“I haven’t!” said Heller.

“Did you use it to the men who met you?”

Aha! Razza Louseini and Buttlesby weren’t in on it! They were just there to escort an anonymous somebody. Mr. Bury had kept this pretty tight!

“No,” said Heller. “No one has used it to me and I haven’t used it to anybody.”

Bury seemed to relax. “Ah, I see I am dealing with a very discreet young man.”

“That you are,” said Heller.

“Do you have the papers?”

“They’re there in my coat.”

Bury got them. He also looked in the pockets. He sat back down.

“Now,” said Bury, “did the FBI copy them?”

“They used them at the phone and they lay on a desk the rest of the time, turned over.”

Bury was becoming more and more pleased. He was almost smiling, if a Wall Street lawyer can ever be said to smile beyond a tiny twitch of the mouth corners. “And you have no more copies?”

“Search the place,” said Heller. “There’s my jacket and there are my baseball clothes and there are my grips.”

Bury got up again and looked through the sports clothes. He was looking for labels! I had more than an inkling of what was intended now.

The lawyer got to the grips. He got tangled up in fish line and then snagged a finger on a bass plug. He drew back cautiously and peeked at the contents.

The sides of his mouth actually twitching, he came back and sat down, facing Heller. “I have a deal for you,” he said. “You give me these papers and in exchange I will give you another, completely bona fide identity and twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Let’s see it,” said Heller.

Bury opened one side of his case. He pulled out a birth certificate, Bibb County, Georgia. It said that JEROME TERRANCE WISTER had been born in Macon General Hospital on a date seventeen years before. The parents were Agnes and Gerald Curtis Wister and the baby was white, blond and male.

“That is totally valid,” said Bury. “Also, the parents are both dead, there are no brothers or sisters or other kin.”

Heller made a gesture for more. Bury pulled out a Saint Lee Military Academy certified record of grades. The grades were all D’s!

“No junior college certificate here,” said Heller.

“Ah, you have missed something. This credits you with one more year than your other certificate. That gives you only one more year and you will have your full college degree of Bachelor. You will probably finish college, yes?”

“People don’t listen to you unless you have a diploma,” said Heller.

“How true that is,” said Bury. “I couldn’t have stated it better myself. So you see, you are the gainer. One more year of college and you will have your diploma.”

Hastily I shuffled through my wits to recall what the catch must be here. Then I had it. With all D’s he’d have trouble getting admittance into another college and with a missing year — and Bury had no way of knowing all Heller’s Earth education was missing — Heller would fail. But this was just gratuitous sadism on Bury’s part. He knew that grade sheet would never be presented. It told me something else about the man. He was devious. He planned against failures of his plans even when success seemed certain!

“It gives you more than you had,” urged Bury. “I am being completely fair with you.”

Wall Street lawyer fair, I told myself.

Heller was beckoning for more.

“Now, here,” said Bury, “is your driver’s license. It is for New Jersey, quite valid in New York. And notice it is for all vehicles including motorcycles. This is in exchange for the D.C. one you have handed me. See how generous I am being?”

Heller inspected it.

“Now, here is the registration for your car in exchange for the D.C. one I hold now. And these are the plates. Note they are New Jersey plates, quite valid for New York. But I will take these along and have them put on your car. You will be picking up your car, won’t you?”

Heller nodded and Bury seemed relieved. But Heller was still beckoning.

“Here is a social security card,” said Bury. “It is brand-new as you have never before had a job. You’ll find it vital for identity.”

The identity of a corpse, I told myself.

Heller was beckoning for more. The corners of Bury’s mouth twitched and he handed Heller a U.S. passport. Heller opened it and stared at the picture of himself. “Where did you get this?”

“Last night,” said Bury. “That’s why you had to stop in Silver Spring.”

“The flash at dinner,” said Heller.

“You don’t miss much. As a matter of fact, you can have the rest of the copies. I won’t be needing them now.” And he handed Heller a dozen more passport photos.

“How do I know this identity is all valid?” said Heller. “How did you get it?”

“My dear fellow,” said Bury, “the government has to provide full verifiable identification all the time. They have witnesses they have to hide, people who have risked their lives to give testimony. The State Department does it continually. And we, you might say, own the State Department. You were quite imaginative to take us on this way. But we are nothing else than kind.”

Rockecenter, kind? Oh, my Gods!

“Don’t you worry about the validity of any of this,” said Bury. “Indeed, it would be very bad for me if it were false.”

Indeed, it would be, Mr. Bury, I gritted. The identity found on a corpse gets very close scrutiny!

“Now for the money,” said Mr. Bury. And he hauled out wads of it from the left side of his briefcase. “Twenty-five thousand dollars, all in old bills, unmarked and untagged.”

Heller laid it on the side table, back of the ashtrays.

“Just one thing more,” said Bury. “It’s illegal in New York to register in a hotel under a false name. A felony, in fact.” (Oh, what a LIE!) “So I just brought up a registration blank. Sign it with your new name and put Macon, Georgia, down as the address and we’ll be finished.”

Heller took it and balanced it on his knee. “One more thing,” said Heller.

“Yes?” said Bury.

“The rest of the money in your briefcase,” said Heller.

“Oh!” said Bury, like he’d been punched in the solar plexus.

Aha, the man was also crooked. He probably had intended to keep the rest of it for himself!

“You drive a hard bargain, young man,” said Bury.

But Heller just had his palm up. Bury pulled a wad of money out of the right side of the briefcase. “It’s another twenty-five thousand,” said Bury.

Heller put it with the rest of the money, quite a pile! And then, sure as if it were his death warrant, he signed the hotel registration blank, Jerome Terrance Wister, Macon, Georgia.

Bury said, “You drive a hard bargain. But that’s not bad. You’ll really get along in the world, I can tell.”

For about ten minutes more, I said to myself. As soon as you get clear of this room, Mr. Bury, and have yourself an alibi, a bullet is going to come through that window and that will be the end of Heller! And me!

Bury stood up, “Have I got everything?” He chuckled as he showed Heller the briefcase was empty and then he put all the reclaimed I.D. and the new license plates in it, probably gloating. He carefully looked around the room. He moved over toward the door.

“One more thing,” said Heller. “Pick up that telephone and tell the clerk to go out in the street and tell that sniper on the roof to come over to this room.”

Bury went rigid. Then he grabbed for the doorknob.

It came off in his hand!

He stared at it for an instant.

Then as he dropped it, his hand darted to the inside of his coat. He was going to pull a gun!

Heller reached sideways.

He picked up a glass ashtray so fast his hand blurred.

The ashtray sizzled across the room, hit Bury a glancing blow on the arm, caromed off and shattered into a shower of glass against the door, spattering Bury.

The lawyer stepped back, arm numb. He stared at Heller.