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The pause was twenty seconds, but seemed much longer, before Kelsey came back on the line.
“They’re at Cottman and State Road, Mr. Stillwell. They should be there any second now.”
“Thank you.”
“Should I ask Inspector Wohl to get in touch with you when he calls in, sir?”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you very much,” Farnsworth Stillwell said.
He put the telephone back in its cradle, and slid it back through the opening in the plate glass window. He walked to the door as the first of the cars in what had become a five car convoy rolled up.
Heading the procession was a Highway Patrol Sergeant’s car. A second Highway Patrol RFC with two Highway cops followed him. The third car was Jason Washington’s nearly new Ford. Stillwell saw a man in the front seat beside him, and decided that he must be Monahan The Witness. There was another unmarked car, with two men in civilian clothing in it behind Washington’s Ford and bringing up the rear was another Highway RFC.
The sergeant leading the procession stopped his car in a position that placed Washington’s car closest to the entrance of the Detention Center. Everyone except Monahan The Witness got quickly out of their cars. The Highway Patrolmen stood on the sidewalk as the plainclothes went to the passenger side of Washington’s car and took him from the car. Washington and the Highway Sergeant moved to the entrance door of the building and held it open.
Sergeant Jason Washington saw Farnsworth Stillwell and nodded.
“Good evening, Mr. Stillwell,” he said.
“You told me this was going to take place at half past six. It’s now”—He checked his watch—“four past seven.”
“We were delayed,” Washington said.
“Were you, indeed?”
“We were Molotov-cocktailed, is what happened,” the man Stillwell was sure was Monahan The Witness said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Stillwell,” Washington said, “this is Mr. Albert J. Monahan.”
Stillwell smiled at Monahan and offered his hand.
“I’m Farnsworth Stillwell, Mr. Monahan. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“Can you believe that?” Monahan said. “A Molotov cocktail? Right on South Street? What the hell is the world coming to?”
What is this man babbling about? A Molotov cocktail is what the Russians used against German tanks, a bottle of gasoline with a flaming wick.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” Stillwell said.
“As we drove away from Goldblatt’s,” Washington explained, “party or parties unknown threw a bottle filled with gasoline down—more than likely from the roof—onto a Highway car that was escorting us here.”
“I will be damned!” Farnsworth Stillwell said.
My God, wait until the newspapers get hold of that!
“The bottle bounced off the Highway car, broke when it hit the street, and then caught fire,” Washington went on.
“Was anyone hurt?”
“I understand a car parked on South Street caught fire,” Washington said. “But no one was hurt. We went to the Roundhouse. I knew Central Detectives and the laboratory people would want a look at the Highway car.”
“You could have called,” Stillwell said, and immediately regretted it.
Washington looked at him coldly, but did not directly respond.
“I’m going to explain to Mr. Monahan how we run the lineup, lineups,” Washington said. “And show him the layout. Perhaps you’d like to come along?”
