“What friend was this?”
“He’s out of it now. They’ve been leaving him alone. I don’t want him interrogated by your people—I don’t want him dragged back into it.”
Bradleigh tapped his cigarette on the tabletop and lighted it. “What name are you going under?”
“Try another one.”
Bradleigh smiled, evidently without wanting to. “Anything you need?”
“Information.”
“About what?”
“Anything you’ve got.”
Bradleigh said, “There’s nothing you’d find useful. We’re talking about the results of a secret investigation that’s still in progress. It’s got to stay secret until we blow the whistle.”
“It’s been nice talking to you, Glenn. Thanks for coming on such short notice. I’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Washington, D.C.: 2–4 October
1
HE SPENT TWO HOURS WITH HOMER SITTING IN THE PARKED Cadillac at a meter opposite the nine-story office building, Homer had the various photographs arranged on the seat between them—Gillespie, his junior partner, the two secretaries, the clerk and the receptionist.
At 4:30 the clerk appeared with a briefcase and walked to the corner to wait for a bus. Homer said, “Probably an errand to do on his way home. At this hour he won’t be coming back.”
“Let’s hope.”
In the next forty minutes people emerged from the building in knots and they scanned faces carefully. Mathieson checked off the receptionist and, at two minutes past five, the two secretaries. At 5:10 Homer stiffened. “There he is.”
Mathieson watched C. K. Gillespie walk away toward the parking garage at the end of the block. The heels of Gillespie’s polished Italian shoes threw back brisk hard echoes. Mathieson studied him keenly: You could tell a great deal about a man by his walk. Gillespie strutted: a tense man, alert, arrogant.
Mathieson said, “It’s suite seven-one-six.”
“What kind of locks?”
“Just one, the original equipment. Eaton Yale and Towne. Standard unit. He wouldn’t keep anything incriminating in the office. But there could be a burglar alarm.”
“According to our preliminary work-up there’s only one alarm circuit in the building—jewelry outfit on the third floor.” Homer checked his notes. “Twenty-four-hour doorman service. After six you have to sign in when you enter the building. That’s why we’ve got to go in sometime in the next half hour.”
“I’d feel more comfortable after dark.”
“That’s just instinct. Actually we’re less conspicuous now, while there are still a lot of people in the building.”
A red Thunderbird with Gillespie at the wheel rolled out of the parking garage and Mathieson watched it dwindle into the Connecticut Avenue traffic.
“That leaves one unaccounted for,” Mathieson said.
They waited until 5:40. He was restless. “Where’s the junior partner?”
“Maybe he’s working late. Maybe he wasn’t in the office today at all.”
“If he’s working late we’ve had it.”
“Then we come back tomorrow afternoon, that’s all.” Homer looked at his watch. “We’d better go in.”
“I’m not crazy about it.”
“The office door has a frosted glass pane. If there’s a light on inside we’ll back off and try again tomorrow.”
Mathieson lifted the attaché case from the back seat. They walked into the lobby, two gray-suited businessmen arriving for an after-hours appointment. The doorman was engulfed in the stream of people pouring from the elevators and flooding across to the doors; he hardly glanced at the two arrivals. When one elevator emptied itself Mathieson and Homer stepped in.
They had the cage to themselves on the way to the seventh floor. Mathieson opened the case and pawed through the half-dozen rings of keys. “Yale, but which one?”
“Probably that one.” Homer singled out a master key.
Mathieson took it off the ring and put the rest of the Yale ring in his pocket. A single key was less conspicuous than a bulky ring of them. If the first key didn’t work he’d have to bring out the ring.
Gillespie’s door was the last on the left at the end of a forty-foot corridor. They passed two secretaries and an executive going home for the night; the executive nodded politely as they passed him.
Homer slowed the pace. Mathieson glanced over his shoulder. The secretaries and the executive were waiting for the elevator.
Sotto voce Mathieson said, “We can’t just stand here.”
There was no light behind the frosted glass. Mathieson tried the knob; it was locked. His palm slipped on the brass—he wiped the sweat off against the front of his suit jacket and jabbed the key into the lock.
Homer laughed loudly. “You should’ve seen old Charlie’s face when the decision came down.”
The key wouldn’t turn.
Behind them the elevator doors opened. The three people disappeared into the cage.
He twisted the key but it wouldn’t turn. He stepped back and reached into his pocket.
“Wait a minute,” Homer said. “Let me have a try.” He jiggled the master key and after a moment Mathieson heard the tumblers click. He made a face and looked over his shoulder. The corridor was empty.
They slipped inside. Homer pushed the door shut behind him. From this point forward they would not talk: The microphones were alive.
Homer moved swiftly across the reception foyer. Mathieson glanced at the switchboard to see if any lines were lighted. There was no sign of life in the place but in his mind he rehearsed a nervous explanation designed to bluff an exit if anyone appeared.
Homer was halfway down the length of the partitioned hall by the time Mathieson followed him through. Quickly they checked out the four rooms. Two side offices, a law library and filing room combined, and the big corner office—Gillespie’s lair. There was no one.
The safe was in the law library; that was where he caught up with Homer. It was a floor model, a Mosler, probably three-quarters of a ton in weight—it stood four feet high; there were two combination dials. Homer glanced at the safe, then at Mathieson and shook his head. Nobody but a top professional box man could hope to get into it without using a torch—and that would undoubtedly destroy the contents.
With gloves on their fingers they went quickly through the file drawers—looking mainly for files on Pastor, Martin, and the various names Mathieson had used. The only result was a thin folder on Ezio Martin; it contained nothing useful—a handful of Xeroxes of bills, receipts and canceled checks and copies of two real estate contracts.
He hadn’t expected anything but it might have turned up a tidbit; he wasn’t disappointed by the failure. They went into the corner office and Mathieson crossed toward the windows to draw the blinds but Homer shook his head violently at him and Mathieson, belatedly comprehending, withdrew without touching the cords. The drawing of blinds could be noticed from outside the building: It would have been a blunder. I’m still a novice. The realization alarmed him.
They took screwdrivers from the attache case and began to prowl in search of microphones.
He was still sweating: forehead, palms, crotch. The plan had seemed simple when he’d formulated it but he was seeing holes in it now—all the things that might go wrong. Suppose Gillespie forgot something and returned to the office to get it? The search was taking far too long …
The wireless bug was easy; it was in the handset of one of the two phones on the desk. That was Ezio Martin’s mike and after he had pointed it out to Homer he put the phone back together with the bug intact; he’d need to have that one function properly.
Homer found Bradleigh’s mike when he began unscrewing the faceplates of the electric wall plug receptacles. The wires disappeared back into the baseboard, going through holes that had already been cut for the building’s electric power lines. There was enough slack. Homer drew a short loop of wire out of the receptacle and went to work with the wire cutters and splicing materials from the attache case.