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"Yes, could you ring room three sixty-seven in a minute and ask for Brian Shaw? Please don't say who you are."
"Nothing else?"
"When Shaw himself answers, just punch off the connection. "Yes, sir."
Shaw returned to the bathroom and peered around the door. "Truce?"
Heidi looked up and smiled. "How'd you like it if I did that to you?"
"The sensation wouldn't be the same. I'm not built like you. "Now I'll reek of champagne."
"Sounds delicious." The phones in the suite jangled.
"Probably for you," he said casually.
She reached over and answered, then held the handset toward him. "They asked for Brian Shaw.
Perhaps you'd like to take it in the other room."
"I have no secrets," he said, grinning slyly.
He muttered through a one-sided conversation and then hung up. He made an angered expression.
"Damn, that was the consulate. I have to meet with someone."
"At this time of night?" she asked.
He leaned down and kissed her toes that protruded from the end of the cast. "Revel in anticipation. I'll be back in two hours.
The curator of the Long Island Railroad Museum was an elderly retired accountant who nourished a lifelong passion for the iron horse. He walked yawning through the relics on display while grumbling incessantly about being abruptly awakened in the dead of night to open the building for an FBI agent.
He came to an antique door whose glass was etched with an elk standing on a mountain, looking down on a diamond stacked locomotive puffing a great billow of smoke as it rounded a sharp curve. He fished around with a large ring until he found the right key. Then he unlocked the door, swung it open and switched on the lights.
He paused and stuck out an arm, blodking Shaw's way. "Are you sure you're an FBI man?"
Shaw sighed at the stupid wording of the question and produced a hastily forged ID card for the third time. He waited patiently for the curator to read the fine print again.
"I assure you, Mr. Rheinhold."
"Rheingold. Like the beer."
"Sorry, but I assure you the bureau wouldn't have put you to all this bother if the matter wasn't most urgent."
Rheingold looked up at him. "Can you tell me what this is all about?"
"Afraid not."
"An Amtrak scandal. I bet you're investigating an Amtrak scandal."
"I can't say."
"A train robbery maybe. Must be pretty confidential. I haven't seen any mention on the six o'clock news."
"Might I ask if we can get on with it," Shaw said impatiently. "I'm in a bit of a rush."
"Okay, just asking," Rheingold said, disappointed.
He led the way down an aisle bordered by high shelves crammed with bound volumes on railroading, most of them long out of print. He stopped at the end of one bookcase containing large portfolios, peered through the bottom lenses of his bifocals and read the titles aloud.
