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“I don’t plan to go to the papers with it,” I said. “I plan to stick to the version I gave Davis. I was just curious if you guys finally copped to what you’ve done—which is do Dillinger and Nitti a favor and kill some ringer for ’em, and get the heat off.”

Cowley brushed a comma of brown hair off his forehead, but it only fell back again. He said, “If you believe this to be true, why keep it to yourself? Why not go to the papers? You might make some tidy pocket change off it.”

Purvis glared at Cowley for having suggested that.

I said, “I’m keeping it to myself because Frank Nitti might not like it if I didn’t. And because whoever that poor shmuck in front of the Biograph is—or was—doesn’t much matter, at this point. He’s dead. I saw it coming, and would’ve liked to stop it from happening. But I wasn’t up to the job. So be it. Best of luck to all concerned.”

Purvis got up, paced for a moment, then went over to the open window and looked out at the Rookery, hands in pockets. “I don’t get you, Heller. You’re not a stupid man. Yet you seriously entertain such a stupid goddamn fantasy. We killed a ‘ringer’! Utter rubbish.” He turned and looked at me with a painfully earnest expression. “How in God’s name could that have been anyone else but John Dillinger last night?”

Without malice, I said, “You were so eager for it to be him, it didn’t have to be.”

He strode over to me, hands still in pockets; he seemed a little boy playing man. “What the hell’s your meaning?”

With malice, I said, “Listen to me the first time I say something, Little Mel—then you won’t have to ask me to repeat it four times.”

His marionette features took on a hurt, angry cast and he told me to go hell and walked briskly toward the door.

“I have a train to catch,” he said. “I don’t have time for your nonsense.”

He was opening the door when I said, “I can prove it wasn’t Dillinger, Melvin.”

That caught his attention.

“I really can, Mel,” I said. “But if you have a train to catch…”

He shut the door and walked back. Sat down next to Cowley. Both men looked at me with doubting, but troubled, expressions.

“I was just at the morgue,” I said. “I got a good look at the body, and a good look at the autopsy report.”

That angered Purvis. “How did you manage…”

I rubbed my thumb and fingers together, in the money gesture. Purvis fell silent and Cowley winced and nodded and I went on.

“The man Zarkovich and O’Neill shot was approximately Dillinger’s height and weight. He was a little shorter and a little heavier than the real McCoy, but within an inch and ten pounds, so what the hell. Facially he doesn’t resemble Dillinger much, but certain scars indicate a face-lift, so plastic surgery might explain that. But how do you explain the eyes?”

“The eyes?” Purvis said.

“Yeah—the eyes have it, you know. And the corpse has brown eyes. I saw it for myself, last night; and that’s what the autopsy report says, too. Brown eyes.”

“So?” Cowley said.

“Dillinger has gray eyes.”

Purvis said, “If the corpse has brown eyes, Dillinger has brown eyes, because that corpse is Dillinger. This is ridiculous. I really do have a train to catch.” He stood again. “You fill Cowley in on your fantasy, if you like, Heller—I have neither the stomach nor time for it.”

“Sit down, Melvin,” I said. “You’re going to hear this, or I’ll find somebody else to tell it to.”

He sat.

“There was also a birthmark, a mole, missing on the body—right between the eyes—and several scars from bullet wounds and a scar on the lip were also not there.”

“Plastic surgery,” Cowley offered.

Cockily, Purvis said, “We know for a fact that Dillinger had plastic surgery just within this past month or so. This afternoon agents from this office picked up two of the ring involved in Dillinger’s several face-lift operations—Louis Piquett’s personal private investigator, and the doctor who performed the operation. And this office will be making more arrests in the days to come.”

That sounded like a fucking press release. I said so.

“You’re an annoying man,” Purvis said, his Southern sense of manners apparently infringed.

“If Dillinger did have plastic surgery this past month or so,” I said, “how could he be completely healed so soon? The skin on his upper lip would at least look pink, for instance. Nothing looked pink about that stiff, believe me.”

Purvis was shaking his head, scowling. “Where are you getting your ‘facts’? Newspaper files? What description are you going by? What’s the basis of your comparison? Get serious, Heller.”

I took a folded-up piece of paper out of my front right pants pocket and spread it out on the table.

“Division of Investigation identification order number twelve-seventeen,” I said, pointing to the federal wanted poster for John Dillinger. “Given to me by my friend Captain John Stege as a souvenir of this little episode.”

Both Purvis and Cowley just stared blankly at the poster. Purvis was swallowing, like his mouth was suddenly dry.