stabbed it with the paper clip and then opened his eyes. The paper clip indicated EDMONDS, RICHARD 8201 HENRY AVENUE, 438-1299.
Marion thought about that for a moment, and then, being careful not to disturb the position of the paper clip, took a notebook and a ballpoint from the desk and began to write:
Richard H. Edmonds
Henry R. Edmonds
Edmund R. Henry
Henry E. Richards
Then he looked elsewhere in the telephone book until he found the number, and then telephoned to the Divine Lorraine Hotel.
“Divine Lorraine Hotel. Praise Jesus!”
That, Marion decided, is a colored lady.
He had a mental image of a large colored lady wearing one of those white whatever-they-were-called on her head.
“I’m calling with regard to finding accommodations for the next few days.”
“Excuse me, sir, but do you know about the Divine Lorraine Hotel? ”
“Yes, of course, I do,” Marion said.
What an odd question, Marion thought. And then he understood: As I heard in her voice that she’s colored, she heard in mine that I am white.
“This is a Christian hotel, you understand,” the woman pursued. “No drinking, no smoking, nothing that violates the Ten Commandments and the teachings of Father Divine.”
“I understand,” Marion said, and then added, “I am about the Lord’s work.”
“Well, we can put you up. No credit cards.”
“I’m prepared to pay cash.”
“When was you thinking of coming?”
“This morning, if that would be convenient.”
“We can put you up,” the woman said. “What did you say your name was?”
“Henry E. Richards,” Marion said.
“We’ll be expecting you, Brother Richard. Praise Jesus!”
“That’s ‘Richards,’ ” Marion said. “With an ’S.’ Praise the Lord.”
At half past eight, Captain Michael Sabara picked up the private line in his office in the Schoolhouse.
“Captain Sabara.”
“Peter Wohl, Mike.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Something’s come up, Mike. When I get off, call Swede Olsen in Internal Affairs. I just got off from talking to him. He’ll bring you up-to-date on what’s going on. I don’t think anything’s going to happen this morning, but if it does, just use your own good judgment. ”
“Yes, sir. I guess you’re not coming in?”
“No.”
“Is there anyplace I can reach you?”
Wohl hesitated.
“For your ears only, Mike,” he said, finally. “I’m in the Roundhouse. I made inspector. My dad and my mother are here. We’re waiting for the mayor.”
“Jesus, Peter, that’s good news. Congratulations!”
“Thank you, Mike. I’ll call in when I’m through. But if anyone asks, I’m at the dentist’s.”
“Yes, sir, Inspector!”
“Thanks,” Wohl said, and hung up.
At five minutes to nine, Special Agent Glynes placed a collect call, he would speak with anyone, to the Atlantic City office of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms from a pay telephone in a Shell gasoline station in Hammonton, N.J.
“Odd that you should call, Glynes,” Special Agent Tommy Thomas, an old pal, said, “Mr. Samm has been wondering where you are. He at first presumed that you had fallen ill, and had simply forgotten to telephone, but when he telephoned your residence, there was no answer, so he knew that couldn’t be it.”
“Is he there, Tommy?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Put him on.”
Special Agent Thomas turned his back to Special Agent in Charge Samm and whispered into the phone: “Careful, Chuck. He’s got a hair up his ass.”
Then he spun his chair around again to face Special Agent in Charge Samm, who was standing by the coffee machine across the room, and raised his voice.
“It’s Glynes, sir.”
“Good,” Mr. Samm said, coming quickly across the room and snatching the telephone from Thomas. “Glynes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How is it that you were neither at the eight-thirty meeting or called in?”
“Sir, I was in the Pine Barrens. There was no phone.”
“What are you doing in the Pine Barrens?”
“I’ve got something out here I think is very interesting.”
“And what is that?”
“I’ve got six, maybe more, pay lockers, you know, the kind they have in airports and railroad stations, that, in what I would say the last week, maybe the last couple of days, have been blown up with high explosives.”
There was a very long pause, so long that Glynes suspected the line had gone out.
“Sir?” he asked.
“Chuck, I have been trying to phrase this adequately,” Mr. Samm said. “I confess that I have suspected you never even read the teletype. And that teletype isn’t even twenty-four hours old, and you’re onto something.”
What the hell, Special Agent C. V. Glynes wondered, is that little asshole talking about?
“You’re confident, Chuck, that it is high explosives?”
“Yes, sir. Nothing but high-intensity explosives could do this kind of damage.”
“Good man, Chuck,” Mr. Samm said. “Thomas, pick up on 303. Get this all down accurately.”