"Chief Flynn, of course," he said. "It's only a few steps over at the the Treasury Building."
"All right, Mr. Monaghan," I agreed. "I'll come along quietly. Am I under arrest? Should I send for my lawyer?"
"The Service don't go much for lawyers," he said. "This way, sir."
With Monaghan at my elbow, I turned right on Pennsylvania Avenue and walked in front of the White House and turned down East Executive Avenue to the side-entrance of the Treasury. A few baffling twists and turns in the corridors of Morgenthau, and I found myself in a large, sparsely furnished room, facing a white haired Irishman.
"This is Tompkins, Chief," Monaghan reported and left me with the gimlet-eyed Secret Service executive.
"You W. S. Tompkins?" he asked me.
"Yes. And who are you?"
"My name's Flynn."
Neither of us said anything for a couple of minutes. He was obviously waiting for me to ask him why I had been brought to him—so I deliberately kept silent, pulled out a cigarette and lighted it. Seeing no ash-tray, I flicked the burnt match on the official green carpet and waited for him to open the conversation.
"So you don't need to be told why you're here, Tompkins," he purred.