He yawned — another nervous symptom. He looked at the toll gate area. Not one car had come through it in all the time he had been sitting there!

“So,” he said, “no Slinkerton!”

Then it came to me in a flash what he had been up to. The Fleet must have battle tactics and he was practicing one of them. He had invited pursuit to lay an ambush. But he had no weapon, so he had probably done it because of training conditioning triggered by mounting nervous tension.

That must have been it, for he now started up the Cadillac, doubtlessly disappointed that his ruse had not worked, drove through the complexity of exits and entrances to the turnpike, got another fare ticket and was shortly on his way, rolling once more northeastward.

The traffic was quite heavy, and with all those trucks weaving in and out trying to pass each other, any normal driver would have felt he had his hands full. But Heller was taking time out now and then to read a story about “Economic Chaos Just Down the Road According to Financial Experts of Merrill Bull, Inc.”

This expert watching him knew that the chaos which was down his road was not only economic! The lamb to slaughter had a better chance, in my opinion, than this idiot!

At 4:20 that afternoon, Heller arrived at the rendezvous. He had dawdled along, stopping often, but he was still ten minutes early.

He parked the Cadillac carelessly in the higgledy-piggledy lot and made his way through the turmoil of tired kids and savage fathers and mothers that usually populate such temporary stop areas on a turnpike.

He made his way into the restaurant and was shortly seated at a table. He looked around.

I froze! Directly across the room from him was a dimly familiar face. Heller’s glance passed over it but not mine! I mastered my nerves and, using the second screen, got back to that view, stilled.

The face was very Sicilian in bone structure. It was deeply pockmarked. A knife scar ran from the corner of the mouth straight back to the bottom of the left ear. The eyes were reptilian. My memory for faces is unsurpassed. But I could not place him.

Hastily, I yanked a camera from a shelf and, excluding the edges of the screen, got a close-up of that face! Rapidly, I stripped out the finished picture and, working very fast, blew it down onto Earth-type paper.

Keeping an eye on the current screen, I saw a tall, gray-haired man walk up to the Sicilian. The Sicilian showed the gray-haired man something he held cupped in his palm. A photo? Then he nodded almost imperceptibly toward Heller.

The Sicilian was acting as the finger man!

The gray-haired man drew back and idled against the wall. He was wearing a bowler. He was impeccably dressed, a three-piece suit, the vest of which was gray. He was wearing pince-nez glasses connected to his lapel with a black ribbon. He was also carrying an umbrella.

Heller ordered, got and ate a hamburger and washed it down with Seven Up. He was picking up his check when the gray-haired man approached him.

With a touch of a finger to his bowler, the gray-haired man said, “I am Buttlesby, young master. Mr. Bury wanted to be sure you were safely met. I am to show you where to go. If you are ready, may we go?” Very courteous English accent, the perfect fake family retainer.

Heller simply got up, paid his check and followed Buttlesby out.

The Sicilian passed them and, when they reached the parking lot, was getting into another car.

Buttlesby opened the door of the Cadillac for Heller and helped him get under the wheel. Then Buttlesby went around and got into the passenger seat.

“If you please,” said Buttlesby, “proceed on up the turnpike. I will show you the turns.”

Behind them, Heller saw the Sicilian’s car was following them but after that he seemed to give it no heed.

“We will be leaving your car in a garage in Weehawken,” said Buttlesby.

“Why?” said Heller.

“Oh, dear,” said Buttlesby. “Absolutely no one ever drives across the river into New York! Heaven forbid! The Manhattan traffic positively devours cars, bangs them all up, ruins them. Anyone who is sensible leaves his car on the New Jersey side of the river and takes a taxi into New York. And in New York one uses taxis.” He laughed slightly. “Let the taxis take the buffeting. Your car will be perfectly safe in the New Jersey garage.”

Heller drove along in silence.

Buttlesby began to talk again. “Mr. Bury is dreadfully sorry, but he is detained in town. He has arranged for the young gentleman to stay at the Brewster Hotel on 22nd Street. Here is the hotel card.” And he tucked it into Heller’s outside breast pocket.

“Mr. Bury was very specific. The young gentleman is expected. He is not to register under his own name but, like any young gentleman, is to register incognito. It’s what all the young bloods do when they go for a fling in town.

“Mr. Bury will call on you in person at precisely eight o’clock tomorrow morning at your hotel. He asked me to reassure you that you are perfectly safe, that no one is the least bit cross with you and that everyone has your best interests at heart. So, you will wait for him at the hotel?”

“Sure,” said Heller.

The idiot! That would be the site of the hit! Or would it be even sooner?

Buttlesby directing, they left the turnpike and went with signs pointing to the Lincoln Tunnel. But at a sign, J. F. Kennedy Blvd., they turned off and were soon in the New Jersey town of Weehawken, a very shabby place.

They rolled along to 34th Street and the fake family retainer gave more directions and shortly they were on the ramp of a large but dingy building, a garage.

The escort got out, rapped on the door three times and then twice with the handle of his umbrella and in a moment the huge mechanical door swung up, revealing a vast, dark interior.

A rather overweight young man with huge, somewhat scared eyes, dressed in paint-spattered khaki coveralls, was standing there, pointing.

Heller drove in the direction of the point.

The floor was paint-spattered. There were some battered machines evidently used in body work. But there were no other cars there.

Way back at the end there was an area cleaner than the rest and no paint spatters. Heller stopped the car.

He got out and opened up the back. Buttlesby was there helping with the baggage — he couldn’t manage all of it and Heller carried one suitcase.

The plump young man had his hand out. “The keys,” he said. “We maybe got to move it.”

Heller separated the keys and for the first time I noticed there were two sets on the ring. And then the idiot handed one set over to the young man.

They went outside and there was a taxi waiting! The driver had his cap down, possibly to hide his face. Buttlesby got the baggage into the cab and stood back, holding the door open for Heller to enter. Heller got in but Buttlesby didn’t.

“Aren’t you going with me?” said Heller.

“Oh, dear no. Cross into Manhattan when I don’t have to? Dreadful place. They ruin cars. Someone will be by to pick me up directly. Driver, take this young gentleman to the Brewster Hotel on 22nd Street. And no accidents, mind you.”

The cab drew away and behind them the Sicilian drove up and Buttlesby got in the Sicilian’s battered old car.

Shortly they were in the Lincoln Tunnel and Heller seemed more interested in the tile work that was flying by than he was in being en route to the hit spot.

As they exited from under the river, his eyes were all over the place, taking in New York. He seemed to be remarking about the fenders. And it is true that New York City fenders are the most bashed fenders in the world. He looked at dents rolling beside them and dents parked at curbs and possibly he was satisfied with Buttlesby’s explanation. I wasn’t. Bury had successfully separated the alleged Delbert John Rockecenter, Junior, from a car link that would lead back to the FBI.