The following morning, Johnny Liddell and Muggsy Kiely were at Centre Street, asking for Inspector Herlehy. The sergeant at the desk shook his head doubtfully at their prospects for getting in, was prevailed upon to check his hunch with a phone call, reversed himself.
“The inspector says for you to go right up,” he said.
Inspector Herlehy sat slumped behind the battered old desk in his cubbyhole office. He waved to them as they came through the door, motioned them into the old-fashioned wooden armchairs across the desk from him.
“Looks like crime is picking up, with you two working in harness again,” he greeted them. “What’s on your minds?”
“As though you didn’t know,” Liddell growled.
Herlehy grinned. “I have been hearing some things about you, at that.” He reached over, picked up a
