Street Station. The conductor hadn’t even asked for his ticket.
Marion rode the escalator to the main waiting room, walked across it, deposited two quarters in one of the lockers in the passageway to the south exit, deposited AWOL bag #1 in Locker 7870, and put the key into his watch pocket.
Then he went back to the main waiting room, bought a newspaper, and went to the snack bar, where he had two cups of black coffee and two pieces of coffee cake.
There was no coffee cake in the dining room of the Divine Lorraine Hotel, Marion reasoned, because there was no coffee in the dining room of the Divine Lorraine Hotel. He wondered if that was it, or whether Father Divine had found something in Holy Scripture that he thought proscribed pastry as well as alcohol, tobacco, and coffee.
When he had finished his coffee, Marion left the coffee shop and left 30th Street Station by the west exit. He walked to Market Street, and since it was such a nice morning, and since the really important aspect of trip #1, placing AWOL bag #1 in a locker, had been accomplished, he decided he would walk down Market Street, rather than take a bus, as the schedule called for.
The exercise, he thought, would do him good.
“Well, goddammit, then get it from Kansas City!” Supervisory Special Agent H. Charles Larkin said, nearly shouted, furiously. “I want a description, and preferably a photograph, of this sonofabitch here in an hour!”
He slammed the telephone into its cradle.
“I think Charley’s mad about something,” Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein said drolly. “Doesn’t he seem mad about something to you, Denny?”
“What was that all about, Charley?” Chief Inspector Coughlin asked, chuckling.
“The Army has the records of our guy—his name is Marion Claude, by the way, his first names—in the Depository in Kansas City,” Larkin said. “So instead of calling Kansas City to get us a goddamn description and a picture, he calls me!”
“We have a man in Kansas City who does nothing but maintain liaison with the Army Records Depository,” Mr. Frank F. Young of the FBI said. “Shall I give him a call, Charley?”
“So do we, Frank,” Larkin said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but if we get your guy involved, that’s liable to fuck things up even more than they are now.”
“I think we can say,” Young said, “that we’re making progress.”
“Yeah,” Wohl said. “We now know that he has a lot of explosives, and from the way those burglar alarms were wired, even if he hadn’t been in EOD, that he knows how to set them off. We don’t know what he looks like, or where he is.”
One of the telephones on the commissioner’s conference table rang.
“Commissioner’s conference room, Sergeant Washington,” Jason said, grabbing it on the second ring. “Okay, let me have it!” He scribbled quickly on a pad of lined yellow paper, said “Thank you,” and hung up.
The others at the table looked at him.
“Marion Claude Wheatley is employed as a petrochemicals market analyst at First Pennsylvania Bank & Trust, main office, on South Broad,” Washington said. “A guy from Central Detectives just found out.”
“Do they have a photograph of him?” Larkin asked.
“They’re being difficult,” Washington said. He looked at Peter Wohl. “You want me to go over there, Inspector?”
“You bet I do,” Wohl said.
“Can I take Payne with me?”
“If you think you can keep him from playing Tarzan,” Wohl said. “And jumping from roof to roof.”
“Sergeant, would you mind if I went with you?” H. Charles Larkin asked. “If they’re being difficult, I’ll show them difficult.”
“No, sir,” Washington said. “Come along.”
Washington doesn’t want him, Wohl thought, but there’s nothing I can do to stop him.
“Would four be a crowd?” Frank F. Young asked.
“No, sir,” Washington said.
The four quickly left the room.
“What about that guy Young?” Denny Coughlin asked, when the door was closed.
“He either is very anxious to render whatever assistance the FBI can on this job,” Lowenstein said, “or he wants to play detective.”
“Now that we’re alone,” Wohl said. “It looks like Lanza, the corporal at the airport, is dirty.”
“Oh, shit,” Coughlin said. “What have you got, Peter?”
“He’s been having middle of the night meetings with various Mafioso scumbags. Gian-Carlo Rosselli, Paulo Cassandro, and others. They have been talking about a fruit basket coming in.”
“How do you know that, Peter? About the fruit basket?” Lowenstein asked.
“Please don’t ask me that question, Chief,” Wohl said.