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“Freeze. Don’t even twitch. Now lock your fingers behind your head and back out of the booth slowly. Slowly. Hands on the glass and spread ’em.”

Sweet relief was flooding Graham.

“I’m not armed, Stan. You’ll find my ID in my breast pocket. That tickles.”

A confused voice loud on the telephone. “Who am I speaking to?”

“Will Graham, FBI.”

“This is Sergeant Stanley Riddle, Chicago police department.” Irritated now. “Would you tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“You tell me. You have a man in custody?”

“Damn right. Freddy Lounds, the reporter. I’ve known him for ten years. . . . Here’s your notebook, Freddy. . . . Are you preferring charges against him?”

Graham’s face was pale. Crawford’s was red. Dr. Bloom watched the tape reels go around.

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes, I’m preferring charges.” Graham’s voice was strangled. “Obstruction of justice. Please take him in and hold him for the U.S. attorney.”

Suddenly Lounds was on the telephone. He spoke fast and clearly with the cotton wads out of his cheeks.

“Will, listen—”

“Tell it to the U.S. attorney. Put Sergeant Riddle on the phone.”

“I know something—”

“Put Riddle on the goddamned telephone.”

Crawford’s voice came on the line. “Let me have it, Will.”

Graham slammed his receiver down with a bang that made everyone in range of the speakerphone flinch. He came out of the booth and left the room without looking at anyone.

“Lounds, you have hubbed hell, my man,” Crawford said.

“You want to catch him or not? I can help you. Let me talk one minute.” Lounds hurried into Crawford’s silence. “Listen, you just showed me how bad you need the Tattler. Before, I wasn’t sure—now I am. That ad’s part of the Tooth Fairy case or you wouldn’t have gone balls-out to nail this call. Great. The Tattler’s here for you. Anything you want.”

“How did you find out?”

“The ad manager came to me. Said your Chicago office sent this suit-of-clothes over to check the ads. Your guy took five letters from the incoming ads. Said it was ‘pursuant to mail fraud.’ Mail fraud nothing. The ad manager made Xerox copies of the letters and envelopes before he let your guy have them.

“I looked them over. I knew he took five letters to smokescreen the one he really wanted. Took a day or two to check them all out. The answer was on the envelope. Chesapeake postmark. The postage-meter number was for Chesapeake State Hospital. I was over there, you know, behind your friend with the wild hair up his ass. What else could it be?

“I had to be sure, though. That’s why I called, to see if you’d come down on ‘Mr. Pilgrim’ with both feet, and you did.”

“You made a large mistake, Freddy.”

“You need the Tattler and I can open it up for you. Ads, editorial, monitoring incoming mail, anything. You name it. I can be discreet. I can. Cut me in, Crawford.”

“There’s nothing to cut you in on.”

“Okay, then it won’t make any difference if somebody happened to put in six personal ads next issue. All to ‘Mr. Pilgrim’ and signed the same way.”

“I’ll get an injunction slapped on you and a sealed indictment for obstruction of justice.”

“And it might leak to every paper in the country.” Lounds knew he was talking on tape. He didn’t care anymore. “I swear to God, I’ll do it, Crawford. I’ll tear up your chance before I lose mine.”