He walked across what must have once been a polished dance floor, for he kicked off his spikes before he stepped on it.

He picked another lock and opened an inner door. The bar! A long piece of mahogany, little else in the way of furniture. He examined a broken mirror—a bullet hole.

There were other rooms—private party rooms and what once might have been overdecorated bedrooms. The kitchen had a big, wood-burning range—a rat had made a nest in the firebox, exiting and entering through the chimney.

The back door was also armor plate. And every outside window was bulletproof!

Heller found an office. The desk was still there. The papers were browned with age. He looked through them. Forty cases here and eighty there and an IOU for five hundred. One wondered if it had ever been paid.

There were framed photographs on the wall. Some were autographed with age-browned ink. To Toots, Jimmy Walker said one of a handsome young man. Jimmy Walker? The famous New York mayor?

Another attracted his attention. It was a lineup of stiffly standing young men. Four of them. They were holding submachine guns! Heller was reading the name signed under each one. Joe Corleone! He was second from the right. He looked like a kid of twenty!

Heller took a Voltar camera out of his bag, focused in just on Joe Corleone and shot a copy, including the signature. Then he shot one of all four of them.

Ghosts indeed! "Holy Joe" had been pushing eighty-eight when he died. But he was a ghost now with all the rest of this roadhouse and this era.

Now Heller must have considered that he had amused himself enough. He began to move very fast. He took a metal bar from his pack and with great rapidity began to tap walls and floors. I knew enough about him now to know that he was echo-sounding. He must be looking for hidden rooms.

He found one. When he also found its entrance, it was just a closet.

He went on.

Then he trotted outside and began to hit the ground. He gave that up.

He got out a little meter and started to walk all around the house. He got a read. He stopped. He crisscrossed an area. He got more reads.

Heller must have worked it all out. He went straight to the bar and took soundings with his meter. It was the far end of the bar.

Using some oil, he shortly had a hinge working. The whole end of the bar slid aside and he was looking down some steps.

He went down.

He was in a cavern!

He walked along a tunnel and then shined a light down a shaft. If there had ever been any ladder there, it was gone now.

He examined the walls. "Granite," he muttered. Eventually he found some chiseled letters. They said:

Issiah Slocum Hys Myne 1689

Heller examined some more galleries. He found some white quartz. He put it in his pocket.

There were the rotted remains of wooden cases in some of the galleries. The bootleggers had been using the mine to hide their hooch! And that's what had happened to the "lost mine" of Goldmine Creek!

Heller locked the place back up but he used his own padlock on the front door. A massive lock! He wasn't learning that much from G-2. The brand-new padlock stood out with its gleaming brass!

He jumped into his car and, taking it easy, got back to the main road and ran along at normal speed back toward the town. He passed the speed trap once more. The sheriff's men were half-asleep.

Heller went into a restaurant. It was a nice place. It had a phone kiosk in its waiting room. Heller went into the phone booth. He dialed a number. Izzy answered.

"On target," said Heller. "It's A-okay!" My, he was getting slangy! With great rapidity he read off the data he had gotten at the courthouse, gave the realtor's name but added, "Not active in deal but send commission for PR value."

"Right," said Izzy. "Same corporate status as planned?"

"Right," said Heller. "Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, Limited, of Maysabongo. My number here is..." and he gave it.

Heller went out of the phone booth and went to a table. He sat down. A waitress came. "I'm afraid it's early for lunch. The stuffed shrimp won't be ready yet."

"Good," said Heller. "Five hamburgers, five Seven Ups."

I had expected there would be trouble with his black face. But he was in New England. The girl brought one hamburger and one Seven Up.

Heller ate and drank them.

The girl brought the next serving, one hamburger, one Seven Up. They were doing them one at a time! Nice place.

Heller got a paper and read it.

All the hamburgers and Seven Ups were gone and he topped it with a chocolate sundae.

The phone in the booth rang. Heller went over and answered.

Izzy's voice. "John Smith has been in a federal pen for years. He got life for negligence of bribery of J. Edgar Hoover. His mistress held on to the place for sentimental reasons but she died last year. Smith was going to let the place go for taxes as he had no way to pay them. I just phoned him and he's overjoyed. So's the warden as he's going to sell Smith a new cell. It's yours."

"Thank you," said Heller.

"Mr. Jet," said Izzy. "Don't get in any trouble, please. Connecticut is way out in the wilds. They may still have Indians there."

"Thanks for the warning," said Heller.

He paid his bill with a liberal tip and went out and jumped into his cab.

He turned north again, on the same highway.

And then, despite all Izzy had warned him of, Heller opened that cab up to eighty miles an hour!

He went scorching up that road.

And just before he came in sight of the speed trap, he started the cab weaving!

And just at the trap itself he veered onto the verge in a cloud of dust, shot back onto the road, went off the other side and came back on the highway!

Then he slowed to forty!

The crazy fool!

That sheriff's car came out of the trap like a fish leaping from the water after a mayfly!

Its lights went on. Its chortle racketed!

It came screaming up the road after him!

Heller went ahead just fast enough to keep a distance. But I knew that cab couldn't outrun a police car! It was geared down for sudden maneuvering!

The pursuer was almost upon him.

Heller skidded the cab to the left and plunged off the edge of the road!

He was on the same track he had been over before!

The old car bumped and lurched and swayed! It darted around trees! It swept along over the tops of weeds! It was heading toward the old roadhouse! Did Heller intend to fort up and shoot it out? What was he up to?

In the rearview mirror he caught glimpses of the police car. It was having very heavy weather of it. Heller slowed down!

Ahead was the grove which held the building.

Behind was the chortling, raving, flashing police car!

Ten yards short of the nearest trees, in an open area, Heller suddenly stopped!

He got out!

He tossed some sort of a folder on the front seat.

He adjusted his mustache.

On the left side of the cab, he planted his feet wide apart.

He put his hands out and leaned forward to support his body against the car roof. He was assuming the classic frisk position.

With one last slither and bounce the police car jolted to a stop behind the cab. The chortling ceased with a dying snarl.

A deputy sheriff leaped out each side, guns drawn.

They stopped.

They looked around warily.

One walked up to Heller and began to frisk him.

Almost instantly he struck pay dirt!

He swept aside the tail of Heller's coat. There was a jerk. The deputy sheriff stepped around into Heller's view.

He was holding that gold damascene Llama .45!

"Ralph!" said the deputy. "Jesus Christ, look at this piece of jewelry!"

"What the hell is it?" said the other, coming closer.