I nodded. "Okay, I'll give it to him," I said.
"Okay, Tompkins," he remarked. "It's your funeral. But remember, if you're not cleared in twenty-four hours, we'll be calling you in again and this time we'll give you the works."
Luck was with me. I left the F.B.I. and walked up Pennsylvania Avenue to the Willard. As I followed the queue to the registration clerk at the desk I heard the man just ahead of me start to say: "I want to cancel—"
"Just a moment, sir," the clerk said, as he picked up the telephone. "Yes, madam? No, I'm sorry—"
I plucked at the man's sleeve.
"Don't cancel, if it's for tonight," I said, "Here's a hundred," and I held out two fifty dollar bills.
The man nodded. "Okay, buddy," he agreed, pocketing the money. "The name's R. L. Grant of Detroit."
"Name, please," the clerk asked.
"R. L. Grant of Detroit," I answered. "I have a reservation."
"Right," he said. "Lucky for you you wired a week ago. Here you are, Mr. Grant. Please register."