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He also suspected that this was not an occasion on which Chief Inspector Coughlin should be addressed as “Uncle Denny.”

“Good morning, Chief,” he said.

Coughlin looked at him for a long moment, expressionless, before he replied.

“Matty, what’s with you and the FBI?”

“Is that what this is about?”

“I asked you a question,” Coughlin said evenly.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have taken them on the wild-goose chase like that, but they’re—”

“Start at the beginning,” Wohl shut him off. “And right now, neither the Chief or I are interested in what you think of the FBI.”

Matt related, in detail, his entire encounter with Special Agents Jernigan and Leibowitz. When he came to the part of leading them up and down the narrow alleys of North Philadelphia before finally parking in the Special Operations parking lot, Chief Inspector Coughlin had a very difficult time keeping a straight face.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Now let me tell you what’s happened this morning. I had a telephone call from Walter Davis. You know who he is?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Davis said that he would consider it a personal favor if I would set up a meeting, as soon as possible, between himself, the two agents you got into it with, Peter, and me. And that he would be grateful if I kept the meeting, until after we’d talked, under my hat. Do you have any idea what that’s all about, Matty?”

“No, sir.”

“Somehow, I think there’s more to this than you being a wiseass with his agents,” Coughlin said. “I think if that’s all there was to this, the Polack would have gotten a formal letter complaining about the uncooperative behavior of one of his detectives.”

The Polack was Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernich.

“Yeah,” Inspector Wohl said thoughtfully.

“And he wants me to keep this under my hat until after we have a meeting,” Coughlin went on. “Which makes me think of something else. Did either of the FBI guys do anything they shouldn’t have done, Matty?”

“Well, they should have been sure there was a kidnapping before they started asking a lot of questions,” Matt said.

“That’s not what I mean. Did they violate any of your civil rights? Push you around? Brandish a pistol? Anything like that?”

“No, sir.”

“Maybe Matt’s onto it with what he said,” Wohl said. “Maybe Davis is embarrassed that he had people running around investigating a nonkidnapping. And doesn’t want Matt to tell the story to an appreciative audience at the FOP Bar. The FBI is very image conscious.”

Detective Payne was enormously relieved that he had become “Matt” again.

“Could be,” Chief Coughlin said. “But I have a gut feeling there’s more to this than that. I have been wrong before.”

Coughlin heaved himself off the couch with a grunt, walked to Wohl’s desk, consulted a slip of paper he took from his pocket, and dialed a number.

“Chief Inspector Coughlin for Mr. Davis, please,” he said to whoever answered, and then, a moment later: “Dennis Coughlin, Walter. Sorry it took so long to get back to you. I’ve had a chance to speak with Peter Wohl. The best I have been able to set up is half past four at the Rittenhouse Club. Would that be convenient?”

Davis’s reply could not be heard.

“Look forward to seeing you, too, Walter,” Coughlin said, and hung up. He looked at Wohl and Payne. “Pay attention, you two,” he said, smiling. “Write this down. When dealing with the enemy, never meet him on his own turf—Davis wanted us to come to the FBI office—and, if possible, keep him waiting.”

Walter Davis, trailed by Special Agents Howard C. Jernigan and Raymond Leibowitz, walked up to the porter’s desk in the Rittenhouse Club at 4:15 and announced, “I’m Mr. Davis. I’m expecting a gentleman named Coughlin.”

The porter turned and examined the membership board.

I’ll be damned. Coughlin is a member. Of course. He would have to be. He suggested this place to meet. Why didn’t I think of that?