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The little playlet was run again, and a few minutes later, Wohl, Washington, and Stillwell were standing outside Captain Quaire’s office again.
“I don’t want to bubble over with enthusiasm,” Washington said. “But I have a feeling that Mr. Dorne may decide that being a religious martyr is not really his bag.”
Detective D’Amata came out of the interview room, and announced, surprising no one, that Kenneth H. Dorne, aka “King,” aka Hussein El Baruca, had also elected to avail himself of his right to legal counsel before deciding whether or not he would answer any questions.
“What about him, Joe?” Washington said.
“You picked up on that too, huh, Jason?” D’Amata replied. “Yeah. Maybe. Maybe after the lineup. I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“I’m tempted to,” Stillwell said. “Sergeant Washington’s insight into things like that is legendary.”
The flattery, he decided, after looking at Washington’s face, had not gone wide of the mark.
“If you and Inspector Wohl could find the time,” he went on, having made that decision, “I’d like you to come help me deal with the press. I asked the ladies and gentlemen of the press to be at the office at nine.”
“I’ll beg off, thank you just the same,” Washington said. “I want a good look at the others.”
“Peter?”
“No, thank you. I live by the rule never to talk to the press unless I have to. And anyway, I want to go back to Frankford Hospital. The officer who was shot works for me.”
“I’m going up there too,” Washington said. “When I’m finished here.”
“Tragic, tragic,” Stillwell said. “Thank God, he’s alive.”
“Yes,” Washington said.
“Would you call my office, Sergeant, when you’re finished? I’d really like to hear your assessment of these people.”
“Certainly.”
Farnsworth Stillwell offered Wohl and Washington his hand.
“Thank you very much for letting me share this with you,” he said. “It’s been a—an education. I’ve never been in here before.”
“This is where it happens, Mr. Stillwell,” Washington said.
Stillwell rode the elevator down to the main lobby and started for the parking lot, but as he reached the door, he had a second thought, one he immediately recognized to be a first-rate idea.
He turned and went to the desk, asked permission of the sergeant to use the telephone, and dialed his office number.
“When the press arrives,” he ordered. “Give them my apologies, and tell them I have gone to Frankford Hospital to visit the police officer who was shot this morning. I feel I have that duty. Tell them that too. And tell them if they come to the hospital, I’ll meet with them there.”
When he hung up, he had another idea, even better, and pulled the telephone to him again and dialed his home.
“Darling,” he said when his wife answered, “I’m glad I caught you. Something has come up. I’m going to Frankford Hospital, to visit with the cop who got himself shot this morning—”
“What are you talking about?”
“—I’ll tell you all about it in the car. I want you there with me. The press will be there.”
There was twenty seconds of silence.
“Darling, this is important to me,” he said firmly. “I’ll be waiting outside for you in fifteen minutes.”
He hung up thinking, somewhat petulantly, If she really wants to be the governor’s wife, she damned well had better learn that there is no free lunch, that certain things are going to be required of her.
“Mother,” Officer Matt Payne said, “why don’t you get out of here? I’m all right, and there’s nothing you can do for me here.”
