sharply with a florid countenance.
'Sorry, Mr Senator,' said Littlemore. 'I need to know where I can find the Mexican envoy you were telling me about — Torres. Right away.'
'Why?'
'He's not on staff at the embassy yet. Can't claim diplomatic immunity. Can we find out where he's staying?'
'That's the sort of thing I'm good at,' said Fall. 'Go sit yourself down in my waiting room. Could take a little while.'
Littlemore went to the Senator's waiting room, but he didn't sit. He paced. He looked at his watch. He got a cup of coffee. Finally, over two hours later, the businesslike but exceedingly good-looking Mrs Cross emerged with an address and a car key. 'Mr Torres has taken an apartment on Crescent Place,' she said. 'Senator Fall says you can use one of his motorcars, if you like. I'll show you where it is.'
In the basement of the Senate Office Building, an electric monorail shuttled people through an underground passage to and from the Capitol. Mrs Cross led Littlemore to a parking garage, where she climbed into the driver's seat of an open-roofed sedan.
'Excuse me, ma'am,' said Littlemore. 'I think I better do this on my own.'
'Because it might be dangerous?'
'That's right.'
'I like dangerous,' she answered. 'Besides, you're in a hurry; do you have any idea where Crescent Place is?'
'No.'
'Then you're wasting time. Get in.'
Mrs Cross slowed as they approached a narrow lane in a fashionable neighborhood. They were on Sixteenth Street. In their rearview mirror, the gates of the White House were visible in the distance far behind them. Mrs Cross turned into the curving lane and parked in front of a small apartment house. Dusk had begun to fall.
Littlemore found the name, 'Elias Torres,' handwritten in relatively fresh ink next to the mail slot for apartment 3B. Climbing to the third floor, Littlemore rang the bell. Mrs Cross stood behind him.
'Who it is?' called a Spanish-accented voice from within.
'Federal agent James Littlemore,' said Littlemore. 'Is that Elias Torres?'
'Jace.'
'What did you say?'
'I am Elias Torres.'
'I want to ask you a few questions, Mr Torres.'
'What about?'
'About the bombing of Wall Street,' answered Littlemore.
There was a pause. 'All right. A minute. I am putting on the shirt.'
'I'll give you thirty seconds,' said the detective. Littlemore put his ear to the door. He heard rushed footsteps and a window being thrown open.
'He's running,' said Mrs Cross.
'I know,' replied Littlemore.
'Aren't you going to do anything?' she asked.
'Yup — wait to make sure he's on his way.' Littlemore banged on the door. When no response was forthcoming, the detective took out a pick and metal file and went to work on the lock. 'We don't want Torres, Mrs Cross.'
'Why not?'
'He just arrived from Mexico,' said Littlemore, working his file between doorjamb and bolt. 'Hasn't moved into his embassy office yet. No diplomatic immunity. We can search whatever boxes and government papers the guy brought with him: that's what we want. But without a warrant, you can't just break into somebody's place and search his stuff — unless of course your suspect is attempting to flee.'
Littlemore popped the bolt.
'You play by the rules, New York,' said Mrs Cross.
'Somebody has to.' A breeze was blowing the curtains of the living- room window. Littlemore looked out: the window opened onto a fire escape. 'That's where he went.'
The apartment was newly and cheaply furnished. The only decorations were a few wall-hung watercolors of clowns and bulls, along with a vase of flowers sitting on an inexpensive table. Littlemore went through the rooms, the closets, the drawers. He found nothing — only a smattering of clothes and personal effects. Mrs Cross stood in the living room, smoking a cigarette. 'Sharp move,' she said, 'letting him run.'
'Not looking too smart, am I?' asked Littlemore.
'Tidy Mexican gentleman,' said Mrs Cross, making use of a clean ashtray on the dining table. 'He might have swept his floor a little better.'
Littlemore followed her line of sight. At the base of the wall, a small mound of sawdust was visible. Five feet above this sawdust, hanging on the wall, was a watercolor of a bullfight.
'Got him,' said Littlemore.
He lifted the picture off its hanger. A hole had been drilled behind it — a hole large enough for a man to stick his hand into. Which is what Littlemore did, drawing out therefrom a cardboard cylinder. The corners of rolled-up documents poked out from either end of the tube. Littlemore pulled the sheets free and flattened them out on the table, holding them down so they didn't curl.
Some of the documents were photographs. Another was a letter, in
Spanish, bearing the stamp and letterhead of a Mexican governmental department. One was a diagram.
'Holy cow,' said Littlemore. 'Holy mother of cow.'
'Why are we going down the fire escape?' asked Mrs Cross, descending the metal stairs a few treads behind Littlemore.
'Because if anybody's waiting for us, they'll be out front.'
'Who would be waiting for us?'
'If I'm Elias Torres and I left these documents behind, I'm coming back for them. With some friends. And some guns. Hold this.'
Handing Mrs Cross the cardboard cylinder with the documents inside it, Littlemore let himself down a short metal ladder, at the end of which he had to jump the last several feet to the ground. He was in the building's rear lot, which appeared to be empty.
'Throw me the tube,' he said quietly, 'and come down.'
She complied, but when she reached the last rung of the ladder, still some six feet off the ground, she looked at him and said, 'Now what?'
'Let go,' he answered. 'I'll catch you.'
She hesitated.
'Jump, for Christ's sake,' he whispered.
She did; he caught her. She had one hand on his chest: 'You're stronger than you look.'
'Is that a compliment?' he asked. 'Don't answer. Just keep quiet.'
He led Mrs Cross around the apartment house, keeping her behind him, pressing himself against the wall when they came to the street. Peering around the corner, Littlemore saw four men, hats pulled low over their heads, outside the front door of the building. One sat on the hood of the sedan in which Mrs Cross and he had arrived; the man seemed to be carelessly polishing his shoe. Littlemore drew his gun.
'Wait,' whispered Mrs Cross. 'I'll go. They don't know you're with a woman. I'll pick you up on Avenue of the President.'
'Where's that?'
'It's Sixteenth Street.' She pointed the way. Then she walked boldly out into the street, displaying not a hint of anxiety. As she sauntered near the car, the men elbowed each other. One whistled; another asked her questions of a personal nature, which Mrs Cross did not answer. When she let herself into the car and started the engine, the man sitting on the hood leaned over the windshield.
'Where do you think you're going, honey?' he said. Perhaps he thought she couldn't pull out with a man on her
