It would be nice, Officer O'Mara thought, to have a place like this to bring a girl to. He had thought of getting an apartment, but every time he brought the subject up, his mother had a fit. There would be enough time to get his own apartment later, when he was married. The thing he had to do now was learn to save his money, and renting an apartment when there was a perfectly good room for him to use at home would be like throwing money down the toilet.
He wondered if Payne brought the Detweiler girl here. She seemed to be a nice girl, even after what he'd heard about her being on drugs.
"I like your picture," O'Mara said. "The inspector's got one like it."
"Yeah, I know," Payne said. "Mrs. Washington gave me that one."
"Sergeant Washington's wife?"
"Yeah," Payne said, walking to the fireplace mantel and picking up his Chief's Special snub-nosed revolver and slipping it into a holster that fit inside his waistband.
"Is it hard to get through the qualification?" O'Mara asked.
"What?"
O'Mara pushed his coat aside to reveal his standard-issue Smith amp; Wesson Military and Police revolver, which had a six-inch barrel and was time and a half as large as the snubnose.
In order to carry anything but the issue revolver, it was necessary to go through a test-"the qualification"-at the range at the Police Academy.
"The Range guys make a big deal of it," Payne said. "It helps if you know one of them."
"I got a cousin works out there," O'Mara said.
"Then talk to him," Payne said as he shrugged into his jacket. " Where are you parked?"
"Out in front."
"I should have told you to come around the back, there's a garage in the basement. Sorry."
"No problem."
"How'd you get in?"
"I rang the doorbell. A rent-a-cop let me in."
"The guy who usually works the building on Sundays is a retired cop," Matt said.
"He told me."
The telephone rang.
O'Mara saw that Payne was reluctant to answer it, that he was really making up his mind whether or not he would, and he wondered what that was all about. Finally, Payne shrugged and picked it up.
"Hello."
"You sound grumpy," Evelyn said. "Did I wake you up?"
"Hi. No. As a matter of fact, I was just about to walk out the door." There was a silence, and then Matt added: "Hey, I mean that. I' ve got to work. Women work from sun to sun, a policeman's work is never done."
"I was going to ask you to dinner. Is that out of the question?"
"I'll have to call you. I don't know how long this will take."
"How long what will take? Or is it bad form to ask?"
"I've got to pick up a VIP at 30^th Street Station and drive him to see my boss."
"Oh."
"I may be through at ten, ten-thirty, and I may not be through until five or six."
"Matt, it would be kinder, if you'd rather break this off, for you to come out and say so."
"There is nothing I would rather do than come out there right now," Matt said. "Don't be silly."
"You mean that, or you're being polite?"
"Of course, I mean it."
"Will you call me, please, when you know something?"
"As soon as I find out."
"I bought steaks yesterday," Evelyn said. "I thought you'd like a steak."
Then she hung up.
You bought steaks, and then you went home and started calling me, apparently every half hour. Jesus!
Why the hell didn't you take the out she gave you?
He put the handset in its cradle, and turned away from the table. The phone rang again.
Jesus, now what does she want?
"Hello."
"I just wanted to make sure you were out of bed," Peter Wohl said. "O'Mara should be there any minute."
"He's here now. We were just about to leave."
"No suggestion that either one of you is unreliable," Wohl said. " But things happen, and I didn't want the Secret Service standing around 30^th Street feeling unloved."
"You want me to kiss him when he gets off the train?"
"That would be nice," Wohl said, and hung up.
Matt hung up again and looked at O'Mara.
"That was the boss. He wanted to be sure I was out of bed."
There are those that feel that Philadelphia's 30^th Street Station is one of the world's most attractive railroad stations. It was built before World War II when the Pennsylvania Railroad was growing richer by the day, and the airplane was regarded as a novelty, not a threat for passenger business. And even after the airplane had killed the long-distance railroad passenger business in other areas, along the New York-Washington corridor, going by train remained quicker and more convenient.
There were a lot of people going in and out of the doors at the west exit of 30^th Street Station when Tom O'Mara pulled up in a NO
STANDING ZONE.
"If a white hat tries to run you off," Matt said. "Tell him you're waiting for Chief Coughlin."
"Chief Coughlin?" O'Mara asked.
"Everybody's afraid of Chief Coughlin," Matt said as he opened the door and got out.
He had almost reached the doors to the main waiting room when a voice called out, "Detective Payne?"
He turned and saw a Highway Patrol sergeant walking up to him. He was a good-looking young Irishman, and Matt now recalled seeing him with Pekach, but he couldn't come up with a name.
"Jerry O'Dowd," the sergeant said, putting out his hand. "I work for Captain Pekach."
"How are you, Jerry? What's up?"
"I got the captain's car. I was told to see if you showed up, and if not, to stand by the information booth and look for a bald fat man in a rumpled suit, named Supervisory Special Agent H. Charles Larkin, and then drive him to the Schoolhouse. You're here. What do you think I should do?"
"I think maybe you should stick around in case the battery in Wohl's car goes dead or something."
"Sure."
"Why don't you call in and say I'm here?"
"Captain Pekach said this guy's a Secret Service big shot?"
"That's all I know about him too."
"I'm across the street, you want me to pull up behind your car?"
"No. This guy's in the Secret Service, not a movie star."
Matt was standing beside the information booth in the center of the main waiting room at 9:05, his eyes fixed on the wide stairway that led down to the tracks below.
At 9:06, a crowd of people began to come up the stairway. After a moment, he had trouble seeing through them, and started to walk to the head of the stairs, but changed his mind. He had been told to be at the information booth.
At 9:08, a voice behind him said, "Excuse me, sir, but is that a Brooks Brothers suit?"
Matt turned and saw a man whose hair was thin, but who could not be called bald, who was heavyset, but could not be called fat, and whose suit appeared comfortable, but was not rumpled. He was surrounded by half a dozen neatly dressed men, one of whom was Special Agent Matthews of the FBI, and all of whom seemed baffled by the behavior of the man they had come to 30^th Street Station to meet.
"Actually, it's from Tripler. Have I the privilege of addressing Mr. H. Charles Larkin?"
"Yes, you do," Larkin said, smiling conspiratorially at him.
"Welcome to Philadelphia, Mr. Larkin."
"Thank you very much. It's nice to be here."
Larkin turned to the men with him.
"I am going with this gentleman. I don't know where, but if you can't trust the Philadelphia Police Department, who can you trust?"