.

nod. “Yes, Mister . . . ?”

      “Baker, sir. Roy Baker. I work for Eames and Young.”

      Those were the architects from St. Louis.

      “Yes, Mr. Baker. Yes, I know all about solitary.” His finger slid across the blueprint.

      “That’s the hospital.” The man took charge, showing Fallon the planned powerhouse, the quarantine unit, a maintenance shop, laundry, a proposed shoe factory—Fallon knew all about those, too—and something Mr. Roy Baker of Eames & Young called “Industries.” Fallon really didn’t know what Industries would be, unless another place for slave labor.

      “That’s all there is, sir. That’s all a prison needs.” He grinned at his own joke.

      “Very good, Mr. Baker,” Fallon said, and looked at the young man. “What do you suppose we’re missing?”

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      Roy Baker blinked repeatedly, looked at the blueprint, frowned, adjusted his eyeglasses, leaned closer, ran his finger all across the design, and finally, lifted his gaze, then the rest of his body, and cleared his throat.

      “I don’t see anything missing, sir.”

      Fallon nodded. “How about . . . guard towers?”

      The man pushed back his bowler and looked at the blue print.

      “Ummm . . .” he started.

      Fallon used his finger for effect. He had always been a pretty good jabber. “Corners, obviously. There. There. There. And here. You’ll want another here, in front of this gate. Not on top of the gate. About”—his finger moved—“here.”

      The architect, construction supervisor, foreman, whatever Roy Baker called himself, swallowed, and looked at the blueprint.

      “Mr. Baker,” Fallon said, authority in his voice now, not the bemused tone of an attorney ridiculing a witness. “Don’t you think you’d better mark these down?”

      The young man’s face paled. “Without . . . without sending a telegraph to Mr. Eames or Mr. Young?”

      “Mr. Eames and Mr. Young aren’t the wardens of this United States Penitentiary, young man. I am.” Now the man’s face revealed complete fear. “But when we are done, after you have put in the guard towers, you might want to send a telegraph to whoever is doing your job at the prison being built in Atlanta, Georgia. I don’t know how the warden there wants to run his prison, but I suspect he’d like guard towers in Atlanta, too.”

      Fallon made one final stab with his finger. “And a guard tower here, at the front gate. But far enough from the wall.” Fallon waited until Mr. Baker made the necessary adjustments—improvements—to the plan. Then he saw someone he was looking for and excused himself.

      * * *