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like Oriole. Jump them before they could start on you. “No one met me.”
    Mr. Oriole spoke with concern. “Mr. Albion was there. He telephoned to inform me the plane would be late.”
    “Maybe he got tired waiting.”
    “Not Mr. Albion,” said Mr. Oriole.
    Not Albie, never Albie. He took orders with a bulldog grip. Efficient, trustworthy Albion. Steve wondered which side had killed him. Not why, only who. He said, “I’ve got to see him. He has my plans.”
    “I will telephone to him,” Mr. Oriole said. Not with confidence.
    Steve sat down on the oak chest, pushed back his hat, lit a cigarette. He needed a prop. Mr. Oriole put a coin into the hall phone and dialed a number. The sustained ringing sounded faint and metallic in the quiet. Mr. Oriole waited a long time before he hung up. The coin clacked down the chute, he retrieved it and put it in his pocket before turning. “There is no response.”
    “Where does he live? I’ll drop around there.” This was the point to make quickly. Stationmasters didn’t like giving out an address.
    Mr. Oriole was no amateur to be stampeded. He pried into Steve’s face. “You want a room?”
    “I have a room. I want to see Albion.”
    “I will send him to you. Where is your room?”
    “Balboa Hotel. If you haven’t his address, I’ll take his phone number.” When the man was hesitant, Steve asked, “What’s the matter? Don’t you want me to see him?” That would throw a delayed scare into the flab when he read the afternoon papers. The news wouldn’t make the a.m.’s.
    Reluctantly Oriole divulged the number. He didn’t like doing it; it was his business to get people together, not arrange for them to make contacts on their own. He eyed the scrap of paper on which Steve had written the information as if he would snatch it from his hands. Steve tucked it into an inner pocket. “Don’t worry. I won’t hand it to the F.B.I.”
    Oriole tried for a laugh but it wouldn’t come.
    “And don’t call me at the hotel. I have a roommate.”
    At Oriole’s startled grunt, Steve smiled insolently. “You don’t know me, Mr. Oriole. Wintress is the name, Steve Wintress. They send for me when there’s a special job to do. And I do it my way.” He rubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his shoe, pitched the butt towards the table before he crossed to the door. “If you find Albie, tell him I’m in a hurry to get back to Berlin.” He slammed the door after him, not caring now how many he woke in that musty house. He didn’t like armchair slobs giving him directions.
    The morning was pale as he walked back to Hollywood Boulevard. No one followed him. It was easy to be sure because as yet the day of the city hadn’t begun, he was alone on the side street, near alone on the blocks he covered returning to the hotel. In the hotel he passed the desk without a nod, passed the maroon uniform of the Philippine boy into the elevator. He had to look at his key to know the floor. “Fourth.”
    He used the key to enter his room. Reuben’s breathing was even in sleep. Steve didn’t need a light to undress; he dropped his clothes on the armchair, yanked the window drapes across the narrow gray windows to shut out the coming of daylight. At the clatter of the metal rings over the rod, the soldier raised his head. His voice was druggish. “Get your call made?”
    Steve said, “Yeah. Don’t wake me in the morning.”
    It would have been easy to thump the pillow over coming problems, but he didn’t. He needed sleep; he would sleep. Whoever killed Albie wasn’t going to run away, he’d be around to see how Steve was liking it. Because there was only one reason why a smart guy like Albion would have dropped dead at the International Airport last night. One reason only, to keep him from meeting with Stefan Winterich.
    It was after eleven when Steve awoke, not a long enough sleep, but more than he could hope for again for the duration of this job. He glanced towards the opposite