"Honey, I'm told by Izzy that Bury is Rockecenter's right arm. Rockecenter trusts him completely."

"That proves it," said the Countess Krak. "Bury is hiding the real heir to the Rockecenter empire. You can be as logical as you want. But my intuition tells me that is the way it is. It just makes no sense at all for Bury to want to kill my Jettero just because he thought he was Delbert John Rockecenter, Junior. It makes my blood absolutely seethe to think of it!"

"Wait a minute," said Heller. "There is no emperor. There is no crown prince."

"Hmm," said the Countess Krak.

"My dearest," said Jettero, "I can tell you are thinking about something. Hear me. Those are VERY dangerous men. You keep away from them. Promise me?"

"Hmm," said the Countess Krak.

"Listen," said Heller. "One of the reasons I brought you to lunch here is because they are having an exhibit of illustrations of imaginary spacecraft. Covers of magazines called 'science fiction.' And they have movie models of what they think spacecraft look like. Some UFOs, too. I'm sure you will be very intrigued. Some of

the artists have painted things that really do look like spaceships. And I want to check them to see if our own craft ever get spotted. I'm sure you will be fascinated. It's right on the ground floor in the temporary exhibits. And stop worrying your pretty head about the heirs of emperors who don't exist."

"Hmm," said the Countess Krak. She tagged along but I could tell her mind was not on it.

I needed no additional evidence to harden my firm resolve to act. But what had just passed between them, in fact, left me no alternative.

It was as plain as day to me that the Countess Krak was now intent on killing Bury and blowing up Pokan-tickle Estate at Hairytown, to say nothing of the Octopus Oil Building at Rockecenter Plaza. She was DANGEROUS!

As she drifted through the exhibits in front of Hel­ler, 1 chose several spots in her unprotected back where a lethal bullet could finish this.

I glanced at my watch.

I was almost late in seeing Razza.

I HAD TO GET THAT SNIPER ON THE JOB QUICK!

Razza Louseini, consigliere of the capo di tutti capi, Faustino "The Noose" Narcotici, sat imperially at his desk awaiting me.

"Now," he said with great satisfaction, "we can get those God (bleeped) computers straightened out."

Into the waiting hand of the accountant who was standing by his desk, I counted out two thousand hard-earned dollars. I was given a receipt and the man rushed off to untangle the accounts department computer brains before they sold Manhattan back to the Indians.

"And now," said Razza, the scar that connected his mouth with his left ear taking on a peculiar corkscrew look, "here is your hit man." He was extending a white card that had a black hand in the upper corner.

"Wait," I said. "Don't I just go down to Personnel and have them call the man and send him to me?"

"Look at the card," said Razza.

I did. The middle finger of the silhouette was extended higher than the rest-the Italian symbolism for "up your (bleep)" or "you been (bleeped)."

Never trust the Mafia!"You haven't kept your bargain!" I yelped.

"Oh, yes, I have," said Razza. "But the way you got the last two snipers wasted, nobody here has any confidence in you. Bad planning or you just shot them yourself for kicks. Turn the card over and you'll see an address. Take the card there, present it and you'll have your hit man. You can make your own arrangements, buy his insurance and, probably, bury him or not as you please."

"Wait," I said. "Something tells me there's some­thing wrong with this guy."

"Well, frankly," said Razza, "there is. He's such a dirty, rotten (bleepard), nobody will hire him anymore unless they are so God (bleeped) mad at the victim they want something awful done. Lawyers won't hire him anymore. He's got a twist. Filthy."

"What's this hit man do?" I said, startled. If somebody was too bad for the Mafia it must be pretty awful.

"Find out for yourself," said Razza.

"But I have to have somebody who can shoot straight and will kill."

"Oh, he'll do that, all right. It's how he does it that turns your stomach. But there's your hit man, Inkswitch. Exactly as agreed. And if you get this one wasted, you'll be a (bleeping) hero. So good-bye, Inkswitch, good-bye."

The address was way out in Queens and I rode endlessly on subways getting there. The neighborhood had not ever seen better times: it had been built originally in total decay. The house was on a side street and apparently part of it was rented out. I picked my way over a broken walk, I walked up some broken stairs, I rang a broken bell.

My presence had been detected. With a yank which almost blew my hat off, the broken door burst open.

An enormous woman was standing there. She had a mustache like a cavalry sergeant. She glared. I gave her the card defensively. She looked at it and then swept me into the hall with it and closed the door.

"So you want to see my no-good, worthless son, do you? You'll find him in the basement with the rest of the rats."

I don't like rats. I said, "Can't you ask him to come up so I can talk to him?"

"Blood of Christ, no! He's hiding out!"

"From the police?"

"The rotten filth isn't even that respectable. Bill collectors! Every day, bill collectors! I can't look out a window I don't see bill collectors! But will he go out and get a decent job? No. Will he support his poor old mother that suffered to bring him into the world? No. All he do

is hide in that basement! So what the Mafia want with him now? I thought they through with him and good rea­son."

I was a bit staggered by this huge monster. I said, timidly, "I may have a job for him. Then he can pay his bills."

"Hah! You give him money, he no pay his bills. He go out and philander. Just like his no-good, rotten father that's joined the angels, God rest his rotten, stinking soul! Philander, philander, philander, that's all he good for, the filth. I beat him and beat him. I bring him up right. But he got rotten, putrid blood in him. The blood of his rotten, putrid, no-good father! So you give him a job. He sneak out and blow the money. But he can't get out. The bill collectors!"

"What are these bills?"

"The God (bleeped) hospital. Five hundred dollars a day they throw away saving his worthless life. Oh, I sneak him out when I hear but not in time. He owe $4,900 already! And just a lousy auto accident! He got enough sense to get shot like his no-good father? No! He's got to get himself in an auto accident and he hasn't even got the sense to get himself killed."

I had an inspiration. "I could give you the money and you could pay the bills and then he could work for me."

"I don't take no blood money! You think I want blood money on my soul when I go to my final reward? Any bills paid, you pay."

"Well, let me talk to him, at least," I said.

"On your responsibility, not mine. I'll be no party to the rotten things he does. You want to talk to him, go down through that door. And if you want to shoot him, I close my ears."

I went down some dusty, grimy stairs into a dusty, grimy basement. Back of a dusty, grimy furnace, on a dusty, grimy bed, lay a man with penitentiary stamped all over him.

He was cowering back, holding a double-barrelled leopard trained on my chest!

TORPEDO FIACCOLA! The sniper Bury had used to try to hit Heller at the Brewster Hotel, the very hood that Heller had sent crashing off the Elevated Highway last fall. Oh, this was good! He'd have a grudge to settle!

"Hello, Torpedo," I said.

His gray face went grayer. "How come you know me? I don't know you."

"I saw you working for Mr. Bury," I said.

"Jesus!" he said. "Don't tell Bury where to find me. He thinks I falsified the evidence and collected the hit money without making that contract! I didn't! The (bleepard) trapped me and must have collected it himself. And believe me, if I knew where to find him, I'd hit him for nothing! The (bleeper) didn't even carry out the threat to waste my mother!"