The Matlock Paper [antikvár]

Loring walked out the side entrance of the Justice Department and looked for a taxi. It was nearly five thirty, a spring Friday, and the congestion in the Washington streets was awful. Loring stood by the curb and held up his left hand, hoping for the best. He was about to abandon the effort when a cab that had picked up a fare thirty feet down the block stopped in front of him."Going east, mister? It's O.K. This gentleman said he wouldn't mind."Loring was always embarrassed when these incidents occurred. He unconsciously drew back his right forearm, allowing his sleeve to cover as much of his hand as possibleto conceal the thin black chain looped around his wrist, locked to the briefcase handle."Thanks, anyway. I'm^ heading south at the next comer."He waited imtil the taxi reentered the flow of traffic and then resumed his futile signaling.Usually, under such conditions, his mind was alert, his feelings competitive. He would normally dart his eyes in both directions, ferreting out cabs about to disgorge passengers, watching the corners for those dimly lit roof signs that meant this particular vehicle was for hire if you ran fast enough.