Philadelphia-Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani announced the arrest early this morning "without incident" of Lawrence John Porter, 20, and Ralph David Williams, 19, at their homes in the Paschall Homes Project. The two, who are cousins, have been charged with the double murder of Ms. Maria M. Fernandez and Police Officer Kenneth J. Charlton during a robbery of the Roy Rogers restaurant at South Broad and Snyder Streets earlier this month.
"We've had the two under round-the-clock surveillance for some time," Commissioner Mariani said, "but delayed arresting them while assembling irrefutable evidence against them."
Mariani said that evidence included the murder weapon, a.38-caliber handgun, which police divers, assisted by the Philadelphia Treasure Hunters Club, recovered later yesterday from the silt banks of the Schuylkill River, where it had been thrown.
Mariani cited the involvement of the Treasure Hunters, who joined the police in searching the murky waters of the Schuylkill, as another example "for which I am grateful and proud" of civilian cooperation with the police.
Philadelphia mayor Alvin W. Martin, in a separate statement, said that all Philadelphians "can and should take pride in the professionalism and dedication of the officers of the Special Operations Division Task Force, which I ordered formed, in apprehending these individuals under extremely difficult circumstances."
"Jesus, what a shitty story," O'Hara said. "And it took two of them to write it."
"There's not much, is there?" Matt said. "For all the effort that went into that job."
"On the other hand," O'Hara said, more charitably, "it might have been my pal Kennedy's editing. I know the broad. She's got talent."
O'Hara looked thoughtful for a minute, and judging by the look on his face, Matt was not very surprised at what came next.
"Matty, unless you really want to go back to the Louvre… You've been there before a lot, right?"
"Yeah, I have."
"How would you feel about making arrangements to getting us to where… I forget where you said…"
"Cognac-Boeuf," Matt furnished.
"Right. Where this sleazeball Fort Festung is."
"Sure, Mick. Good idea. We better rent a car. I don't know if we can find one to rent down there."
"See if you can get us a Lincoln, or a Cadillac. These Frog cars look tiny to me. What I'd really like to have is my Rendezvous."
[THREE] The concierge in the lobby of the George V said it would be impossible to provide either a Cadillac or a Lincoln-much less a Porsche or a Buick Rendezvous-and he would therefore recommend a Mercedes.
"Unless M'sieu would like a Jaguar?"
"Tell me about a Jaguar," Matt said.
He put the Jaguar rental on his American Express card, because every time he'd tried to pick up a bill, O'Hara had been adamant that the whole trip was on him. "Put your goddamn money away," he'd say.
Signing the receipt triggered the memory of what Detective Olivia Lassiter had said to him in Alabama about his not even looking at the bill there before he signed it, and his first reaction was,"Screw her!"
But she stayed in his mind all day, and about six-thirty, as he sat in the hotel bar in the vain hope that Mickey would leave the Louvre before they threw him out, he remembered that Mickey had left his worldwide telephone in the suite. And after one more drink, he went to the suite, dialed Zero Zero One, and after some difficulty was connected with the Northwest Detectives Division of the Philadelphia police department.
"Detective Lassiter, please."
"Who's calling?"
"Sergeant Payne."
"Hello, Matt. How are you?"
"I'm fine."
"I heard-"
"I'm fine, Olivia. Thank you for asking. I was about to send you one of those 'having lovely time in Gay Paree wish you were here' postcards, but I figured what the hell, I'd call you."
"Matt, I'm working."
"Can I call you later?"
"I don't think that would be a very good idea," Olivia said. And hung up.
The next morning at ten, Matthew M. Payne and Michael J. O'Hara, both more than a little hungover, watched their luggage being loaded into a powder blue Jaguar XK8 Cabriolet. Then they got in and, with Matt at the wheel, drove across Avenue George V onto Rue Pierre Charron, then turned right onto the Champs Elysees and headed for French National Highway A20.
They stopped for lunch in Orleans, then drove on, this time with Mickey at the wheel. At seven-thirty, by which time it was already too dark to take pictures, they pulled into the cobble-stoned forecourt of Le Relais in the village of Cognac-Boeuf.
"It looks," Matt said, "as if it's been here for centuries."
"It looks like a dump," Mickey said. "Is this the best we can do?"
"This is it, unless you want to go back to Bordeaux."
Mickey wordlessly turned the engine off and got out of the car.
The only accommodation available was one room. It had two single beds and a washbasin. The bath and water closet were in separate rooms down a narrow corridor.
"And I'll bet you snore, too, don't you?" Mr. O'Hara inquired.
Their dinner-roast lamb -was very good, and so was the wine. At nine o'clock, they retired to their room.
"I want to get up early, find their house, and take a couple of shots," Mickey announced, "then hang around for a while to see if I can get a couple of shots of Festung, and then get the hell out of here."
They called their respective maternal parents, turned off the worldwide telephone because the battery was running low, and then got into bed.
"You know what else-besides forgetting to charge the phone in the car-you made me do when you decided to drink everything in Paris last night?" Mr. O'Hara inquired across the dark room.
"I can hardly wait to hear."
"I didn't call that jackass in the embassy."
"You can call the jackass in the embassy in the morning," Matt said.
They were both asleep by half past nine.
[FOUR] When it is half past nine in Cognac-Boeuf, France, it is half past three in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
At 3:33 P.M., Dianna Kerr-Gally, Executive Assistant to the Honorable Alvin W. Martin, stepped to the mayor's door and coughed.
"What's up?" he inquired.
"I've got Eileen Solomon on the line," Dianna said.
"Put her through," he said.
"She wants to know if there is any reason you can't see her right now."
"See me? As opposed to talk to me?"
Dianna nodded.
"Did she say what she wants?"
Dianna shook her head, "no."
He shrugged.
"You think I should talk to her?"
"I think you should tell me if there's some reason you can't see her right now."
"Tell our distinguished district attorney that my door is always open to her," the mayor ordered. "And stall whatever's on the schedule until she shows up."
The Honoable Eileen McNamara Solomon, trailed by Detective Al Unger, appeared ten minutes later in the mayor's outer office, and was immediately shown into the inner office by Dianna Kerr-Gally, who stood just inside the door.
"This is between the mayor and me," Eileen Solomon said. "Do you mind?"
Mrs. Kerr-Gally smiled somewhat thinly and left the office.
Our D.A. is really pissed off about something. I wonder what? And what does it have to do with me?
"You seem a little upset, Eileen," the mayor said.
" 'Little' is an understatement, and 'upset' a euphemism," she said.
"Well, let's see what we can do to make things right," the mayor said. "What's happened?"
"I had a call just now from Walter Davis," Eileen began. "He told me he was really delighted to be able to tell me that Isaac Festung would soon be returned to Philadelphia."
"Well, that's certainly good news after all this time."
"Specifically, that he was reliably informed by the legal attache of our embassy in Paris… You do know, don't you, Alvin, that for reasons I never really understood, they call FBI agents assigned to embassies 'legal attaches'?"
"No, I can't say that I did," Martin confessed.
"Rephrasing,the FBI agent at our embassy has told Davis that the French court is about to extradite Isaac Festung."
"And for some reason I don't understand, you're annoyed about that?"
"Davis said that as soon as the French court orders his extradition, the legal attache-read FBI agents-there will take custody of his person, and then they and U.S. marshals will escort him home."
"You're going to have to explain to me, I'm afraid, what's wrong with that."
"When I was on the bench, Alvin, after Festung jumped bail, I spent a lot of effort-and a lot of taxpayers' money- trying to find him. After he was convicted inmy court of murder in the second, and-surprising me not at all-the FBI had not been able to find him, much less bring him back here and lock him up, I spent even more effort and taxpayer money trying to find him and bring him back here."
"And the FBI was not very useful in this, I gather?"
"What they did, Alvin, was notify Interpol. 'Hey, fellas, the local cops here are looking for this guy. If you stumble over him, give us a call, huh?' "
Mayor Martin was tempted to smile, but wise enough to know that this was not the time to do so.
"And since I became D.A.," the D.A. went on, "my people- my fugitive guy and others-have spent a fortune running this sonofabitch down all over Europe.We found out from the French cops that he was-wherever the hell he is, in some village in the South of France-and when Interpol and the FBI did nothing to get him back, I sent two assistant D.A.s over there-at the taxpayers' expense-to light a fire under them."
"I see," Alvin W. Martin said, although he really didn't.
The only thing he knew for sure was that he had never seen the Honorable Eileen McNamara Solomon so angry before, and from which he drew the conclusion that one could anger Mrs. Solomon only at great peril.
"I have no intention of standing there, smiling in gratitude, when the FBI or the marshals take him off the plane," Eileen McNamara Solomon declared.
"I understand how you feel, Eileen," he said.
"I want a Philadelphia cop's handcuffs on him," she said. "I want a Philadelphia cop to bring him back."
"I can understand that," the mayor said.
"Those bastards try this sort of thing all the time. They even showed up in Alabama, trying to steal Jason Washington's pinch of Homer C. Daniels."
"I didn't know that," the mayor said, truthfully. "Is that what it's called, 'stealing a pinch'? That sounds like something that would happen at a high school junior prom."
It was evident on District Attorney Solomon's face that she did not share Mayor Martin's sense of humor.
"Well, what can we do about this, you and I, Eileen, to make things right?"
"What you can do, Alvin, is call Ralph Mariani and tell him to get a cop-preferably one from Homicide-over to France before the FBI gets away with this."
"Is there going to be time to do that?"
"There will have to be," Eileen McNamara Solomon declared.
[FIVE]
"Homicide, Lieutenant Washington."
"Mariani, Washington. Is Quaire there?"
"No, sir. He is not."
"Come up here, please, Jason. Right now."
After he had explained the situation to Lieutenant Washington, Commissioner Mariani was surprised, and a little annoyed, at the amused look on Washington's face.
"This is not funny, Lieutenant. We better be able to do something, and do it right now."
"As it happens, Commissioner, there does happen to be a man from Homicide in France right now."
"How did that happen?"
"Sergeant Payne-two days ago, anyway-was in Paris, sir."
"I ordered him to take thirty days' vacation time!"
"Yes, sir. That's what he's doing. He and Mr. O'Hara. Sergeant Payne told his mother, and she told me, that Mr. O'Hara is quite taken with the artistic treasures of the Louvre."
The commissioner waited for him to go on.
"There is a rumor circulating, sir, that Mr. O'Hara and Mr. Kennedy, the city editor of theBulletin-"
"I know who he is," Mariani interjected impatiently.
"-exchanged blows in the city room of the newspaper…"
"No kidding?"
"… and that Mr. O'Hara is on a thirty-day sabbatical from his duties. According to my information-again via Sergeant Payne's mother-Mr. O'Hara is thinking of writing a book about Festung. Anyway, sir, the two of them are in France."
"How do we get in touch with them?"
"They are-or were-in the George the Fifth Hotel in Paris, sir," Washington said. "And Mr. O'Hara, I understand, has one of the new worldwide satellite telephones. It shouldn't be any problem."
Commissioner Mariani picked up his telephone.
"Put in a person-to-person call to either Sergeant Matthew Payne or Mr. Michael O'Hara in the George the Fifth Hotel in Paris, France," he ordered.
Ten minutes later, Commissioner Mariani was informed that both Mr. O'Hara and Mr. Payne had checked out of the hotel that morning and left no forwarding address.
"I knew that was too good to be true," Mariani said. "What about this around-the-world telephone of O'Hara's? Can you get the number?"
"I'm sure that won't be a problem, sir."
"Well, get it. Get them on it. Tell them to call me."
"Yes, sir."
"And you better see who else has a passport… Do you?"
"It's being renewed, sir."
"Get somebody else started, in case we can't get through to Payne. Hell, they may be on their way home."
A half hour later, Lieutenant Washington telephoned Commissioner Mariani to report that he was having trouble getting O'Hara's number but he was working on it, and hoped to have it shortly.
He also reported that they had made reservations for someone to fly to Paris. It had yet to be determined who would go, but there would be plenty of time to make the decision. The next available seat to Paris was on a flight leaving New York tomorrow afternoon. When he added that only first-class seats were available, he anticipated the commissioner's next question:
"It would appear we're in the tourist season, sir," Washington concluded.
"In that case, I would suggest that you make every effort to get O'Hara's phone number," Commissioner Mariani said. "Keep me advised, Lieutenant. I'm about to tell the mayor we are making every effort to comply with his wishes."
"Yes, sir."
Two hours after that, Lieutenant Washington called the commissioner again.
"Sir, I have the number. I had to get it from Mr. Casimir Bolinski. But when I call it, the recording says that it's been turned off. Probably overnight, sir. I'll try again in the morning."
"No," Commissioner Mariani said, "you, or some one you delegate, will try that number every thirty minutes until someone answers."
"Yes, sir."
[SIX] Mr. Michael J. O'Hara rose at first light and, without disturbing Sergeant Payne, went down the narrow corridor to the communal bath, took one look at it, and decided he would just have to remain unwashed until they found a decent hotel.
Then-with less trouble than he expected to have-he got directions in the form of a hand-drawn map to the Piaf Mill, and got in the Jaguar and drove there.
He had a little trouble getting the shots he wanted. There were half a dozen French gendarmes guarding the place, and when they spotted him, they tried to run him off. But he finally got what he wanted, and even a shot of Isaac "Fort" Festung, standing in the doorway of the ancient mill house.
Then he drove back to Le Relais with a sense of mission accomplished. He had all he needed. He'd wake Matty up, they'd get some breakfast, and then "Sayonara, Cognac-Boeuf! Or whatever the hell this place is called."
He had already stopped the Jaguar when he remembered he had forgotten to take the telephone with him. He had planned to see how much of a charge it would take plugged into the Jaguar's cigarette lighter hole.
He went to their room, turned the light on, woke Matty and told him to get his ass out of bed, as soon as they had breakfast they were out of here, and took the telephone down-the battery of which was now really dead, he having apparently failed to turn it off correctly the night before-to the Jaguar.
The clever Englishmen had designed the interior to frustrate him. It took him almost five minutes to find the cigarette lighter hole. It was in the ashtray, mounted in such a position that it couldn't he seen by the driver unless he bent nearly flat and looked around the gearshift lever.
Matt was just coming into the combined bar and dining room of Le Relais when Mickey finally went in.
Mickey explained that he had had difficulty finding the cigarette lighter holder, but that he had finally succeeded, and the phone was now being charged.
"Maybe not, Mick," Matt said. "Sometimes the lighter hole is hot only when the ignition is on."
"Shit!"
Mickey went back out to the Jaguar and immediately discovered that Matt had been in error. The cigarette lighter hole was hot, even with the ignition off. The proof was that the once dead-as-a-doornail device was chirping.
Mickey wondered what the hell Casimir-the only person who had the number-wanted this time of night. It was eight-fifteen here, which meant that it was 2:15 A.M. in the States.
"What's up, Casimir?"
"That you, Mickey?"
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Jason Washington."
"What the hell do you want?"
"Is Matt somewhere around? And how is he?"
"He's fine. We're about to have breakfast. Can I give him a message?"
"Can't you just give him the phone, Mick?"
"I don't think the battery will last that long," Mick said. "This is important? Nothing wrong with anybody?"
"It's important, Mick. Nothing's wrong with anyone."
"Hang on, I'll get him."
"This afternoon, huh?" Mickey asked after Matt returned from the Jaguar and reported the gist of his conversations with Lieutenant Washington and a somewhat sleepy-sounding Commissioner Ralph J. Mariani. "It's a sure thing?"
"So says Mariani. He says Eileen Solomon told him she talked to the embassy."
"That bastard in the embassy never said a goddamn word to me."
"Possibly because you forgot to call him."
"Screw you, Matty. Did they say where?"
"The Palais de Justice in Bordeaux."
"Well, we better drive over there after we finish breakfast," O'Hara said.
"Actually," Matt said, thoughtfully. "It makes a pretty good last act. The fat lady sings. The last act of the Wyatt Earp of the Main Line. I'm quitting the job, Mickey."
"You're not going to bring that crap up again, are you?"
"Again?"
"You had a couple of drinks-eight or ten-too many the other night, pal, after you had your little chat with the lady detective."
"And I told you?"
"You were… somewhat loquacious… Matty. You would never love again, and you were quitting the job.Ad infinitum."
"I don't remember that."
"And thus you don't remember what I told you?"
"No."
"I said you were probably lucky Detective Whatsername dumped you-I never liked her; she's one of those dames who's never satisfied-and as full of shit as a Christmas turkey about quitting the job. You could no more do anything else than I could become a ballet dancer. You're a cop, Matty. A good one. It's in your blood."
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance into the combined bar and dining room of Le Relais of Mr. Isaac Festung.
He was accompanied by two gendarmes.
He was wearing what looked like a dirty white poncho and baggy blue cotton trousers, and was barefoot in leather sandals.
He looked around the room and spotted Mickey.
He walked to the table.
"You were at my home this morning," he challenged. "Taking pictures."
"Yes, I was."
"Morbid interest? Or journalistic? Or is there a difference? "
"I'm a reporter, if that's what you mean," O'Hara said.
"Well, I'm sorry to tell you that I'm not granting any interviews right now."
"That's good, because I'm not asking for one."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"I just rode down here with him," O'Hara said, nodding at Matt.
Festung turned his attention to Matt.
"You're a reporter?"
"No, I'm not, Mr. Festung," Matt said. "I'm a police officer. I'm here to take you into custody when the court of appeals denies your appeal."
"Well, then, I'm afraid you've wasted your time, too, my young friend. That's not going to happen."
"We'll know for sure about that this afternoon in Bordeaux, won't we? And I'm not your young friend, Mr. Festung. I'm Sergeant Matthew Payne, Badge 471, Homicide Unit, Philadelphia police department."
Festung met Matt's eyes for a long moment, and when Matt didn't blink, apparently lost his appetite for breakfast, for he suddenly spun around on his heels and stalked out of Le Relais, with the two gendarmes on his heels.
"That felt good, admit it," Mickey said.
"I don't know about 'good,' Mick, but it felt right."
"Let's get the hell out of here," Mickey said.
And they left.