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"He works somewhere downtown. In a bank, I think."
"And Mrs. Wheatley?"
"There is no Mrs. Wheatley," the woman said.
Bernie held his hand at the level of his neck and made a waving motion with it, and then let his wrist fall limp.
"You don'tknow that, Bernie," the woman said.
"If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, right, Sergeant?"
"Most of the time," Washington agreed.
"Say," the woman said suddenly, triumphantly, pointing at Matt. "I thought you looked familiar. I know who you are! You're the detective who shot the Liberation Army,Islamic Liberation Army guy in the alley, aren't you?"
"Actually," Matt said, "the ILA guy shot me."
"Yeah," Bernie said. "Butthen you shothim, and killed the bastard. My brother, the lieutenant, thinks you're all right. You know Lieutenant Harry Crowne?"
"I'm afraid not," Matt said.
"Harry and I are old pals," Jason Washington said. "But can we talk about Mr. Wheatley now?"
"Well, I'll tell you this," the woman said. "The one thing Marion isn't is some Islamic nut. He's Mr. Goody Two Shoes. I don't know if he's what Bernie thinks he is, but he's not some revolutionary. He wouldn't hurt a fly."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that," Washington said. "Is there anything else you can tell us about him?"
"I hardly ever see him to talk to," Bernie said. "He mostly keeps to himself."
"You wouldn't happen to know," Jason asked, "if he was in the Army?"
"Yeah, that I know. He was. We were both in 'Nam at the same time. He told me, it could be bullshit, excuse the language, Doris, he told me he was a lieutenant in EOD. That means Explosive Ordnance Disposal."
"Yes, I know," Washington said. "Give me the radio, Matt."
Matt opened his briefcase and handed Washington the radio.
"William One, William Seven."
"Mr. Wheatley is a bachelor who has told his neighbor he served as a lieutenant in EOD in Vietnam," Washington said.
"Bingo!" Wohl said. "Stay where you are, Jason."
****
Marion Claude Wheatley was wakened at half past seven by the sound of screeching brakes and tearing metal. He got out of bed, went to the window, and looked down at the intersection of Ridge Avenue and North Broad Street.
Even though he looked carefully up and down both streets as far as he could, he could see no sign of an auto accident.
He turned from the window, took off his pajamas and carefully hung them on a hanger in the closet, then took a shower and shaved and got dressed.
He went down to the restaurant and had two poached eggs on toast, pineapple juice, and a glass of milk for breakfast. He ate slowly, for he had at least half an hour to kill; he hadn't planned to get up until eight, and had carefully set his travel alarm clock to do that. The wreck, or whatever it was, had upset his schedule.
But there really wasn't much that one can do to stretch out two poached eggs on toast, so when he checked his watch when he went back to his room, he saw that he was still running twenty minutes ahead of schedule.
And, of course, into the schedule, he had built in extra time to take care of unforeseen contingencies. With that it mind, he was probably forty-five minutes ahead of what the real time schedule would turn out to be.
He decided he would do everything that had to be done but actually leave the room, and then wait until the real time schedule had time to catch up with the projected schedule.
