The Triumph of Evil by Lawrence Block

more from you than I teach you, Jocelyn.”
    She put her fork down, raised her face slowly to his. She spoke to him with her face. If you want, her face said. If you would like it, I too would like it. Truly. But you’re the one who must decide.
    “It’s warm,” he said. “I’ll open a window.”

EIGHT
    Less than a week after his return from New York, Dorn packed a suitcase and rode a bus to Charleston. From Charleston he flew on Delta Airlines to New Orleans. The name on his ticket was not one he had used before. He used that name again to register at a medium-priced hotel in the Quarter. In his room he unpacked his suitcase and placed his clothes in the bureau and closet. He took the Sanitized wrapper off the toilet seat and raised the seat. He unwrapped one of the water tumblers, drew a glass of water, drank some of it—it tasted of chlorine—and set the half empty glass on top of the dresser. He look off the bedspread, got into bed, rumpled the bedclothing briefly, dented the pillow with his head, and got out of bed again. He closed the blinds and turned up the air conditioning.
    On his way out of the room he dropped the Do Not Disturb sign onto the doorknob. He knew several ways to lock a door from the inside while being on the outside. None of I them worked with this particular type of lock. There was a transom, but the desirability of leaving the door locked from the inside did not seem to him to outweigh the probable consequences of being seen crawling through his own transom, nor did he much like the idea of trying to crawl back in again. Nor, for that matter, did a broken leg lend itself to his plans.
    He stopped at the hotel coffee shop, ate a quick breakfast, signed the chit with his current name and room number. He kept his room key, and left the hotel through the coffee shop’s street entrance to avoid passing the desk.
    A taxi look him back to the airport. He had earlier reserved a seat under another new name on an American Airlines flight to Kennedy Airport, which he still thought of as Idlewild. (“You can’t be a saint without martyrdom.”) His flight was called for boarding ten minutes after he arrived at the airport.
    He enjoyed the flight. One of the stewardesses reminded him in some indefinable way of Jocelyn, although there was no actual physical resemblance. He ate an adequate meal and had several cups of tea.
    He spent a good deal of time thinking about Emil Karnofsky, but thought about other things as well.
    Although he had long since destroyed all of the capsule biographies Heidigger had given him, his memory of them was eidetic.
    Emil Karnofsky. Director, National Brotherhood of Clothing Workers. Member, national board, AFL-CIO. Jew. First major labor leader to take antiwar position. Union membership chiefly black, Puerto Rican. Respected by colleagues but regarded as New York Jew leftist. Termination advised to foster solidarity in labor circles. Strongly recommend termination via natural causes or accident. If unavoidably otherwise, political motivation must not be suggested. Age: 77. Widower. Three children, eight grandchildren …
    His flight was stacked in a holding pattern over Kennedy for almost two hours, to the dismay of most of Dorn’s fellow passengers, at least one of whom seemed to hold the stewardesses personally accountable. Dorn was unbothered by the delay. He had allowed for it.
    A telephone conversation:
    “Hello, Mr. Tompkins?”
    “No, this is Emil Karnofsky. Did you wish to speak with Mr. Tomkins?”
    “I’d like to speak to Mr. William Tompkins, yes.”
    “I’m sorry, but Mr. Tompkins is not in now. I expect him in about two hours, perhaps sooner. If you would care to—”
    “Do you have a number where he can be reached?”
    “May I ask who is calling?”
    “This is Sgt. Bernard Cleary attached to the 47th police precinct in Astoria.”
    “Oh, I hope nothing’s—”
    “Do you have a number where Mr. Tompkins can be reached?”
    “Yes, I do. Excuse