The traffic lights at first Oregon Avenue and then Snyder Avenue were green, permitting the Lanza Cadillac and the Payne Volkswagen to sail through without stopping. They were stopped at Passyunk Avenue and South Broad Street, however, which gave Detective Payne the opportunity to search in vain in his rearview mirror for either a Ford or a Pontiac.
Corporal Lanza turned left at the intersection of South Broad and Spruce Streets, and then wove his way around to the Penn-Services Parking garage, which he entered.
Detective Payne was familiar with the Penn-Services Parking garage, which was around the corner from the Bellevue-Stratford Hotel and not far from his apartment and the Union League Club. It was in the Penn-Services Parking garage that Mr. Anthony "Tony the Zee" DeZego had met his untimely end at the hand of assassin or assassins unknown. Where Matt found Miss Penelope Detweiler lying in a pool of her own blood.
Matt drove around the block until he saw Corporal Lanza come out of the building. Lanza did not look at the Volkswagen as it passed him.
Matt parked the Volkswagen illegally in an alley and ran down the alley and saw Lanza crossing a street. He followed him as discreetly as he could, very much afraid that Lanza would sense his presence and turn around.
But he didn't. He walked purposefully down a street and entered an apartment building. Matt looked around for a pay telephone but couldn' t see one.
He backtracked to the next block and found a tavern. He went inside, went to the phone booth, and searched his pockets futilely for coins. The bartender was visibly reluctant to make change for someone who didn't even buy a lousy beer, but finally came through.
Matt called Police Radio and asked the dispatcher to pass to William Five (Harris's radio call sign) his location.
Sergeant Jerry O'Dowd, in Tony Harris's Ford, pulled up in front of the tavern less than ten minutes later. Before he was completely out of the car, the Pontiac pulled up behind him, and two men Matt had never seen before got out of it.
"Lanza's in an apartment around the corner," Matt said to O'Dowd.
"Good man," O'Dowd said.
"Until you called me on the radio, O'Dowd, I didn't know you were in on this," one of the two men from the Pontiac said. He pointed at Matt. "Or him. He works for you?"
"Excuse me," O'Dowd said politely. "Sergeant Framm, Detective Pillare, this is Detective Payne."
Both men shook Matt's hand.
"It's a good thing we were, wouldn't you say, Framm?" O'Dowd asked. "You lost Lanza before you got to the Naval Hospital."
There was no doubt in Matt's mind that Sergeant Framm was the man O'Dowd would not trust to follow an elephant down Broad Street.
"I got caught in traffic…" Framm began.
"Nobody, Olsen or Wohl, has to know about this," O'Dowd interrupted. "Payne did not lose Lanza. Everything is fine."
"Yeah, well…Hell, all's well that ends well, right?"
"Show us the apartment, Matt," O'Dowd said, "and then you can get some sleep."
When Matt got back to the apartment, the red light on the answering machine was flashing.
"I knew you wouldn't call me back," Evelyn's recorded voice said. "What have I done wrong, Matt?"
Mssrs. Paulo Cassandro, Joseph Fierello, Francesco Guttermo, Ricco Baltazari, and Gian-Carlo Rosselli were sitting at a table at the end of the bar off the lobby of the Hotel Warwick.
Mr. Rosselli took an appreciative sip of his Ambassador 24 Scotch, set the glass delicately down on the marble tabletop, and consulted his Rolex Oyster wristwatch.
"It's almost one," he announced, and then inquired, "How long does it take to drive from the airport?"
"At this time of night," Frankie the Gut replied, "twenty minutes, thirty tops."
"You're saying you don't think he's coming here?" Mr. Cassandro asked.
"Do you see him?" Mr. Rosselli asked. He turned to Mr. Fierello. " Why don't you call your 'niece' and see if he's there?"
"I don't have the number."
"I got it," Mr. Baltazari said, and took a gold Parker ballpoint pen from his pocket, wrote a number inside a Hotel Warwick matchbook, and handed it to Mr. Fierello.
"That's right," Mr. Rosselli said, "I forgot. You know Joe's niece, don't you, Ricco?"
Mr. Fierello and Mr. Cassandro laughed, but it was evident that Mr. Baltazari did not consider the remark amusing.
Mr. Fierello got up from the table and went to one of the pay telephones in the lobby. He was back at the table in less than two minutes.
"He's there."
Mr. Rosselli nodded. He sat thoughtfully for a moment and then nodded again. He stood up.
"Just in case, Ricco, I think you'd better give me the key to the apartment."
"You don't want me to go?"
"Paulo and I can handle it," Mr. Rosselli said. "And I wouldn't want that your jealousy should get in the way."
Mr. Cassandro and Mr. Guttermo laughed.
"Shit!" Mr. Baltazari said.
He removed a key from a ring and handed it to Mr. Rosselli.
"Take care of the bill, will you, Frankie?" Mr. Rosselli asked.
"My pleasure," Mr. Guttermo said.
Mr. Rosselli and Mr. Cassandro left the bar by the door leading directly to the street. They turned south.
"What do you want to do about the car, Carlo?" Mr. Cassandro asked.
"Leave it in the garage," Mr. Rosselli said, his tone suggesting the answer should have been evident. "Jesus, Paulo, you leave a car like a Jaguar on the street, you come back, it'll either be gone or there'll be nothing left but the windshield."
"Yeah," Mr. Cassandro agreed, his tone suggesting that he regretted raising the question.
They walked to the apartment building in which Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer maintained her residence. There was a fouryear-old Pontiac parked halfway down the block on the other side of the street, but neither gentleman paid it more than cursory attention.
The interior lobby door was locked. Mr. Cassandro took a small, silver pocketknife, which was engraved with his initials, from his pocket, opened it, and slipped the blade into the lock. He then pushed open the door and held it for Mr. Rosselli to pass inside.
They took the elevator to the fifth floor, and walked down the corridor.
"Here it is," Mr. Cassandro said, stopping before the door to Apartment 5-F.
"Ring the bell," Mr. Rosselli ordered.
Sixty seconds later, Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer, wearing a bathrobe, opened the door.
"Hi, ya, Tony," Mr. Rosselli said. "Sorry to disturb you. But we have to talk to Vito. Is he here?"
Mrs. Schermer looked distinctly uncomfortable. She stepped back from the door, and waited for them to come into the apartment, then closed the door after them.
"Yo, Vito! It's Gian-Carlo Rosselli. You there?"
"He's in the bedroom," Tony Schermer said. "Give him a minute."
"Take your time, Vito," Mr. Rosselli called cheerfully. "Put your pants on."
Mr. Cassandro chuckled.
"Can I offer you something?" Tony asked.
"You got a little Scotch and water, I wouldn't say no. Paulo?"
"Yeah, me too."
Tony went into the kitchen.
Corporal Lanza came out of the bedroom, which opened onto the living room, barefoot, wearing a T-shirt and his uniform trousers.
"Hey," he greeted his callers somewhat uncomfortably. "What's up?"
"Well, when you didn't show up at the Warwick, we figured, what the hell, we'll go see him. I hope we didn't interrupt anything?"
"Nah. The reason I didn't come over there-I wanted to-was I didn't have any decent clothes to change into at the airport, and I can't be seen drinking in uniform. They'd have my ass."
"I understand," Mr. Rosselli said. "Anyway, a cop would make the customers nervous."