top
of one of the highest hills at the northern end of Manhattan
Island--an old building that had once been a museum and was built like
a medieval castle.

"What happens if you die in here?" he asked conversationally.

"Every Wednesday and Saturday," the voice repeated.

"Um," said Harry Morgan.

"'Cept once in a while," the voice whispered. "Like a couple days ago.
When was it? Yeah. Monday that'd be. Guy they had in here for a week
or so. Don't remember how long. Lose tracka time here. Yeah. Sure lose
tracka time here."

There was a long pause, and Morgan, controlling the tenseness in his
voice, said: "What about the guy Monday?"

"Oh. Him. Yeah, well, they took him out Monday."

Morgan waited again, got nothing further, and asked: "Dead?"

"'Course he was dead. They was tryin' to get somethin' out of him.
Somethin' about a cable. He jumped one of the guards, and they
blackjacked him. Hit 'im too hard, I guess. Guard sure got hell for
that, too. Me, I'm lucky. They don't ask me no questions."

"What are you in for?" Morgan asked.

"Don't know. They never told me. I don't ask for fear they'll
remember. They might start askin' questions."

Morgan considered. This could be a plant, but he didn't think so. The
voice was too authentic, and there would be no purpose in his
information. That meant that Jack Latrobe really was dead. They had
killed him. An ice cold hardness surged along his nerves.

* * * * *

The door at the far end of the corridor clanged, and a brace of heavy
footsteps clomped along the floor. Two men came abreast of the
steel-barred door and stopped.

One of them, a well-dressed, husky-looking man in his middle forties,
said: "O.K., Morgan. How did you do it?"

"I put on blue lipstick and kissed my elbows--both of 'em. Going
widdershins, of course."

"What are you talking about?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The guy in your hotel suite. You killed him. You cut off both feet,
one hand, and his head. How'd you do it?"

Morgan looked at the man. "Police?"

"Nunna your business. Answer the question."

"I use a cobweb I happened to have with me. Who was he?"

The cop's face was whitish. "You chop a guy up like that and then
don't know who he is?"

"I can guess. I can guess that he was an agent for PMC 873 who was
trespassing illegally. But I didn't kill him. I was in ... er ...
custody when it happened."

"Not gonna talk, huh?" the cop said in