When I arrived in Washington, I called the number Sebring had given me.
“Meet us at the Café Montpelier. It’s on the lobby floor of the Madison Arms. Every cab driver knows where it is.”
“Us?”
“My brother will be joining us. Didn’t I mention that?”
“No, you didn’t, but no matter. I’ll see you shortly.”
An hour later—traffic being what it was—my cab driver dropped me off in front of the Madison Arms, which was an elegant hotel with a brick and glass facade. I pushed through the revolving doors and stopped at the front desk.
“Checking in, sir?”
“No, I’m meeting some colleagues in the Café. May I leave my luggage here?”
He started to refuse my request, when my name was hailed.
“Trevalyan. You can’t keep your suitcases with you. Douglas, do you mind if he leaves them behind the front
