"
Bertie Wooster looked up sharply. "Now there; that may be what we're--"
The telephone beside MacLeod rang. He scooped it up; named himself into
it.
It was Ahmed Abd-el-Rahman. "Look, chief; I tail this guy to Oppenheimer
Village," the Arab, who had learned English from American movies,
answered. "He goes into the rec-joint. I slide in after him, an' he
ain't in sight. I'm lookin' around for him, see, when he comes bargin'
outa the Don Ameche box. Then he grabs a table an' a beer. What next?"
"Stay there; keep an eye on him," MacLeod told him. "If I want you, I'll
call."
MacLeod hung up and straightened, feeling under his packet for his
.38-special.
"That's it, boys," he said. "Lowiewski. Come on."
"Hah!" Alex Unpronounceable had his gun out and was checking the
cylinder. He spoke briefly in description of the Polish mathematician's
ancestry, physical characteristics, and probable post-mortem
destination. Then he put the gun away, and the three men left the
basement.
* * * * *
For minutes that seamed like hours, MacLeod and the Greek waited on the
main floor, where they could watch both the elevators and the stairway.
Pages:
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41