"How soon, Lieutenant?" we asked.

"Soon. They been out since two o'clock. They should have 'cm all by now."

"What about pictures," the Post correspondent wanted to know. "You think we'll be able to get a shot of them?"

"Maybe. But probably, if they see any cameras around, they'll shy away. But go ahead and bring a photographer if you want. I don't care."

We had been waiting around for forty minutes on the first floor of the Central Square Police headquarters. There were three of us, and myself. Earlier that afternoon, we had learned that Cambridge's Gaming Squad was ready to learned that Cambridge's Gaming Squad was ready to make a killing, and was out rounding up a ring of bookmarkers.

An officer from the Detective Bureau led us upstairs and down a long, narrow, high-ceilinged hallway which led to the Crime Prevention bureau. They had three men inside, with their representatives.

After a few minutes the gamblers, bail paid, emerged from the room. All there of them were broad, swarthy-complexioned men. They wore their topcoats unbuttoned and their hats sat flat on their heads, and they all had their hands thrust in the pockets of their double-breasted jackets. They half-smiled, half-sneered, and swaggered slightly as they filed down the corridor.

We went into a small room to the right of the door marked "Crime Prevention Bureau." Sergeant Cosgrove of the Gaming Squad, who had led the investigation and the round-up, entered a few minutes after we did. It was easy getting information that day. The Sergeant was highly pleased with himself and his inspectors, for two-and-one-half months of digging had finally paid off.

"The address is 361 Washington," he began. "Third floor. At exactly 2:10, me and one of the inspectors went up to the front door of the flat, and Fitzgerald"--he pointed to a man of medium height with rough features--"he and another inspector went up the back. They bolted the doors as soon as we knocked. But Fitzgerald had a sledge hammer with him, in case' something like that happened. He bashed in the back door.

"They had time to get all the phones except one hidden and disconnected before we came in. They used this here trap door set up. We caught one of them on his knees. He'd just heaved a phone down into this hole, and he was closing the trap door."

"Who was that," the Post man inquired.

"Panagopoulos."

"Who?"

"Panagopoulos. P-a-n-a-g-o-p-o-u-l-o-s."

"Oh."

"How about that trap door set-up, Sergeant?"

The Sergeant held up a piece of thick wood, about two feet squared. It was designed to fit into the floor, with hinges on the inside. In the event of a raid, the gamblers threw the phones into a hole and slammed the door shut to conceal them. In closing, the trap door also threw a lever switch to disconnect the phones.

"When we got there," Cosgrove continued, "we hooked up the phones and began taking bets. We were on the phones--there were four of them, along with an adding machine and some other gambling materials--for over an hour."

"How was business?"

"Oh, a couple of hundred dollars worth. Pretty good. We figure, from the calls we got and these slips and envelopes we picked up, they must do around $50,000 a month. That's on the horses, a lottery racket, and some other numbers rackets. Hell, we got calls from all over. Some guy out in Milton wanted to lay a $50 bet on a horse."

A red-faced fellow from the Detective Bureau laughed. "I got a call from some guy out in Revere. He says to me, 'Hey, I hear they got cops all around the place outside. That right?' So I answered, 'Nah. No cops outside the place,' I says. So he gets sort of confused and says, "Huh? You sure?' And I start laughing and say, 'Sure I'm sure. They're right here. You're talking to one of them'."

"I guess that about wraps it up," the Sergeant said, throwing the evidence into a small carton. "Anything else you guys want to know?"

We answered no. "Except," the Post man said, "how is it you spell that guy's name again?"