“That’s Mr. Lambert, whom you so bravely tackled.”
“The fellow with the automatic pistol? Yes, I recollect him. Don’t tell me he continues to pursue you! I’ll eject him.”
“He’s staying here. And he’s a federal agent, remember? Charged with my safety.”
“So he would have us believe,” muttered Thorwald. “He appears to have escaped police surveillance, but I consider it unwise to leave him to his machinations unobserved. Aha, I have it. Hi, you there, Lambert or whatever you call yourself!”
“Me, sir?” Lambert said cautiously.
“Well, is your name Lambert or isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“Then presumably it is you I’m addressing.”
“I guess so,” Lambert admitted.
“Do you care to join Mrs. Fletcher and me for dinner?” Thorwald invited him.
“Who, me?”
“No!” roared Thorwald. “Some other young idiot called Lambert who’s been following Mrs. Fletcher around all day!”
“Gee whiz, sir, yes, thank you, I’d be honoured to join you. But let’s get outta here quick. Here comes Sergeant Gilligan. This way!”
As Gilligan entered by the front door, turning to bellow at a reporter who dared to pursue him with questions, Daisy and Thorwald hastened after Lambert. He led them past the reception desk and down a narrow, badly lit and indifferently cleaned corridor, down stairs and up again, past kitchens, storerooms, and laundry rooms. Thorwald showed a disposition to balk at this undignified proceeding, but Daisy hustled him onward. For once she was in complete agreement with Lambert: she had no desire whatsoever to come face-to-face with either the sergeant or the Press.
She was explaining this to Thorwald as they emerged into a dark alley and turned towards the bright lights of Seventh Avenue. Coming towards them, silhouetted against the lights, was a man in a bowler hat.
“It’s him!” she cried. “Stop him!”
“Who?” Mr. Thorwald asked reasonably. He had been absent in spirit(s) when she described the fugitive to the police.
“The man in the bowler hat.”
Lambert’s face turned to her palely. “Bowler … ? Oh, derby!” And he started running.
By then the man in the bowler hat was fleeing. When Daisy, hampered by a long skirt and high heels, caught up with Lambert at the alley’s exit, their quarry had mingled with the passers-by and disappeared. The street was busy. Among the silk hats, soft felts, and caps were several derbys. They could not accost them all.
Thorwald puffed up. “Who?” he repeated. “No, don’t reply now. Taxi!” He waved.
A chequered cab swooped down to pick them up.
Lambert would not let them discuss “sensitive material” where the driver could overhear. When they reached the restaurant, Thorwald demanded their concentrated attention on the menu until they had ordered. So it was while they waited for the soup that he reiterated his question: “Who? Who is the man in the derby?”
“Didn’t you see him?” Daisy asked.
“Only silhouetted against the illumination, which was insufficient to permit recognition.”
“I meant, at the Flatiron Building. He’s the man I chased down the stairs.”
“No, I did not observe the object of your pursuit. I wasotherwise occupied, in arresting the progress of your pursuer.” He turned a still suspicious gaze upon Lambert.
“A mighty fine tackle, I’ll allow,” Lambert said, glowering, “but I could bear to know just why you got in my way when I was aiming to protect Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Please, gentlemen! Cease hostilities!”
Daisy’s plea was aided by the arrival of their soup. A truce was observed until the waiter departed.
