Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 12, No. 6, May 1963

He saw Byers, acting as a lookout, walking slowly up towards Saratoga Street, and Visconti, also a lookout, standing in a doorway near Fayette Street. Heisman, carrying the attache case, O’Konski, cradling a small cylinder of acetylene gas in his arms, and Mahaffey, one of the stolen Colt .38’s in hand, were walking rapidly towards the entrance to the jewelry store.

In a few seconds Byers would reach the corner of Green and Saratoga, see the three police cars, get suspicious, and give the alarm.

McClure, waving his bottle, staggered towards him, shouting: “Have a lil drink, fren!”

Byers stopped, put his hand in his pocket, then drew it out empty. He called to the men in the jewelry store doorway: “Just a goddam drunk. Nothing to worry about.”

McClure gripped Byers by the coat lapel. “Jus’ one won’t hurt, fren’. S’my birthday!”

Byers laughed good-naturedly. “Okay,” he said. “Gimme the damn bottle.”

Out of the corner of his eye McClure saw Heisman take a small black box out of the attache case, hold it up to the lock, adjust a dial, and — clink. Out fell a newly-made key.

Heisman picked it up, unlocked the door, and he and O’Konski went in. Mahaffey, gun in hand, nervously watched Byers and the “bum.”

“Get rid of him!” he growled.

“Go sleep it off in some alley,” said Byers, shaking himself loose from McClure’s grasp.

McClure hurled the whiskey bottle to the pavement, where it smashed with the sound of a firecracker.

That was the signal they’d been waiting for. The six detectives erupted from their cars, guns in hand, and raced around the corner towards the jewelry store.

The “bum” yanked out his gun, but Mahaffey’s shot caught him in the right hip and he went down. As he fell he fired and hit Mahaffey in the groin. Mahaffey dropped his gun and sank slowly to the pavement, his hands clutching the wound.

Byers got off one shot that sang by Egan’s ear. Egan’s own bullet hit him in the neck and Byers flopped to the sidewalk like a stranded fish, the blood gurgling through the hole in his throat, and running across the sidewalk into the gutter.

Visconti was far enough away to make a run for the Elite Bakery truck. He got it started and raced for Saratoga Street, trying to hit Steve Kohnstamm, who was running across the street towards the jewelry store. Steve dove out of the way, breaking his wrist as he fell. His own gun cluttered to the pavement.

Egan, Clancy, Grissom, and Smyth riddled the windshield; a red flower blossomed in the middle of Visconti’s face. The truck veered crazily, careened towards the sidewalk, and smashed through the display window of a men’s clothing store.

The sudden burst of noise was now replaced by an eerie silence. The interior of the jewelry store was dark and quiet. Detective Murphy, gun in hand, had gone down an alley to guard the rear door.

The street looked like a battle scene. Visconti, dead, his face and body full of glass splinters, hung half in and half out of the driver’s seat of the Elite Bakery truck, his blood dripping on the neat window display of men’s white button-down shirts.

Byers, not dead but dying, lay face down on the sidewalk, the blood still bubbling out of the hole in his throat. Mahaffey lay groaning in front of the jewelry store, his hands over the wound in his groin, blood seeping through them.

Detective McClure, the wounded “bum” — had half propped himself against a lamp post. Detective Kohnstamm sat on the sidewalk with his feet in the gutter, holding his head down, trying to keep from fainting as his right hand flopped grotesquely at the end of his broken wrist.

Egan yelled into the dark void of the jewelry store. “You’ve had it, Heisman! Back door’s covered! Throw out those thirty-eights!”

Silence. Then a .38 was kicked out through the wide-open door, followed by another. O’Konski and Heisman, hands joined behind their necks, came out.

By now squad cars and ambulances were pouring into the area, and a small crowd had materialized out of nowhere to gape in amazement at the bodies, the blood, the prisoners. Phil Egan phoned Mike Casey, then bustled Heisman and O’Konski, handcuffed together, into the back seat of the Chevvie for the ride down to Headquarters. Clancy, gun in hand, sat with them, and Smyth rode up front with Phil.

Heisman, the brain, was calm but dejected. O’Konski, smothered in gloom, snarled and cursed and refused to talk.

Heisman, clinically interested in the failure of his ingenious plan, said: “Where did I goof? What tipped you?”

Egan replied: “Byers, when he left his car out near that Texaco station in Towson. How’d he happen to do that?”

Heisman gritted his teeth. “The fat, stupid jerk! Our three goons — the Outfit provided them, partly to protect us and partly to make sure we didn’t pull a double cross — had the Plymouth and the Bakery truck that night. Byers was the lookout. After the job, he couldn’t get the Plymouth going right away, so he panicked and jumped in the truck with the others. Next time it won’t—”