Except for a stop at the seventh floor, where it picked up two women-probably secretaries, they seemed a little too bright to be simple clerks-the elevator went directly to the lobby, and it really could not be called crowded with only the three of them on it, and Marion was pleased that he had decided to wait the additional fifteen minutes.
When he left the South Broad Street entrance of the building he turned right, toward City Hall, until he reached Sansom Street, and then walked east on Sansom to South 12^th, and then north to Market. That way, he had learned, he could avoid the rush of people headed toward City Hall at this hour of the day.
On Market Street, he turned east, toward the Delaware, and then changed his plans when he saw the Reading Terminal. He had planned to do some of the necessary shopping, take the things home, and then do something about supper. But now it seemed to make more sense to have a little something to eat at one of the concessionaire stands in the Reading Terminal Market before shopping. That would obviate having to worry about supper when he got home. He would, so to speak, be killing two birds with one stone.
Marion believed that the efficient use of one's time was a key to success.
He sat at a counter and had a very nice hot roast beef sandwich with french fried potatoes and a sliced tomato, finishing up with a cup of decaffeinated coffee.
Then he went back out onto Market Street, crossed it again, and after looking in the window of the Super Drugstore on the corner of 11^th Street and seeing exactly what he wanted, he went in and bought an AWOL bag. It was on sale, for $3.95, and it had a metal zipper, which was important.
The reason it was on sale, he decided, was because it had a picture of a fish jumping out of the waves on it, with the legend, Souvenir of Asbury Park, N.J. Whoever had first ordered the bags had apparently overestimated the demand for them, and had had to put the excess up for sale, probably at a loss.
Overestimating demand, Marion thought, was a common fault with many small businesses. The petroleum business did not have, simplistically, that problem. They didn't have to produce their raw material, pump oil from the ground, until they were almost certain of a market. And even if that market collapsed, it was rarely that oil had to be put up for immediate sale. It could be stored relatively inexpensively until a demand, inevitably, arose.
He insisted on getting a paper bag for the AWOL bag-he was not the sort of person who wished to be seen walking through Center City, Philadelphia, with a reddish-orange bag labeledSouvenir of Asbury Park, N.J. -and then continued walking east on Market Street.
A very short distance away, just where he had remembered seeing them, which pleased him, there was a tacky little store with a window full of "leather" attache cases, on SPECIAL SALE.
Special Sale, my left foot,Marion thought. It was a special sale only because money would change hands. He went in the store, and spent fifteen minutes choosing an attache case that (a) looked reasonably like genuine leather, (b) was deep and wide enough to hold the shortwave transmitter, (c) had its handles fastened to the case securely. The last thing he could afford was to have a handle pull loose, so that he would drop the shortwave transmitter onto the marble floors of 30^th Street Station.
He did not insist on a paper bag for the attache case. He thought he would submit that to a little test. He would stop in on the way home, in one of the cocktail lounges along Chestnut Street that catered to people in the financial industry. He would put the " leather" attache case out where people who customarily carried genuine leather attache cases could see it, and see if anyone looked at it strangely.
He had solved the problem of supper, had one AWOL bag and the attache case, and there was time, so why not?
EIGHTEEN
North of Doylestown, on US Route 611, approaching Kintnersville, Matt became aware of a faint siren. When he glanced in the rearview mirror, he saw that it was mounted in a State Police car, and that the gumball machine on the roof was flashing brightly.
"Shit," he said.
Penny turned in her seat and giggled.
There was no place to pull safely to the side of the road where they were, so Matt put a hand over his head in a gesture of surrender, slowed, and drove another mile or so until he found a place to stop.
"Mother will not be at all surprised that we wound up in jail," Penny said cheerfully. "She expects it of you."
Matt got out of the car, making an effort to keep both hands in view, and then went back to the State Police car. A very large State Policeman, about thirty-five, got out, and straightened his Smoky-theBear hat.
"Good evening, sir," the State Policeman said, with the perfect courtesy that suggested he was not at all unhappy to be forced to cite a Mercedes driver for being twenty-five or thirty miles over the speed limit.
"Good evening," Matt replied, and took his driver's license from his wallet. "There's my license."
"I'll need the registration too, please, sir."
Matt took out the leather folder holding his badge and photo ID and handed that over.
"That's what I do for a living. How fraternal are you feeling tonight?"
The State Policeman examined the photo on the ID card carefully, then handed it back.
"Being a Philly detective must pay better than they do us. That's quite a set of wheels."
"The wheels belong to the lady."
The State Policeman took a long look at Penny, who, resting her chin on her hands on the back of her seat, was looking back at them, smiling sweetly.
"I don't think I'd have given her a ticket, either," he said. " Very nice."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome," the State Policeman said, and turned back to his car.
Matt got back in the Mercedes.
"We're not going to jail?"
"I told the nice officer that I was rushing you to the hospital to deliver our firstborn," Matt said.
"You would do something like that too, you bastard," Penny said, laughing. "But that's an interesting thought. I wonder what our firstborn would look like?"
The question made Matt uncomfortable.
"I didn't have any lunch," Penny went on. "You're going to have to get me something to eat, or you're going to have to carry me into wherever you're taking me."
"I'm taking you to a restaurant, can't you wait?"
"How far?"
"About an hour from here, I suppose."
"Then no. But I will settle for something simple."
I don't have dinner reservations for this place, Matt suddenly thought. For that matter, I don't even know if it's open to the public for dinner. I better find a phone and call.
Ten minutes later, just south of Easton, he saw the flashing neon sign of a restaurant between the highway and Delaware River. Penny saw it at the same time.
"Clams!" she cried. "I want steamed clams! Steamed clams and a beer!Please, Matthew!"
"Your wish, mademoiselle, is my command."
Inside the restaurant, they found a cheerful bar at which a half dozen people sat, half of them with platters of steamed clams before them.
Penny hopped onto a bar stool.
"Two dozen clams and an Ortlieb's for me," she ordered, "and two dozen for him. I don't know if he wants a beer or not. He may be on duty."
The bartender took it as a joke.
"Two beers, please," Matt said.
Two frosted mugs and two bottles of beer appeared immediately.
"And while I'm waiting for the clams, I'll have a pickled egg," Penny said.
"Two," Matt said.
"You're being very agreeable. That must mean you want something from me."