Shortly after ten there was a soft knock on his door, and Tamatha entered his room. She stared at him for a few seconds through her thick glasses, a timid smile on her lips. Her hair was so thin Malcolm thought he could see each individual strand.
“Ron,” she whispered, “do you know if Rich is sick?”
“No!” Malcolm yelled, and then loudly blew his nose.
“Well, you don’t need to bellow! I’m worried about him. He’s not here and he hasn’t called in.”
“That’s too fuckin’ bad.” Malcolm drew the words out, knowing that swearing made Tamatha nervous.
“What’s eating you, for heaven’s sake?” she said.
“I’ve got a cold.”
“I’ll get you an aspirin.”
“Don’t bother,” he said ungraciously. “It wouldn’t help.”
“Oh, you’re impossible! Goodbye!” She left, closing the door smartly behind her.
Sweet Jesus, Malcolm thought, then went back to Agatha Christie.
At 11:15 the phone rang. Malcolm picked it up and heard the cool voice of Dr. Lappe.
“Malcolm, I have an errand for you, and it’s your turn to go for lunch. I assume everyone will wish to stay in the building.” Malcolm looked out the window at the pouring rain and came to the same conclusion. Dr. Lappe continued. “Consequently, you might as well kill two birds with one stone and pick up lunch on the way back from the errand. Walter is already taking food orders. Since you have to drop a package at the Old Senate Office Building, I suggest you pick up the food at Jimmy’s. You may leave now.”
Five minutes later a sneezing Malcolm trudged through the basement to the coalbin exit at the rear of the building. No one had known the coalbin exit existed, as it hadn’t been shown on the original building plans. It stayed hidden until Walter moved a chest of drawers while chasing a rat and found the small, dusty door that opened behind the lilac bushes. The door can’t be seen from the outside, but there is enough room to squeeze between the bushes and the wall. The door only opens from the inside.
Malcolm muttered to himself all the way to the Old Senate Office Building. He sniffled between mutters. The rain continued. By the time he reached the building, the rain had changed his suède jacket from a light tan to a black brown. The blond receptionist in the Senator’s office took pity on him and gave him a cup of coffee while he dried out. She said he was “officially” waiting for the Senator to confirm delivery of the package. She coincidentally finished counting the books just as Malcolm finished his coffee. The girl smiled nicely, and Malcolm decided delivering murder mysteries to a senator might not be a complete waste.
Normally, it’s a five-minute walk from the Old Senate Office Building to Jimmy’s on Pennsylvania Avenue, but the rain had become a torrent, so Malcolm made the trip in three minutes. Jimmy’s is a favorite of Capitol Hill employees because it’s quick, tasty, and has its own brand of class. The restaurant is run by ex-convicts. It is a cross between a small Jewish delicatessen and a Montana bar. Malcolm gave his carry-out list to a waitress, ordered a meatball sandwich and milk for himself, and engaged in his usual Jimmy’s pursuit of matching crimes with restaurant employees.
While Malcolm had been sipping coffee in the Senator’s office, a gentleman in a raincoat with his hat hiding much of his face turned the corner from First Street and walked up Southeast A to the blue sedan. The custom-cut raincoat matched the man’s striking appearance, but there was no one on the street to notice. He casually but completely scanned the street and buildings, then gracefully climbed in the front seat of the sedan. As he firmly shut the door, he looked at the driver and said, “Well?”
Without taking his eyes off the building, the driver wheezed, “All present or accounted for, sir.”
“Excellent. I watch while you phone. Tell them to wait ten minutes, then hit it.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver began to climb out of the car, but a sharp voice stopped him.
“Weatherby,” the man said, pausing for effect, “there will be no mistakes.”
Weatherby swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
Weatherby walked to the open phone next to the grocery store on the corner of Southeast A and Sixth. In Mr. Henry’s, a bar five blocks away on Pennsylvania Avenue, a tall, frightfully thin man answered the bartender’s page for “Mr. Wazburn.” The man called Wazburn listened to the curt instructions, nodding his assent into the phone. He hung up and returned to his table, where two friends waited. They paid the bill (three brandy coffees), and walked up First Street to an alley just behind Southeast A. At the street light they passed a young, long-haired man in a rain-soaked suède jacket hurrying in the opposite direction. An empty yellow van stood between the two buildings on the edge of the alley. The men climbed in the back and prepared for their morning’s work.
Malcolm had just ordered his meatball sandwich when a mailman with his pouch slung in front of him turned the corner at First Street to walk down Southeast A. A stocky man in a bulging raincoat walked stiffly a few paces behind the mailman. Five blocks farther up the street a tall, thin man walked toward the other two. He also wore a bulging raincoat, though on him the coat only reached his knees.
As soon as Weatherby saw the mailman turn on to Southeast A, he pulled out of his parking place and drove away. Neither the men in the car nor the men on the street acknowledged the others’ presence. Weatherby sighed relief in between wheezes. He was overjoyed to be through with his part of the assignment. Tough as he was, when he looked at the silent man next to him he was thankful he had made no mistakes.
But Weatherby was wrong. He had made one small, commonplace mistake, a mistake he could have easily avoided. A mistake he should have avoided.
If anyone had been watching, he would have seen three men, two businessmen and a mailman, coincidentally arrive at the Society’s gate at the same time. The two businessmen politely let the mailman lead the way to the door and push the button. As usual, Walter was away from his desk (though it probably wouldn’t have made any difference if he had been there). Just as Malcolm finished his sandwich at Jimmy’s, Mrs. Russell heard the buzzer and rasped, “Come in.”
And with the mailman leading the way, they did.
Malcolm dawdled over his lunch, polishing off his meatball sandwich with the specialty of the house, chocolate rum cake. After his second cup of coffee, his conscience forced him back into the rain. The torrent had subsided into a drizzle. Lunch had improved Malcolm’s spirits and his health. He took his time, both because he enjoyed the walk and because he didn’t want to drop the three bags of sandwiches. In order to break the routine, he walked down Southeast A on the side opposite the Society. His decision gave him a better view of the building as he approached, and consequently he knew something was wrong much earlier than he normally would have.
It was a little thing that made Malcolm wonder. A small detail quite out of place yet so insignificant it appeared meaningless. But Malcolm noticed little things, like the open window on the third floor. The Society’s windows are rolled out rather than pushed up, so the open window jutted out from the building. When Malcolm first saw the window the significance didn’t register, but when he was a block and a half away it struck him and he stopped.