He broke the law. He would take his medicine. He would not mention that he was a fellow Police Officer, in the faint hope that he could beat the ticket. That way, there was a chance that it would not come to Staff Inspector Wohl’s attention that on his very first day on the job, he had been arrested for racing down I-95 somewhere between eighty and eighty-five miles per hour.
He stopped and went into the glove compartment for the vehicle registration certificate. The glove compartment was absolutely empty. Matt had a sudden, very clear, mental image of the vehicle registration. It, together with the bill of sale and the title and the other paperwork, was in the upper right-hand drawer of the chest of drawers in his room in the house in Wallingford.
He glanced in the mirror and saw that both Highway Patrolmen had gotten out of the car and were approaching his. He hurriedly dug his wallet from his trousers and got out of the car.
First one, and then three more cars in the outer lane flashed past him, so close and so fast that he was genuinely frightened. He walked to the back of the car and extended his driver’s license to one of the Highway Patrolmen.
“I don’t seem to have the registration with me,” Matt said.
“You were going at least eighty,” the patrolman said. “You had it up to eighty-five.”
“Guilty,” Matt said, wanly.
“You mind if we examine the interior of your car, sir?” the other Highway Patrolman said. Matt turned his head to look at him; he was at the passenger-side window, looking inside.
“No, not at all,” Matt said, obligingly. “Help yourself.”
He turned to face the Highway Patrolman who had his driver’s license.
“My registration is home,” Matt said.
“This your address, 3906 Walnut?”
“No, sir,” Matt said. “Actually, I just moved. I now live on Rittenhouse Square.”
“Look what I got!” the other Highway Patrolman said.
Matt turned to look. The other Highway Patrolman was holding Matt’s service revolver and his shoulder holster in his hand.
He didn’t get a really good look. He felt himself being suddenly spun around, and felt his feet being kicked out from under him, and then a strong shove against his back. Just in time, he managed to get his hands out in front of him, so that he didn’t fall, face first, against the Porsche.
“Don’t move!” the Highway Patrolman behind him said.
He felt hands moving over his body, around his chest, his waist, between his legs, and then down first one leg and then the other.
“He’s got another one!” the Highway Patrolman said, pulling Matt’s right trousers leg up, and then jerking the Chief’s Special from the ankle holster.
“I can explain this,” Matt said.
“Good,” the Highway Patrolman said.
Matt felt himself being jerked around again. A hand found his belt and pulled him erect. A handcuff went around his right wrist, and then his right arm was pulled behind him. His left arm was pulled behind him, and he felt the other half of the handcuff snapping in place. Then he was spun around.
“Have you a permit to carried concealed weapons, sir?” the Highway Patrolman said.
“I’m a policeman,” Matt said.
“This one’s brand new,” the second Highway Patrolman said, shaking the cartridges from the Undercover revolver into his palm.
“I just bought it today,” Matt said.
“You were saying you’re a policeman?” the Highway Patrolman asked.
“That’s right,” Matt said.
“Where do you work? Who’s your Lieutenant?”
“Special Operations,” Matt said. “I work for Inspector Wohl.”