The erratic “tour” was certainly not the scheduled public tour, even to the point of Maulin shouldering through a couple of small mobs of sightseers to show Heller something of special interest.

They finally came to the “Ten Most Wanted Fugitives” and Heller got an education on how people were spotted and traced. And how the FBI never, never failed to find them every time.

Shortly, Maulin had him back for an out-of-sequence look at the gangsters of the 1930s. “Now,” he said, “here were the real gangsters. They weren’t the cream puffs you find around today. They were really, really gangsters. And you got no idea how hard it was to catch them. But Hoover solved all that.”

Maulin pointed at a death mask and a display of photos. “Now, take Dillinger there. He never had any record at all. Just one minor charge. But Hoover made him a famous man.”

He got around in front of Heller and wagged a huge finger at him. “Hoover had the greatest imagination in history. He used to dream up,” said Maulin proudly, “the God (bleepest) dossiers for people. Total inventions! Right off the top of his head. Pure genius! And then he could go out and shoot them down! In a blaze of glorious gunfire! A master craftsman! He taught us how and we are left with the heavy responsibility of carrying on this magnificent tradition!”

Heller waved his hand to include all of the most advertised criminals in history. “He got all these the same way?”

“Every one,” said Maulin proudly. “And he included the general public, too, so don’t think this is complete.”

“Hey,” said Heller. “There’s a really vicious one!” He was pointing.

Maulin blew up. “God (bleep) it, kid, that’s HOOVER!”

He was so upset that he simply stalked off. Heller clickety-clacked along behind him. Then, fitting his mood, Maulin went down some stairs and shoved Heller through another door. It was a firing range!

I was apprehensive. I knew they were up to something. I hoped it wouldn’t include shooting Heller on the premises!

There were targets at the other end of the room and guns and ear protectors on the counter. I held my breath. I prayed to Heller not to get any notion of grabbing a gun and shooting his way out of the building.

“Where’s the agent that does the public demonstrations?” demanded Maulin of an old man that was cleaning some guns.

“Hey? Oh, there ain’t any more public demonstrations today.”

Maulin socked some ear clamps on Heller and picked up a gun. He fired a round at the targets and it seemed to make him feel better. He turned to Heller. “You’ve classified on revolvers, of course.”

“I’ve never shot one of those,” said Heller.

“Military school!” snorted Maulin. “I knew all they taught was to tat and knit.” But he proceeded to instruct Heller. “This is a Colt .457 Magnum revolver. A shot from it will go through a motor block and then some.” And he showed Heller how to swing its cylinder, inspect it, load and unload it, and even how to carry it. Then he picked up a Colt U.S. Army .45 and showed Heller all about that.

Maulin looked at his watch and frowned. Obviously he had to delay Heller longer. “Tell you what, Junior. I’ll give you a little demonstration of real marksmanship. Now, first, I take a look at a wanted poster here. And then several targets jump up and I have to select which one is the wanted man and put a bullet in his heart. If I shoot the wrong man, I get another chance.”

He picked up a poster, glanced at it. He drew his own gun. He had the technician push some buttons. Face after face popped up. Maulin fired. He shot the wrong man.

“I told you to see an eye doctor, Maulin,” said the old man.

“Shut up,” said Maulin. “Hit the buttons again.” He gripped the butt of the gun with both hands. He sighted carefully. He shot the right man.

“Here, Junior. You try it. You’ll see it ain’t so easy.”

Gods, all Heller had to do was shoot the two of them and walk out. In the spot he was in, it was the textbook solution.

Heller looked at a wanted poster and put it down. The targets popped up. Heller fired and hit the right man, dead center. Nothing marvelous for a Fleet blast-gun expert.

“No, no, no,” said Maulin. “Jesus. Don’t ever pull a trigger before you raise the gun to eye level. But I don’t blame you for being nervous. And don’t get cocky about accidental hits. They don’t happen in real battles. Now hold the gun in both hands, spread your feet apart to get steadiness. Now sight carefully down the barrel. Good. Now we’ll give you another chance. Hit the buttons, Murphy.”

Heller with great pains did exactly as he was told. He hit the right target dead center.

“There, you see?” said Maulin. “That’s what happens when you get good instruction. Now you want to try this Army Colt?”

Heller fired an assortment of weapons and finally, with a sigh of relief, Maulin, looking at his watch, said, “It’s time we went back to my office.” They left but Maulin used the whole long route to lecture Heller about the power and majesty and total world dominance of the FBI. It was just an act to cover up what they really intended. For I knew that, by now, whatever trap they were party to had been arranged.

Maulin, puffing a bit from his exhaustive lecture on the glories of the FBI, had no more than entered his office when Stupewitz’s phone rang. Maulin pointed to a chair and used the hand signal with which they order dogs to sit down and rushed to answer.

I didn’t need to turn up the gain. “Maulin here,” he bawled. Then, in an extremely polite tone of voice he said, “It’s all right to tell me. I am Agent Stupewitz’s partner. I think he gave you my name.” Then he grabbed a pad and started to write. Finally he said, “Yes, Mr. Bury. It’s all under control here… Oh, he’s fine, Mr. Bury… No, he hasn’t talked to anybody else… Yes, Mr. Bury… Yes, Mr. Bury. Thank you, Mr. Bury.” And he hung up.

Stupewitz came in and he and Maulin whispered briefly together. Then they put Heller in a chair with two chairs facing him and Stupewitz turned on a bright light in Heller’s eyes. The two agents sat down.

“Me first,” said Stupewitz. “Junior, we reported to Virginia that a wrecked Cadillac with your license plates was discovered in Maryland. We also said it had a body in it answering your description that was burned beyond recognition. The people concerned did not have your name; the hooker is dead. So you are in the clear. So don’t never mention that incident again and make liars of us. You understand?” he added severely.

The light was blinding Heller. But I suddenly realized with relief they were not interrogating him. They were briefing him! They just didn’t know how to talk to anybody any other way.

“Now, here,” continued Stupewitz, “is your car registration. It now has District of Columbia plates. The motor and body serial numbers have been changed. It is in your name now. We know you were the one who originally paid the dealer for that car, so don’t get the idea we’re doing anything illegal. Got it?”

Heller took the registration. It had a little slip fastened across the top of it that said:

All or any police: In case of contact, call Agents Stupewitz or Maulin only, FBI, D.C.

“We won’t bother with insurance,” continued Stupewitz. “But if you’re in any accidents, with your name you could be sued for your shirt. So drive carefully. No more crazy hundred-mile-an-hour chases. Got it?”

Heller got it.

“Now, here,” said Stupewitz, “is your driver’s license.”

Heller took it and, against the glaring light, saw that it had another little slip on it.

All or any police: In case of contact, call Agents Stupewitz or Maulin only, FBI, D.C.

I suddenly realized what they had done: they had put “tail plates” on the Cadillac. In the computers used by all police departments, if those “tail plates” came up, the reply would read: “This car is under surveillance by the FBI. If spotted, report it to Agents Stupewitz or Maulin, FBI, D.C.” It amounted to the FBI having a continuous tail on him!