W. Griffin - Special Operations

"I'm not concerned about acamera, Mr. Payne," she said. "I'm concerned for my safety."

"I really don't think whoever has done this will return a third time, Miss Peebles," Payne said. "But a few precautions-"

"He was back again last night," she interrupted him. "That's why I'm here now."

"I didn't know," Payne said.

"This time he broke in the side door," she said. "And cut himself when he was reaching through the pane he broke out; there was blood on the floor. This time he stole a bronze, a rather good Egyptian bronze Daddy had bought in Cairo as a young man. Small piece, about eight inches tall. And some other, personal items."

"Such as?"

Her face flushed.

"He went through my dresser," she said, softly, embarrassed, "and stole a half dozen items of underclothing."

"I see," Payne said.

"Specifically," she said, apparently having overcome her discomfiture, "he made off with all my black undies, brassieres, and panties."

"Just the black?" Payne asked, furious with himself for wanting to smile. What this young woman was telling him was not only of great importance to her, but very likely was symptomatic of a very dangerous situation. While a perverse corner of his brain was amused by the notion of an "actor," almost certainly a young gentleman of exquisite grace, making off with this proper young woman's black underwear, it wasn't funny at all.

"Just the black," she said.

"Well, the first thing I think you might consider is the installation of a security system-"

"We've had Acme Security since Daddy built the house," she said. " Until now, I thought it provided a measure of security. Their damned alarm system doesn't seem to work at all."

"May I suggest that you ask them to come and check it out?" Payne said.

"I've already done that," she said. "They say there's absolutely nothing wrong with it. WhatI think is that people like Stephen's young man know about things like that, and know how to turn them off, render them useless, and Acme just doesn't want to admit that's possible."

She's probably right.

"Another possibility, for the immediate future," Payne said, "until the police can run this Williams chap to ground, is to move, temporarily, into a hotel."

"I have no intention of having someone like that drive me from my home," Martha Peebles said, firmly. "What I had hoped to hear from Mr. Foster, Mr. Payne, is that he has some influence with the police, and could prevail upon them to provide me with more protection than they so far have."

"I frankly don't know what influence Mr. Foster has with the police, Miss Peebles-"

"Well, that's certainly a disappointment," she interrupted him.

"But as I was about to say, Colonel Mawson, a senior partner of the firm, is a close personal friend of Police Commissioner Czernick."

"Well, then, may I see him please?"

"That won't be necessary, Miss Peebles. As soon as he walks through the door, I'll bring this to his attention."

"Where is he now?"

"Actually," Payne said, "he's at the Bellevue-Stratford. With a chap called Bull Bolinski."

"The Packers' Bull Bolinski?" Miss Peebles asked, brightening visibly.

"Yes, the Packers' Bull Bolinski."

"Oh, I almost cried when he announced his retirement," Martha Peebles said.

"He's now an attorney, you know."

"I hadn't heard that," she said. "And I'd forgotten this has all been recorded, hasn't it?"

"Yes, it has. And I'll have it transcribed immediately."

Martha Peebles stood up and offered Brewster C. Payne II her hand.

"I can't tell you how much better I feel, Mr. Payne, after having spoken to you. And thank you for seeing me without an appointment."

"That was my pleasure," Payne said. "Anytime you want to see me, Miss Peebles, my door is always open. But I wish you would consider checking into a hotel for a few days…"

"I told you, I will not be run off by people like that," she said, firmly. "Good morning, Mr. Payne."

He walked with her to the door, then to the elevator, and saw her on it.

When he walked back into his office, Irene Craig followed him,

"What the devil is wrong with the cops?" she asked. "She gave them a description of this creep, even if that was a phony name."

"Why do I suspect that you were, as a figure of speech, out there all the time with your ear to my keyhole?" he asked.

"You knew I would be monitoring that," she said. "I also had Ed take it down on the stenotype machine. I should have a transcript before the colonel gets back."

"Good girl!" he said.

"There are some women in my position who would take high umbrage at a sexist remark like that," she said. "But I'll swap compliments. You handled her beautifully."

"Now may I go back to work, boss?" Payne said.

"Oh, I think the colonel can handle this from here," she said, and walked out of his office.

Brewster Cortland Payne II returned to his brief.

The eight men gathered in the conference room of the suite of thirdfloor offices in the Roundhouse assigned to the Police Commissioner of the City of Philadelphia chatted softly among themselves, talking about anything but business, waiting for the Commissioner to more or less formally open the meeting.

He did not do so until Deputy Commissioner for Administration Harold J. Wilson, a tall, thin, dignified man, entered the room, mumbled something about having been hung up in traffic, and sat down.

Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernick then matter-of-factly thumped the table with his knuckles, and waited for the murmur of conversation to peter out.

"The mayor," Commissioner Czernick said, evenly, even dryly, "does not want Mike Sabara to get Highway Patrol."

Taddeus Czernick was fifty-seven years old, a tall, heavyset man with a thick head of silver hair. His smoothly shaven cheeks had a ruddy glow. He was just starting to jowl. Hewas wearing a stiffly starched shirt and a regimentally striped necktie with a dark blue, pinstriped, vested suit. He was a handsome, healthy, imposing man.

"He say why?" Chief Inspector of Detectives Matt Lowenstein asked.

"He said, 'In uniform, Mike Sabara looks like a guard in a concentration camp,'" Czernick quoted.

Chief Inspector Lowenstein, a stocky, barrel-chested man of fiftyfive, examined the half inch ash on his six-inch-long light greenVilla de Cuba "Monarch" for a moment, then chuckled.

"He does," Lowenstein said, "if you think about it, he does."

"That's hardly justification for not giving Sabara the Highway Patrol," Deputy Commissioner Wilson said, somewhat prissily.

"Youtell the dago that, Harry," Lowenstein replied.

Deputy Commissioner Wilson glowered at Lowenstein, but didn't reply. He had long ago learned that the best thing for him to say when he was angry was nothing.

And he realized that he was annoyed, on the edge of anger, now. He was annoyed that he had gotten hung up in traffic and had arrived at the meeting late. He prided himself on being punctual, and when, as he expected to do, he became Police Commissioner himself, he intended to instill in the entire department a more acute awareness of the importance of time, which he believed was essential to efficiency and discipline, than it had now.

He was annoyed that when he had walked into the meeting, the only seat remaining at the long conference table in the Commissioner's Conference Room was beside Chief Inspector Lowenstein, which meant that he would have to inhale the noxious fumes from Lowenstein's cigar for however long the meeting lasted.

He was annoyed at Chief Inspector Lowenstein's reference to the mayor of the City of Philadelphia, the Honorable Jerry Carlucci, as "the dago," and even more annoyed with Commissioner Czernick for not correcting him for doing so, and sharply, on the spot.