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“Then maybe something is finally breaking right,” Wells said. “The Warwick’s fine.”
The only thing Stanford Fortner Wells III said on the ride downtown was to make the announcement that he used to come to Philadelphia when he was at Princeton.
“And I went from Philadelphia to Princeton,” Fengler said.
Wells grunted, and smiled.
When they reached the hotel, Wells got quickly out of the limousine and hurried across the sidewalk, up the stairs, and through the door to the lobby. Fengler scurried after him.
****
There was a television monitor mounted on the wall above the receptionist’s desk at WCBL-TV when Peter Wohl walked in. “Nine’s News” at six was on, and Louise Dutton was looking right into the camera.
My God, she’s good-looking!
“May I help you?” the receptionist asked.
“My name is Wohl,” Peter said. “I’m here to see Miss Dutton.”
The receptionist smiled at him, and picked up a light blue telephone.
“Sharon,” she said. “Inspector Wohl is here.” Then she looked at Wohl. “She’ll be right with you, Inspector.”
Sharon turned out to be a startlingly good-looking young woman, with dark eyes and long dark hair, and a marvelous set of knockers. Her smile was dazzling.
“Right this way, Inspector,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Sharon Feldman.”
She led him into the building, down a corridor, and through a door marked STUDIO C. It was crowded with people and cameras, and what he supposed were sets, one of which was used for “Nine’s News.” He was surprised when Louise saw him and waved happily at him, understanding only after a moment that she was not at the moment being telecast, or televised, or whatever they called it.
Sharon Feldman led him through another door, and he found himself in a control room.
“There’s coffee, Inspector,” Sharon Feldman said. “Help yourself. See you!”
“Roll the Wonder Bread,” an intense young woman in horn-rimmed glasses, sitting in the rear of two rows of chairs behind a control console said; and Peter saw, on one of a dozen monitors, one marked AIR, the beginning of a Wonder Bread commercial.
“Funny,” a man said to Peter Wohl, “you don’t look like a cop.”
Peter looked at him icily.
“Leonard Cohen,” the man said. “I’m the news director.”
“Good for you,” Peter said.
“No offense, Wohl,” Cohen said. “But you really don’t, you know, look like what the word ‘cop’ calls to mind.”
“You don’t look much like Walter Cronkite yourself,” Peter said.
“I don’t make as much money, either,” Cohen said, disarmingly.
“Neither, I suppose, does the president of the United States,” Wohl said.
“At least that we know about,” Cohen said. “Did you catch the guy who got away from the Waikiki Diner?”
“Not as far as I know,” Peter said.
“But you will?”
“I think so,” Peter said. “It’s a question of time.”
