The pictures were there showing the guy on the ground and the one in the car. The accompanying story identified them as Tommy (Chum) Williams and the driver as Max Sweiber, both known hoods with police records whose regular base of operations was Chicago. I put in a call to Thomas Watford and, when he wasn’t in, told his secretary I’d be up there in an hour. Watford would know what I meant. He’d have everybody assembled, no doubt about that. I finished typing my report, dropped it in the mail chute beside the elevators and knocked on Toomey’s door. He didn’t answer so evidently he had already left on business of his own. He had a key to my room so I stuck a copy of the report under the empty bottom drawer of the dresser on the plywood dust panel where I told him I would and went downstairs for breakfast. At nine-thirty, I finished, grabbed a cab to Watford’s place and went in to the receptionist. She was smiling and busy, told me to go right in and nodded toward the door. Just the two of them were there, Thomas Watford and the heavy gun from I.A.T.S., and the look on their faces meant trouble.
