我尝试停下来观察下，看到一些车灯在晃动，我估计是其他的警车，我不得不假设他们已经通过无线电收到了警报。我唯一想到的就是通过后院逃跑。我沿着一个私人住宅跑进一条车道，当我到了房子的后面，我发现自己面对着一堵高墙。我被困住了，我能做的就是躲进房子后面的小角落里。我可以看到车灯转进车道后停下来，但是没有进入房子的后面。距离如此之近，我听到一个警察对另一个说，"哦，他不在这，我们走吧。"直到今天我还确信他们见到我进去并且知道我在哪。他们唯一不确定的是不知道我是否有手枪，我想这是谨慎战胜了勇敢吧。他们退出去沿着他们的路巡逻。
我不仅没有枪，钱也没有。你记得，在我刚刚吧火柴盒递给斯宾斯沃德龙之后，"不许动！"一声大喊让我脑海里一片空白。
警车离开后，空无一人。我似乎是费城里唯一一个人。附近所有房子都有车库，最后我终于在路上发现一辆汽车。我进到车里，卷缩在后座，等待天亮。一大早，房屋的主人门开始出来清扫他们路边的积雪。很快，为生计所困的人们开始在赶往工作的路上蹒跚而行。我非常熟悉费城，知道他们正走向几个街区之外的高架车站，还有一些赶往第六十大街和市场，还有Corn Exchange银行。我开始跟随他们，假装和另外一名市民一起在上班的路上。但是这没有持续多久。和我同行的市民们都有钱支付车费。我身无分文。由于一阵阵寒风吹过来，我快冻死了。如果这是普通的通勤日，我或许能够混迹在拥挤的人群中。但是人群稀少，（and for aesthetic reasons alone I wasn’t going to be captured trying to duck under a turnstile because I didn’t have a goddamn dime. Not after all I had gone through to get there.）（这句话没有看明白，翻译不了。字面意思是：仅从美学上来说，我不会因为没有一角钱躲在旋转栅门下而被抓着。我去那里经历了这么多。）
为了到达城市中心，我只能步行。这是一段又长又寒冷的路程。我穿着夹克戴着棒球帽，蹒跚而行，假装是一个有工作可做又不着急的样子向前走。当我到达城市（中心）的时候，已经快到中午了，我几乎要得上肺炎了。
当我进入商业区的周边时，那里有很多人，交通近乎瘫痪。我在一个有着老房子和小商店的街上，一有机会，我走进一个小走廊里取暖。
我走出来的时候，下午的报纸已经出来了。在一个小杂货店外面的报纸头条上可以看到我的名字。附近没有人，商店没有开门，我走过去拿起一份报纸，继续往前走。整个故事都在那，图片和所有的一切。克利尼，斯宾斯沃德龙，和艾肯斯在那块空地旁几个街区附近被抓了。只有特努托和我还在逃。
最初的计划是我和特努托待在一起，知道风头过去了后再分头去纽约。那里有其他人我可以联系。这里当然有桑德斯一家，我认识弗兰基·卡波、布波·霍夫、布林基·巴勒莫（ Frankie Carbo and Boo Boo Hoff and Blinky Palermo），还有一群前私酒贩子，他们不是在打架就是在骗人。拉威尔是个理发师，来自费城。当他从东部州监狱出来的时候和我通过信，我知道他会为我做任何事情的。在这种情况下，我最聪明的做法就是尽快离开费城。整个城市都有危险。
我对费城了如指掌，我知道那条出城主干道罗斯福大道上所有的警察亭的位置。为了小心起见，我沿着后街行走，直到我确信不会再遇到警察亭。一辆车开过来，我示意它停下来。"嗯，"司机说。"我要去普林斯顿。我可以带你去那。"
好极了。我和他一起坐在车里，不远处，我看见最后一个亭子，我们必须经过它。要知道，这些只是交通岗，让警察躲避风寒。但是当我们靠近的时候，有个警察走出亭子示意我们停下来。司机将窗户摇下来，警察往里面看，我们眼睛对视。我坐在那戴着棒球帽，穿着风衣，直接看着他，好像这世上我是最不可能成为逃犯的。
"普林斯顿，嗯？"他对我身边的绅士说。"后面的路很糟糕，你最好开车小心点。"高速路上没有多少其他车，只有一些。
在这条路上，我们肯定遇到了至少一打车开往另一个方向。
司机没有和我交谈多少，在市中心把我放下了，告诉我在一英里外可以搭车上高速路。
但是根本没有人在外面，也没有汽车。我想，天啦，这儿这么危险，我最好离开这个鬼地方。我开始行走，往回看，什么也没有，没有车，甚至连车的迹象都没有。嗯，看上去这个城镇好像荒废了。
原文：
217-218页
I’m trying to make a little time, and I see some headlights shining and I figure it must be another cop car because I had to assume that an alert had come over on their radio. The only thing I could think to do was get away through the backyards. I ran into the driveway alongside a private home and when I got to the rear of the house I found myself face to face with a big wall. I was trapped. All I could do was duck into a little corner behind the house. I could see the headlights turn into the driveway and come to a stop just before the car got to the back of the house. They were so close that I could hear one cop say to the other, “Oh, he’s not in there. Let’s go.” To this day I am positive that they had seen me go in there and knew right where I was. The only thing they didn’t know was whether I had a pistol, and so I think that discretion won out over valor. They backed out and went cruising along their way.
Not only didn’t I have a pistol, I didn’t have any money. Because, if you remember, I had handed the matchbox to Spence Waldron just before the cry of “Freeze!” had wiped everything else out of my mind.
After the police car pulled away, I saw nobody. I seemed to be the only person out in all of Philadelphia. All the houses in the neighborhood had attached garages, but I finally spotted one car parked in a driveway. I got in, huddled down in the back seat, and waited for daylight. Very early, the homeowners began to come out to shovel off their sidewalks. Pretty soon a few hardy souls began to straggle by on their way to work. I knew Philadelphia well enough to know that they were walking toward an elevated station a few blocks away, part of the same system that went to Sixtieth and Market, the scene of the Corn Exchange Bank. I started after them, becoming in my mind another burgher on my way to work. But not for long. My fellow burghers had a dime for carfare. I was broke. I was also very cold because it was one of those choppy, icy winds. If it had been a normal commuting day I might have been able to lose myself in the crush. But the crowd was sparse, and for aesthetic reasons alone I wasn’t going to be captured trying to duck under a turnstile because I didn’t have a goddamn dime. Not after all I had gone through to get there.
To get to the center of the city I was going to have to walk. It was a long, cold walk. But I trudged along, in my thin jacket and baseball cap, trying to look like a man who had a job to go to but was in no hurry to get there. By the time I reached the city it was close to noon, and I was close to pneumonia.
When I entered the outskirts of the business area there were plenty of people around, although traffic was still almost completely immobilized. I was on a street of old houses and small places of business. The first chance I got, I stepped into a small hallway to warm myself.
By the time I came out the afternoon papers were out. I could see my name in the headlines of the papers outside a small variety store. There was nobody around, the door of the store was closed, and so I just picked up a paper as I passed and kept going. The whole story was there. Pictures and everything. Kliney, Spence Waldron, and Aikens had been captured within a few blocks of the lot. Only Tenuto and I were at large.
The original plan had been for me to stay with Tenuto until the heat died down and then go our separate ways to New York. There were other people I could contact. There were the Saunderses, of course. I knew Frankie Carbo and Boo Boo Hoff and Blinky Palermo and that whole crew of exbootleggers who were running the fight game and the rackets. Lavelle, the barber, was from Philadelphia. He had corresponded with me after he got out of Eastern State Pen, and I knew he’d do anything to help me. Under the circumstances, it seemed the better part of wisdom to me to get out of Philadelphia as quickly as I could. The whole town was loaded.
Since I knew Philadelphia like the palm of my hand, I knew where all the police booths were along Roosevelt Boulevard, the main artery out of the city. As a matter of elementary caution, I traveled along the back streets until I was sure I was beyond the booths. It was still snowing lightly. As I cut back onto Roosevelt, I hailed down a car that had come driving along. “Well,” the driver said. “I’m going to Princeton. I’ll take you that far.”
Good enough. I get in the car with him and off in the distance I see there is one last booth that we still have to pass. These are only traffic booths, mind you, to keep the policemen out of the cold, but the officer comes out of the booth as we’re approaching and signals for us to stop. The driver turns the window down, the cop looks in, and we’re eyeball to eyeball. I’m sitting there in my baseball cap and windbreaker, looking right at him as if the last thing in the world I can possibly be is an escaped convict.
“Princeton, huh?” he says to this gentleman I’m riding with. “The roads are pretty bad down there, so you better drive careful.” There weren’t many other cars on the highway, but there were some.
Along the way, we must have passed at least a dozen going the other way.
The driver, who had kept conversation at a minimum, let me off in the middle of town and told me I could pick up the highway again about a mile away.
But there weren’t many people out, and no cars heading out at all. So I figured, Jesus, I’d better get the hell out of town because this here is very dangerous. I started walking, looking back, and there was nothing. Not a car. Not a smell of a car. Boy, it looked as if there were a blight on the town.