Lovelace who he was because I saw that slender right hand go inside the jacket toward the invisible holster. Scotch whisky seemed to have restored Lovelace’s mood to fight for himself.
The elevator let us out at the lobby level. Mike Maggio, the night bell captain, was standing just a yard or so away as we walked out. He has the mischievous, grinning face of a Peck’s bad boy.
“I’m to appear to be giving you a message and walk in front of you to Jerry’s office,” he said.
Lovelace’s bright eyes swept the lobby. He appeared to see no one familiar. We walked briskly through the lobby traffic to Jerry’s office, which is located just behind the main reception desk.
Jerry wasn’t alone. Hardy was with him, hands jammed in his pockets, a cold pipe gripped between his strong white teeth. There was another man I’d never seen before. He sat in one of the office armchairs, facing the door as we came in. Thick black glasses turned his face into an expressionless mask. He seemed to be completely relaxed in his dark suit, dark tie—remarkably inconspicuous except for the glasses that glittered in the office lights. It was instantly apparent that he was in charge of the moment, but neither Jerry Dodd nor Hardy introduced him.
“Mr. Lovelace?” he said. His voice was crisp, efficient sounding; a man in control.
Lovelace nodded. He rubbed his right hand restlessly against the side of his jacket.
“If someone had asked you a year ago what your name was and what your business was, Mr. Lovelace, how would you have answered?” The black glasses were fixed steadily on Lovelace.
Lovelace hesitated. This was a man trained to face oddities. He made a decision. “I would have said I was Michael O’Hanlon, Irish journalist,” he said.
“So I tell you, Mr. Lovelace,” the man with the black glasses said, “that I am Henry Kline, certified public accountant with offices on Wall Street, and it is no more true than your O’Hanlon cover.”
Lovelace nodded slowly. Name games were evidently perfectly understandable to him.
“And I tell you that John Smith was no more John Smith than you are O’Hanlon or I am Kline,” the man said.
“So you have an advantage,” Lovelace said, “because you know that I am really George Lovelace.”
“It’s an unimportant advantage at the moment,” Kline said. He shifted very slightly in his chair. “About an hour ago I had a long distance call from Senator Maxim in Honolulu. He told me what had happened to John Smith. That’s why I’m here, because I know who John Smith was.”
“Who was he?” Lovelace asked.
“We will continue to call him John Smith,” Kline said. “You told Lieutenant Hardy and Mr. Dodd that you’d never seen him before the moment you looked at him, dead?”
“Yes.”
“Would it surprise you to know that John Smith has, in effect, been living with you for the last eight months?”
I saw that little twitch at the corner of Lovelace’s mouth. “It would surprise me,” he said. “And I would lift my hat to John Smith. He must have been extraordinarily skillful at the job of surveillance, if that is what it was.”
“He was about the best in the business,” Kline said.
“And why was he tailing me?” Lovelace asked.
“To try to save your life,” Kline said.
Lovelace stared back at the black glasses. He moistened his lips. I looked at Jerry and Hardy. They’d obviously heard this already.
“If I’ve guessed right about you,” Lovelace said, “that just isn’t true. You fellows couldn’t care less what happens to me.”
Kline’s mouth hardened. “I think that caring about what happened to you cost Smith his life at the end. It’s a fatal weakness in our business—to care what happens to somebody else.”
Lovelace nodded slowly, as if he was remembering moments in the past when he had been tempted himself.
“Shortly after you retired early last summer we became aware of what was happening to you,” Kline said. “The
The elevator let us out at the lobby level. Mike Maggio, the night bell captain, was standing just a yard or so away as we walked out. He has the mischievous, grinning face of a Peck’s bad boy.
“I’m to appear to be giving you a message and walk in front of you to Jerry’s office,” he said.
Lovelace’s bright eyes swept the lobby. He appeared to see no one familiar. We walked briskly through the lobby traffic to Jerry’s office, which is located just behind the main reception desk.
Jerry wasn’t alone. Hardy was with him, hands jammed in his pockets, a cold pipe gripped between his strong white teeth. There was another man I’d never seen before. He sat in one of the office armchairs, facing the door as we came in. Thick black glasses turned his face into an expressionless mask. He seemed to be completely relaxed in his dark suit, dark tie—remarkably inconspicuous except for the glasses that glittered in the office lights. It was instantly apparent that he was in charge of the moment, but neither Jerry Dodd nor Hardy introduced him.
“Mr. Lovelace?” he said. His voice was crisp, efficient sounding; a man in control.
Lovelace nodded. He rubbed his right hand restlessly against the side of his jacket.
“If someone had asked you a year ago what your name was and what your business was, Mr. Lovelace, how would you have answered?” The black glasses were fixed steadily on Lovelace.
Lovelace hesitated. This was a man trained to face oddities. He made a decision. “I would have said I was Michael O’Hanlon, Irish journalist,” he said.
“So I tell you, Mr. Lovelace,” the man with the black glasses said, “that I am Henry Kline, certified public accountant with offices on Wall Street, and it is no more true than your O’Hanlon cover.”
Lovelace nodded slowly. Name games were evidently perfectly understandable to him.
“And I tell you that John Smith was no more John Smith than you are O’Hanlon or I am Kline,” the man said.
“So you have an advantage,” Lovelace said, “because you know that I am really George Lovelace.”
“It’s an unimportant advantage at the moment,” Kline said. He shifted very slightly in his chair. “About an hour ago I had a long distance call from Senator Maxim in Honolulu. He told me what had happened to John Smith. That’s why I’m here, because I know who John Smith was.”
“Who was he?” Lovelace asked.
“We will continue to call him John Smith,” Kline said. “You told Lieutenant Hardy and Mr. Dodd that you’d never seen him before the moment you looked at him, dead?”
“Yes.”
“Would it surprise you to know that John Smith has, in effect, been living with you for the last eight months?”
I saw that little twitch at the corner of Lovelace’s mouth. “It would surprise me,” he said. “And I would lift my hat to John Smith. He must have been extraordinarily skillful at the job of surveillance, if that is what it was.”
“He was about the best in the business,” Kline said.
“And why was he tailing me?” Lovelace asked.
“To try to save your life,” Kline said.
Lovelace stared back at the black glasses. He moistened his lips. I looked at Jerry and Hardy. They’d obviously heard this already.
“If I’ve guessed right about you,” Lovelace said, “that just isn’t true. You fellows couldn’t care less what happens to me.”
Kline’s mouth hardened. “I think that caring about what happened to you cost Smith his life at the end. It’s a fatal weakness in our business—to care what happens to somebody else.”
Lovelace nodded slowly, as if he was remembering moments in the past when he had been tempted himself.
“Shortly after you retired early last summer we became aware of what was happening to you,” Kline said. “The
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