May 30th, 1929
It was late in the afternoon when I heard the passenger elevator clang open in the hallway. I went under the drape in the front room in time to see the door of the suite opening. A bellhop came in, followed by a Negro porter with two big suitcases. Next in was a Negro in a chauffeur’s uniform carrying a smaller suitcase and a briefcase. J. Edgar Hoover entered last.
I recognized him from a photograph in a Washington Post article that I had found at the library. It was a long story about a wonderful 34-year-old man from the hometown who had risen like a star in the Federal Government, having been appointed as the permanent Director of the Investigations Bureau of the United States Department of Justice. Folks in Washington, apparently, thought J. Edgar Hoover was terrific.
It was from that article that I learned that he had gone to a military high school in Washington D.C. and also to a college in Washington D.C. and to a night school to become a lawyer. His tailored suit was cut a bit tightly, almost like a cadet's uniform. He was trim, compact and controlled. He had dark, arched eyebrows and large, wide-set eyes that dominated his face. He handed a coin to the bellhop, another to the porter, and sent them on their way.
I was not concerned that he would see the four holes in the wall. I had put two in each room: one at eye level for me to watch and a second at waist height through which the cameras, positioned on little shelves, were aimed. The holes were concealed behind one-way, mirrored glass set in custom-made frames of ordinary wall mirrors. On my side, the thick drapery hanging over the spy stations would prevent light from shining through the one-way glass into Hoover’s room at night. I had installed false heating registers, two in each room, near the ceiling, so that I could hear.
“Let's just get unpacked, Pierre, and you'll be done for the day,” he said to the chauffeur. “Is your sister expecting you?” I had no trouble hearing what he was saying.
“I expect so,” said the man. “I sent her a letter. Then, this afternoon, before we left D.C., I sent her a telegram. I said I'd be stopping by whenever I was done for the day.”
They went into the bedroom of Suite 1200 -- I followed into the bedroom of The Blind. Through the spy hole, I watched them transfer clothes from two of the suitcases into closets and dressers. “I take it your sister doesn't have a telephone,” Hoover said. “What if I should need you?”
“I can give you her address, I guess. If you really need me, you could find me there. Otherwise, I'll just come by tomorrow morning. What time?” He scribbled an address on a piece of hotel stationery.
Hoover looked at the sheet of paper when it was handed to him, clearly unhappy with the idea that his man would not be within hailing distance. “Just leave it on the desk. Give me a call from the lobby tomorrow at eight o'clock,” he said. With that, the man named Pierre left Hoover's rooms....
I watched Hoover hoist the third suitcase onto the bed, insert a key, and unlock the latches. He carefully removed a large sheet of tissue paper, lifted a pair of lady's bloomers and held them at arm’s length to admire them.
I pulled out from under the dark curtain. It was one thing to think about invading a person’s privacy, as I had been doing for more than a month. Doing it, I had just learned, was a different matter. I returned to my chair by the window, lit a cigarette and reconsidered my approach to the job. I really did not want to look anymore -- I wanted to take a long, hot bath.
It was late in the afternoon when I heard the passenger elevator clang open in the hallway. I went under the drape in the front room in time to see the door of the suite opening. A bellhop came in, followed by a Negro porter with two big suitcases. Next in was a Negro in a chauffeur’s uniform carrying a smaller suitcase and a briefcase. J. Edgar Hoover entered last.
I recognized him from a photograph in a Washington Post article that I had found at the library. It was a long story about a wonderful 34-year-old man from the hometown who had risen like a star in the Federal Government, having been appointed as the permanent Director of the Investigations Bureau of the United States Department of Justice. Folks in Washington, apparently, thought J. Edgar Hoover was terrific.
It was from that article that I learned that he had gone to a military high school in Washington D.C. and also to a college in Washington D.C. and to a night school to become a lawyer. His tailored suit was cut a bit tightly, almost like a cadet's uniform. He was trim, compact and controlled. He had dark, arched eyebrows and large, wide-set eyes that dominated his face. He handed a coin to the bellhop, another to the porter, and sent them on their way.
I was not concerned that he would see the four holes in the wall. I had put two in each room: one at eye level for me to watch and a second at waist height through which the cameras, positioned on little shelves, were aimed. The holes were concealed behind one-way, mirrored glass set in custom-made frames of ordinary wall mirrors. On my side, the thick drapery hanging over the spy stations would prevent light from shining through the one-way glass into Hoover’s room at night. I had installed false heating registers, two in each room, near the ceiling, so that I could hear.
“Let's just get unpacked, Pierre, and you'll be done for the day,” he said to the chauffeur. “Is your sister expecting you?” I had no trouble hearing what he was saying.
“I expect so,” said the man. “I sent her a letter. Then, this afternoon, before we left D.C., I sent her a telegram. I said I'd be stopping by whenever I was done for the day.”
They went into the bedroom of Suite 1200 -- I followed into the bedroom of The Blind. Through the spy hole, I watched them transfer clothes from two of the suitcases into closets and dressers. “I take it your sister doesn't have a telephone,” Hoover said. “What if I should need you?”
“I can give you her address, I guess. If you really need me, you could find me there. Otherwise, I'll just come by tomorrow morning. What time?” He scribbled an address on a piece of hotel stationery.
Hoover looked at the sheet of paper when it was handed to him, clearly unhappy with the idea that his man would not be within hailing distance. “Just leave it on the desk. Give me a call from the lobby tomorrow at eight o'clock,” he said. With that, the man named Pierre left Hoover's rooms....
I watched Hoover hoist the third suitcase onto the bed, insert a key, and unlock the latches. He carefully removed a large sheet of tissue paper, lifted a pair of lady's bloomers and held them at arm’s length to admire them.
I pulled out from under the dark curtain. It was one thing to think about invading a person’s privacy, as I had been doing for more than a month. Doing it, I had just learned, was a different matter. I returned to my chair by the window, lit a cigarette and reconsidered my approach to the job. I really did not want to look anymore -- I wanted to take a long, hot bath.