The Third Twin - Ken Follett [181]
“That’s pretty good,” Mr. Oliver said.
The phone rang. Jeannie picked it up. “Hello?”
“This is Mish Delaware.”
Jeannie had forgotten about her. It had been fourteen or fifteen hours since she had been desperate to contact her. “Hi,” she said.
“You were right. Harvey Jones did it.”
“How do you know?”
“The Philadelphia police were quick off the mark. They went to his apartment. He wasn’t there, but a neighbor let them in. They found the hat and realized it was the one in the description.”
‘That’s great!”
“I’m ready to arrest him, but I don’t know where he is. Do you?”
Jeannie looked at him, dressed like a six-foot-two Nancy Reagan. “No idea,” she said. “But I can tell you where he’ll be at noon tomorrow.”
“Goon.”
“Regency Room, Stouffer Hotel, at a press conference.”
“Thanks.”
“Mish, do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Don’t arrest him until the press conference is over. It’s really important to me that he’s there.”
She hesitated, then said: “Okay.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Jeannie hung up. “Okay, let’s get him in the car.”
Mr. Oliver said: “You go ahead and open the doors. I’ll bring him.”
Jeannie picked up her keys and ran downstairs into the street. Night had fallen, but there was bright starlight as well as the shadowy illumination of the streetlights. She looked along the street. A young couple in ripped jeans were strolling in the opposite direction, hand in hand. On the other side of the road, a man in a straw hat was walking a yellow Labrador. They would all be able to see clearly what was going on. Would they look? Would they care?
Jeannie unlocked her car and opened the door.
Harvey and Mr. Oliver came out of the house, very close together, Mr. Oliver pushing his prisoner forward, Harvey stumbling. Lisa followed them, closing the door of the house.
For an instant, the scene struck Jeannie as absurd. Hysterical laughter bubbled up into her throat. She put her fist in her mouth to silence it.
Harvey reached the car and Mr. Oliver gave a final shove. Harvey half fell into the backseat.
Jeannie’s moment of hilarity passed. She looked again at the other people in the street. The man in the straw hat was watching his dog urinate on the tire of a Subaru. The young couple had not turned around.
So far, so good.
“I’ll get in the back with him,” Mr. Oliver said.
“Okay.”
Lisa got in the front passenger seat and Jeannie drove.
Downtown was quiet on Sunday night. She entered the parking garage beneath the hotel and parked as close as possible to the elevator shaft, to minimize the distance they had to drag Harvey. The garage was not deserted. They had to wait in the car while a dressed-up couple got out of a Lexus and went up to the hotel. Then, when there was no one to see, they got out of the car.
Jeannie took a wrench from her trunk, showed it to Harvey, then tucked it into the pocket of her blue jeans. Mr. Oliver had his wartime pistol in his waistband, concealed by the tail of his shirt. They pulled Harvey out of the car. Jeannie expected him to turn violent at any moment, but he walked peaceably to the elevator.
It took a long time to arrive.
When it came they bundled him in and Jeannie pressed the button for the lobby.
As they went up, Mr. Oliver punched Harvey in the stomach again.
Jeannie was shocked: there had been no provocation.
Harvey groaned and doubled over just as the doors were opening. Two men waiting for the elevator stared at Harvey. Mr. Oliver led him stumbling out, saying: “Excuse me, gentlemen, this young man has had one drink too many.” They got out of the way smartly.
Another elevator stood waiting. They got Harvey into it and Jeannie pressed the button for the eighth floor. She sighed with relief as the doors closed.
They rode to their floor without incident. Harvey was recovering from Mr. Oliver’s punch, but they were almost at their destination. Jeannie led the way to the room she had taken. As they got there she saw with dismay that the door was open, and hanging on the doorknob was a card saying “Room being serviced.” The maid must be turning