“Nazarione needs those papers,” Bolan said.

“Last night he called me at home. Asked about my three kids and my wife, and while there was no threat, I certainly got the idea they might not be safe if I didn’t do what he said.”

“The files, Sanders. Get them now. Nazarione will probably be here this morning with a wrecking bar to take your office apart.”

Sanders stood up like an old man. He was about forty. He went to a wall safe and spun the dials. When it was unlocked, Bolan eased the lawyer aside and opened it. Inside was a .38 revolver. Bolan took it out, then let Sanders reach in. He brought out two cardboard boxes.

“I could copy everything and give you the originals and give the copies to Nazarione...“

Bolan shook his head. “No time. Anyway, he would check for that.” The Executioner opened the first letter-size cardboard file and leafed through some of the papers and pictures. It was hard evidence. He closed the file and picked up both boxes.

“I suggest you call your wife and meet her and the kids away from your home. Then drive to Washington and take the first flight to Nassau. You deserve a vacation.”

Bolan carried the two boxes out of the office and took the stairs down the five flights to the street. He met no one coming up.

A mile away from the building, he stopped at a telephone booth and called Assistant Chief Jansen.

“This is your bloody buddy. Has the chief turned up yet?”

“No. We’re worried here. His wife hasn’t heard from him for two days.”

“Forget him — he’s dead, captured or scared. I have something you need for the show tonight. Meet me in twenty minutes in that McDonald’s just down from your headquarters. Alone, right?”

“You got it. The other two assistant chiefs are starting to show their muscle around here.”

“They won’t after tonight. Anything on Assistant Chief Vincent?”

“We’ve put his arraignment off until next week. I had a talk with the D.A., explaining what I think happened. I said things should be more clear after tonight. We might be able to withdraw the charges and get him back on duty yet.”

“Good. Twenty minutes.”

Bolan was there in five and watched from an inside booth. He saw no sudden influx of male civilians, no prowling unmarked police cars. Jansen was keeping his word.

The chief came in five minutes later, bought a milk shake at the counter and looked for a place to sit. He saw Bolan, walked up and sat across from him. They greeted each other.

“What’s the procedure tonight with the mayor?” Bolan asked.

“Usually he presents his speech for the audience and the TV cameras and then an open city-council meeting begins.”

“How does your police commissioner fit in?”

“He’s the politics end. He works with the mayor and gives directions to our chief, who implements them through the department.”

“So the commissioner and the mayor make the policy and the rest of you carry it out.”

“Right.”

The Executioner lifted a file folder from one of the boxes beside him and slid it across the table to Jansen.

“Here’s the file that shows and proves the Mafia’s penetration into the Baltimore Police Department, including the two assistant chiefs. Here’s a list of who is on the take and why. There is also a complete rundown of some ten or twelve top-echelon Mafia types with names and dates and evidence to back up killings, briberies, assaults and a dozen other crimes never charged against them before.”

He let Jansen look through the file.

“This is a bombshell! It will blow the department wide open!”

“Not if the district attorney goes at it slowly and the department does a lot of internal housecleaning. I was hoping we could set off the first bomb tonight with the mayor’s speech.”

“He’s probably still writing it,” Jansen said.

“Good. Maybe we have time. First, make copies of everything in these files. Then take the originals to the D.A. and explain the whole thing. Then take some select items to the police commissioner and see if he can get something in the mayor’s speech about law enforcement, the new crackdown on the Mafia, and mention a couple of cases. It might work. I didn’t see any mention of Police Commissioner Williams in any of the material. He must be clean.”

“Yes. The D.A. will go along with almost anything to get this evidence. Is this what Captain Davis had that he was blackmailing Nazarione with?”

“Yes, I got it from Davis’s lawyer, but he will never admit that. It’s found evidence. Maybe you could suggest to the D.A. that they prepare arrest warrants for the two assistant chiefs on bribery and four or five Mafia hoods on some of the cases covered in the files. If the mayor could announce those arrests and have the men picked up at the gathering, it would be a big political boost for him.”

“And the start of our cleanup. I’ll give it a try. The D.A. will go along. I just hope I can convince Commissioner Williams. I’ve never been one of his favorites.”

“You will be after you show him all that evidence and tell him it’s been turned over to the D.A. He won’t be able to stop it then if he is working with Nazarione.”

Chief Jansen finished his milk shake. “Anything on Chief Smith?”

“Not a word. Hasn’t he reported in yet?”

“Not so far. Maybe the Mafia found him at that motel where you left him.”

“Possible. Get things in motion. We don’t have much time.”

Chief Jansen nodded, left the booth and walked out the side door.

Fifty miles north of Baltimore, Chief of Police Smith paced the small motel room. He was unshaven and wore only his T-shirt and pants. For the third time he ran out of cigarettes. He crushed the pack and threw it against the wall.

What the hell was he supposed to do? He had tried to get through on the phone but they said not to call, to wait until after tonight.

This was the mayor’s big State of the City speech. He usually helped the commissioner put together something complimentary the mayor could say about the department, some new record of arrests or how crime was down in certain sections.

Maybe he should give the commissioner a call?

And how would he explain where he had been for the past two or three days?

He thought back to the day when he had been on his way home and had seen the crew wagon boiling up behind. He knew what to expect — he was on the floor of the side-armored police car long before his driver had shouted.

Then damn Bolan had interfered at the last minute and riddled those Mafia goons. There was nothing to do then but go along with the Executioner and his rescue. But what did Carlo Nazarione think about eleven of his men getting killed on what was supposed to be a simple kill of the driver and kidnapping of the chief?

Evidently he was damn mad.

Chief Smith put on shoes, socks and shirt. He had to get out of there and do some tall thinking.