Which is when I spotted Al Benson.
I settled for shoving Benson toward the elevator, being careful since he had a box under each arm. We made the elevator and went down and it stopped on the 120th floor and the operator said, “Change here for all lower floors and the street—”
As we waited on the 120th for the down elevator, the P. A. system barked:
“Attention all building occupants. By order of the Mayor no one will be permitted to leave the building until further notice. Please remain where you are. We will try not to inconvenience you for any great time.”
There was no one close to us.
“Al,” I said, “look, stinker, you’ve had your fun but this is it. I don’t know what you’ve got in those boxes but you’ve got to turn them over—and yourself—to the next copper who shows. This is a civil matter, strictly local, and not C. I.”
Benson grinned. “Got to make a delivery first, Monk. Look, there’s a potray over there. Can I use it?”
His grin was infectious. “So what are you going to send where?” I asked as sternly as I could.
“The Mayor’s personal files,” he said. “I managed to carry them out of City Hall—once they’d been suitably wrapped, of course! I’m sending them to the Senate Investigation Committee. Don’t worry, Monk, His Honor won’t be President this or any year!”
I helped him dial the SIC number.