“Fourth floor,” the man announced.
The operator hesitated. He had been told that a visitor was coming to Savoli’s, and had been ordered to bring him up. Yet there was something about the appearance of this unusual man that perplexed him.
“I said the fourth floor.”
The voice was harsh and grating. It was a command. The operator closed the door, and the elevator sped upward.
Outside the iron grating, the newcomer waited. He did not ring the bell immediately. Instead, he studied the heavy barrier, from its spiked top to its reinforced bottom, and his eyes surveyed the strong lock that held the grating shut.
After a full minute, the man rang the bell. The attendant appeared on the other side.
“Monk Thurman,” said the visitor.
The Italian opened the door to admit the New York gangster. He ushered Thurman into the library. The tall man took the same chair that Steve Cronin had occupied.
He looked slowly and deliberately around the entire room. His eyes noted the shelves of untouched books. Then his gaze was turned toward the window, at an angle in front of him, and he stared out toward the lake, with eyes that seemed unseeing.
The door opened at the other end of the library, and Savoli entered with Borrango. Still the visitor did not turn his gaze in their direction.