He glanced in the mirror and saw that both Highway Patrolmen had gotten out of the car and were approaching his. He hurriedly dug his wallet from his trousers and got out of the car.
First one, and then three more cars in the outer lane flashed past him, so close and so fast that he was genuinely frightened. He walked to the back of the car and extended his driver's license to one of the Highway Patrolmen.
"I don't seem to have the registration with me," Matt said.
"You were going at least eighty," the patrolman said. "You had it up to eighty-five."
"Guilty," Matt said, wanly.
"You mind if we examine the interior of your car, sir?" the other Highway Patrolman said. Matt turned his head to look at him; he was at the passenger-side window, looking inside.
"No, not at all," Matt said, obligingly. "Help yourself."
He turned to face the Highway Patrolman who had his driver's license.
"My registration is at home," Matt said.
"This your address, 3906 Walnut?"
"No, sir," Matt said. "Actually, I just moved. I now live on Rittenhouse Square."
"Look what I got!" the other Highway Patrolman said.
Matt turned to look. The other Highway Patrolman was holding Matt's service revolver and his shoulder holster in his hand.
He didn't get a really good look. He felt himself being suddenly spun around, and felt his feet being kicked out from under him, and then a strong shove against his back. Just in time, he managed to get his hands out in front of him, so that he didn't fall, face first, against the Porsche.
"Don'tmove!" the Highway Patrolman behind him said.
He felt hands moving over his body, around his chest, his waist, between his legs, and then down first one leg and then the other.
"He's got another one!" the Highway Patrolman said, pulling Matt's right trousers leg up, and then jerking the Chief's Special from the ankle holster.
"I can explain this," Matt said.
"Good," the Highway Patrolman said.
Matt felt himself being jerked around again. A hand found his belt and pulled him erect. A handcuff went around his right wrist, and then his right arm was pulled behind him. His left arm was pulled behind him, and he felt the other half of the handcuff snapping in place. Then he was spun around.
"Have you a permit to carried concealed weapons, sir?" the Highway Patrolman said.
"I'm a policeman," Matt said.
"This one's brand new," the second Highway Patrolman said, shaking the cartridges from theUndercover revolver into his palm.
"I just bought it today," Matt said.
"You were saying you're a policeman?" the Highway Patrolman asked.
"That's right," Matt said.
"Where do you work? Who's your Lieutenant?"
"Special Operations," Matt said. "I work for Inspector Wohl."
"Where's that?" the Highway Patrolman asked, just a faint hint of self-doubt creeping into his voice.
"Bustleton and Bowler," Matt said.
"Where's your ID?"
"In my jacket pocket," Matt said.
The Highway Patrolman dipped into the pocket and found the ID.
"Jesus!" he said, then, "Turn around."
Matt felt his wrists being freed.
"What's this?" the second Highway Patrolman said.
"He's a cop," the first one said. "He says he works for Inspector Wohl."
"Why didn't you show us this when we pulled up beside you?" the second asked, more confused than angry.
Matt shrugged helplessly.
"You find anything wrong with the way we handled this?" the first Highway Patrolman asked.
"Excuse me?" Matt asked, confused.
"We stopped an eighty-five-mile-an-hour speeder, and found a weapon concealed under his seat. We asked permission to examine the car. We took necessary and reasonable precautions by restraining a man we found in possession of two concealable firearms. Anything wrong with that?"
Matt shrugged helplessly.
"Isn't that what this is all about? You were checking on us?" Matt suddenly understood.
"What this is all about is that this is my first day on the job," he said. "And I decided I'd rather pay the ticket than have Inspector Wohl find out about it."
They both looked at him. And both of their faces, by raised eyebrows, registered disbelief.
And then the taller of them, the one who had found the revolver under the seat, laughed, and the other joined in.
"Jesus H. Christ!" he said.
The taller Highway Patrolman, shaking his head and smiling with what Matt perceived to be utter contempt, handed him the Chief's Special and then the cartridges for it. The shorter one looped the shoulder holster harness around Matt's neck. Then, chuckling, they walked back to their car and got in.
By the time Matt got back in his car, they had driven off.
Officer Matthew Payne drove the rest of the way to his apartment more or less scrupulously obeying the speed limit.
It was after the change of watches when Peter Wohl returned to his office. The day-watch Sergeants had gone home; an unfamiliar face of a Highway Patrol Sergeant was behind the desk.
"I'm Peter Wohl," Peter said, walking to the desk with his hand extended.
"Yes, sir, Inspector," the Sergeant said, smiling. "I know who you are. We went through Wheel School together."
Wohl still didn't remember him, and it showed on his face.
"I had hair then," the Sergeant said, "and I was a lot trimmer. Jack Kelvin."
"Oh, hell, sure," Wohl said. "I'm sorry, Jack. I should have remembered you."
"You made a big impression on me back then."
"Good or bad?" Wohl asked.
"At the time I thought it was treason," Kelvin said, smiling. "You spilled your wheel, and I went to help you pick it up, and you said, ' Anybody who rides one of these and likes it is out of his fucking mind.' "
"I said that?"
"Yes, you did," Kelvin said, chuckling, "and you meant it."
"Well, under the circumstances, I'd appreciate it if you didn't go around telling that story."
"Like I said, that was a long time ago, and you'll notice that I am now riding a desk myself. You don't spill many desks."
"I've found that you can get in more trouble riding a desk than you can a wheel," Wohl said. "Did anything turn up on the abduction?"
"No, sir," Kelvin said. "Chief Coughlin called a couple of minutes ago and asked the same thing."
"Did he want me to call him back?"
"No, sir, he didn't. He asked that you call him in the morning."
"Anything else?"
"Sergeant Frizell said to tell you that your driver took the vehicle and radio requisition forms home to fill out," Kelvin said. When Wohl looked at him curiously, Kelvin explained. "Frizell said he didn't like the typewriter here."
Wohl nodded. He understood about the typewriters. It was generally agreed that the only decent typewriters in the Police Department were in the offices of Inspectors,full Inspectors, and up.
"He's a nice kid," Wohl said. "Just out of the Academy. He is-was?how do you say this? Dutch Moffitt was his uncle."
"Oh," Kelvin said. "I heard that Chief Coughlin sent him over, but I didn't get the connections."
"Chief Coughlin also sent over the two Narcotics plain-clothesmen who found Gerald Vincent Gallagher," Wohl said. "Until I decide what to do with Payne, I'm going to have him follow them around, and make himself useful in here. He's not really my driver."
"You're entitled to a driver," Kelvin said. "Hell, Captain Moffitt had a driver. It may not have been authorized, but no one said anything to him about it."
"Did Captain Sabara? Have a driver, I mean?"
"No, sir," Kelvin said. "After Captain Moffitt was killed, and Sabara took over, he drove himself."