"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."

Tommy Thomas's voice came on the line. "Ready, sir."

"Thomas," Mr. Samm said, "with reference to that Request for All Information teletype of yesterday, Glynes has come up with something."

"Yes, sir," Thomas said, his tone of voice suggesting to Glynes that Thomas hadn't read the teletype either.

"Okay, Chuck," Mr. Samm went on. "Give Thomas your location. I'm going to get on another phone and get in touch with the Secret Service and the FBI."

"Yes, sir."

"And, Glynes, make sure you keep the scene clean. Keep the locals out."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Yes, sir."

"Good work, Glynes. Good work."

At two minutes past nine o'clock, Marion Claude Wheatley telephoned Mr. D. Logan Hammersmith, Jr., vice president and senior trust officer of the First Pennsylvania Bank amp; Trust Company and told him he had come down with some sort of virus and would not be able to come into work today, and probably not for the next few days.

Mr. Hammersmith expressed concern, told Marion he should err on the side of caution and see his physician, viruses were tricky, and that if there was anything at all that he could do, he should not hesitate to give him a call.

'Thank you," Marion said. "I'm sure I'll be all right in a day or two."

"No sense taking a chance, Marion. Go see your doctor," Mr. Hammersmith said, added "Good-bye," and hung up.

Marion called for a taxi, and while he was waiting for it to come, he took all his luggage from where he had stacked it by the front door and carried it out of the house and down the stairs and stacked it on the second step up from the sidewalk.

When the taxi came, he helped the driver load everything into the trunk and, when it would hold no more, into the back seat. Finally, he returned to the steps and picked up the two attache cases, one of which held the detonators and the other the shortwave transmitter (batteries disconnected, of course, there was no such thing as being too careful around detonators) and took them with him into the rear seat.

"The airport," he ordered. "Eastern Airlines. No hurry. I have plenty of time."

At the airport, he secured the services of a skycap, and told him he needed to put his luggage in a locker. The skycap rolled his cart to a row of lockers. Marion needed two to store what he was going to temporarily leave at the airport. He kept out the attache case with the detonators, and two suitcases, one of which held what he thought would be enough clothing for a week, and the other half of the devices.

He paid off the skycap, tipping him two dollars, and then carried the two suitcases and the attache case to a coffee shop where he had a cup of black coffee and two jelly-filled doughnuts. While he ate, he flipped through a copy of theWashington Post that a previous customer had left on the banquette cushion.

He then got up and carried his luggage down to the taxi station, waited in line for a cab, and when it was finally his turn, he told the driver to take him to the Divine Lorraine Hotel.

The driver turned and looked at him in disbelief.

"The Divine Lorraine Hotel?"

Marion smiled.

"I'm going to North Broad and Ridge," he explained. "Some drivers don't know where that is.Everybody knows where the Divine Lorraine Hotel is."

"You had me going there for a minute," the driver said. "You didn' t look like one of Father Divine's people."

I'll have to remember that, Marion thought. Someone such as myself, who does not fit in with the Divine Lorraine Hotel, would naturally attract curiosity and attention by taking a taxi there.

But no harm done, and a lesson learned.

When they reached Ridge Avenue, Marion told the driver to turn right. A block down Ridge, he told the driver to let him out at the corner.

He walked down Ridge Avenue until the taxi was out of sight, then crossed the street and walked back to North Broad Street and into the Divine Lorraine Hotel.

There was a colored lady wearing sort of a robe and a white cloth, or whatever, behind the desk.

"My name is Richards, Henry E. Richards," Marion said. "I have a reservation."

"Yes, sir, we've been expecting you," the colored lady said. She was not, to judge from her voice, the same one he had spoken with on the telephone.

She gave him a registration card to sign, and he filled it out, and she said she could either give him a single room with a single bed, or a single room with a double bed, or a small suite with a double bed in the bedroom and a sitting room.

"Does the small suite have a desk?" Marion asked.

"Yes, and so does the single with a double bed," the woman said.

"Then the single with the double bed, please," Marion said. "I need a desk."

She told him how much, and he asked if there was a weekly rate, and she told him there was, so he paid for a week in advance, and asked for a receipt.

He counted the money in his wallet while she was making out the receipt. He had only one hundred and four dollars.

I probably will not need more, Marion decided, but it is always good to be prepared. When I go out later, I will find a branch of Girard Trust Bank and cash a check.

Another colored lady in a robe and a white whatchamacallit around her head appeared and tried to take his suitcases.

He was made uncomfortable by the notion of a woman carrying his bags.

"I'll take those," Marion said.

"You take one, and I'll take the other," she said with a smile.

She led him to the elevator, which she operated herself, and took him to a very nice room on the sixth floor that overlooked North Broad Street.

He gave her a dollar.

"For the Lord's work, you understand," she said.

"Of course."

"I hope you enjoy your stay with us."

"Thank you."

"Praise Jesus!"

"Praise the Lord!"

The room, Marion found on inspection, was immaculate. Everything seemed a bit old, and well worn, but the state of cleanliness left nothing to be desired.

Cleanliness, Marion thought, is next to godliness.