was important, and he took pride in both his accuracy, his absolute honesty, both to his clients and to his employers, and his timeliness. He had failed only twice to be ready when the man with the bag appeared at his door. His wife, Helen, moreover, had strict orders that he was not to be disturbed when he was working unless the house was on fire.

The kitchen table was covered with carbons of numbers selected that day, which would be forwarded, and with stacks of money, folded in half, and kept together with rubber bands. The folded stacks of money-the day’s receipts-were predominantly dollar bills, but with the odd five-, ten-, and twenty-dollar bills assembled in their own stack. There were also three stacks of tens, crisp new bills, bound by paper strips bearing the logotype of the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society, and marked “$500.”

These crisp new ten-dollar bills would be used to pay yesterday’s wi

He could have, of course, paid the wi