Lamb leaned back in his chair and grinned boyishly. "The Bureau has a lot of authority," he declared, "but it's not God. There won't be a hotel room to be had for love or money for the next two weeks. Roosevelt's death is bringing everybody back to Washington. President Truman is taking over and most officials are too busy to be bothered. Usually, it's not hard to get a hotel room over the week-end but not this time. If you can't get accommodations, phone back here and we'll fix you up with a cot somewhere in the F.B.I. barracks." "Then I'm in the clear, so far as you are concerned," I suggested. Lamb smiled cryptically. "I didn't say that," he remarked, "and it isn't so. We have nothing specific to hold you on, but the Alaska is missing and, if you insist, the President is dead, and you're caught in the middle." "What will it take to get myself cleared?" I asked. Lamb considered. "If you can get O.N.I, off our necks, with a clean bill of health, we'll relax," he admitted. "But I give you twenty-four hours to do it. Admiral Ballister's pretty worked up on this Alaska business, and he wants action." I nodded. "Okay, I'll give it to him," I said. "Okay, Tompkins," he remarked. "It's your funeral. But remember, if you're not cleared in twenty-four hours, we'll be calling you in again and this time we'll give you the works." Luck was with me. I left the F.B.I. and walked up Pennsylvania Avenue to the Willard. As I followed the queue to the registration clerk at the desk I heard the man just ahead of me start to say: "I want to cancel--" "Just a moment, sir," the clerk said, as he picked up the telephone. "Yes, madam? No, I'm sorry--" I plucked at the man's sleeve. "Don't cancel, if it's for tonight," I said, "Here's a hundred," and I held out two fifty dollar bills. The man nodded. "Okay, buddy," he agreed, pocketing the money. "The name's R. L. Grant of Detroit." "Name, please," the clerk asked. "R. L. Grant of Detroit," I answered. "I have a reservation." "Right," he said. "Lucky for you you wired a week ago. Here you are, Mr. Grant. Please register." CHAPTER 16 After lunch--which was poor, slow and expensive--I screwed up my courage and telephoned the Office of Strategic Services. "May I speak to Mrs. Jacklin?" I asked the switch-board girl. She promptly referred me to Information, who told me that Mrs. Dorothy Jacklin was on Extension 3046, shall-I-connect you? A moment later a pleasant voice said, "Yes? This is Mrs. Jacklin." "Mrs. Jacklin," I told my wife, "my name is Tompkins, W. S. Tompkins. I have a message for you from Commander Jacklin." "Oh," she said. It was not a question. "Are you a friend of Frank's? Is he all right?" "He asked me to see you when I got to Washington and gave me some special messages for you. I'm staying at the Willard. Are you free for cocktails or dinner this evening?"