"There must be some simple explanation for Mr. Beneir's remarkable cooperation," remarked Blake mildly as they went out.
Erskine laughed. "Simple is right. The sphere not only proved that he had no psi powers, but enabled me to take him over and he responded by telling everything he knew. Beneirs won't even remember us. He'll have some vague memory of selling the Ming-Hawn piece, but if he has to report back to this Lake, he will not recall any of the details of the transaction. So now we're one piece ahead in the game, having a line to Lake."
"But what is Ming-Hawn?"
"Who, rather than what. Ming-Hawn was an artist in enamel, a form of art peculiar to his successor world, who did his best work at the end of the 18th century. He inhabited a world which exists as the result of a successful Mongol conquest of all Europe occurring in the thirteenth century. Refugees from that invasion, Norman, Breton, Norse, Saxon, fled westward by ship to Viking colonies in Vinland. Their descendants intermarried with Indians from the spreading native empires in the southwest and formed the nation of Ixanilia which is still in existence on that level. The present civilization is not an attractive one, but it offers possibilities which might attract Pranj. However, now we want Lake."
Erskine turned into a drugstore and made his way to the phone booths. He picked up the classified directory and pushed the other to Blake. "See if his home phone is listed."
Blake was still searching when Erskine made a call. He emerged from the booth frowning.
"Lake's ill—in the hospital. Lives in the Nelson Arms."
"No number listed there for him," Blake answered.
"Hmmm." Erskine produced a second dime and this time his voice reached Blake faintly from out of the booth.
"Geoffrey Lake, attorney, Nelson Arms. We want the usual report as quick as you can make it. Yes." He hung up. "Now back to our hole-in. This is moving day."
"Somebody will check on Lake?"
"We pay an investigation agency for such routine. If Lake's straight we can work it one way; if he's crooked he may be sitting in Pranj's pocket. Then we'll have to be more cautious."
They did not return through the cellar pawn shop, but made their way around the block. Erskine grinned at Blake.
"More than one door to a fox den. You'll have to learn 'em."
"You've a rather elaborate set-up. Wasn't it difficult to arrange?"
"Not so much. In the worlds we visit constantly for trade or study we have permanent bases manned by our people under a good cover. This is a makeshift, but it coincides in space with one of our shift bases and, being a warehouse, it was easy to lease and make our own interior changes."
Erskine led the way into the dingy lobby of a small office building. The white haired man lounging on a stool before the open door of the elevator put aside his tabloid and smiled at Erskine.
"'Lo, Mr. Waters. Good trip?"
"Fair, Pop. The boss ought to like the sales report. How's the back?"
"'Bout as usual. All the way up?"
"All the way. The boss must have pigeon blood, he likes it so high."
He gave the elevator operator a cheerful grin as they creaked to the top floor.
"You off duty at four as usual, Pop?"
The old man nodded. "If you ain't through by then, you walk down," he warned. "But you never are, are you, Mr. Waters?"
"Not while the boss is watching. But it's easier to walk down than up. Take care of yourself, Pop."
There were two doors in the hall, and one bore flaking lettering across its ground glass surface. But when the elevator sank out of sight Erskine unlocked the plain metal one leading to the roof. They mounted a half flight of stairs to the open air. Before them was the canyon of the alley. Erskine lifted a board to the parapet, swinging it out until the other end rested on the warehouse roof.
"If heights bother you," he told Blake, "just don't look down."
Once across, they descended a stair into a dusty corridor. There Erskine stopped, spread both hands flat against the wall, and under his pressure a panel moved, letting them through into one of the bedrooms of the hidden suite.
"Did you get it?" Hoyt stood in the doorway.
"Got it—and a lead. Beneirs, the owner, bought it from Geoffrey Lake, estate attorney. I put J.C. on to him."
"What's this about an attorney?" Kittson called from beyond.
Erskine made his report.
"Suppose he is really ill? Or could it be a stall?" Hoyt wondered.
"Pranj knows that we're here. But I'm inclined to think he sold that Ming-Hawn piece before he discovered that. He must need cash and need it badly; so I want to know a lot more about this Lake—especially about Lake's contacts, any visitor he's had since he went into the hospital." Kittson swayed back in his chair to study the ceiling. "Mr. Lake is ill. It is the proper time for Mr. Lake's dear friends to be thoughtful."
Hoyt got up. "Fruit, flowers, or the bonded stuff routine?"
"Flowers suggest the feminine touch. We don't know enough to venture that. Fruit is nicely middle of the road. A medium sized offering and you might put Mr. Beneir's card in it."
"What about moving? Are we going now?" Erskine asked as Hoyt went out.
"Sooner or later. Wait 'til Jas has checked the other place. No use settling in there only to discover there are watchers about. We have some advantages including unlimited funds. And the type of henchmen Pranj has to enlist demand their pay on time. If he's taken to selling other level loot, it proves that the Hundred were able to seal off his resources back home."
The phone rang. Kittson listened. "Good enough. The usual fee will be mailed to you." He hung up.
"J.C. on Lake. He's middle-aged; from a family who have run the same law firm for four generations, conservative; most of the business is handling estates and trusts; a bachelor, nearest relative is a sister in Miami; had an operation two weeks ago; no direct contact with Pranj's men."
"Kmoat can be very convincing," Erskine pointed out.
"We'll let Hoyt learn what he can at the hospital. I want to know if Lake is shielded. And I have a feeling that from now on we may have to move fast."
He was interrupted by the buzzer, and then Saxton came in. He shed a conservative homburg and a well cut tweed top coat before he sat down.
"Everything is in order for the move. But our alley here is under observation. I had to use the roof route."
"Who's in the alley ?" Erskine wanted to know.
"A muscular person we last saw supporting one of the walls of the Crystal Bird with his shoulders. He's one of their strong-arm boys. Do you know," Saxton took a cigar case from his pocket and made a careful selection from its contents, "the cleverest move for Pranj to make at present would be to involve us in some disagreeable incident which would focus upon our activities the attention of the local law? That would gain him time and force us to temporarily withdraw from this level."
To Blake's surprise he discovered that all three were looking to him. Kittson spoke first.
"What charge would you select to make us trouble with your police?"
"Considering your semi-secret set-up here," he answered slowly, "they might say gambling—or drugs. Either would get you raided. And a hint to a Syndicate contact that you were operating some new racket in a closed territory would bring them down on you too."
Saxton pursed his lips in a silent tut-tut. "In other words he could make us plenty of trouble now that he has run us to earth. I would say move and at once!"
Kittson nodded." All right," He took a small map out of a drawer. "The Crystal Bird is located in the basement of that converted brownstone. Some apartments over it, aren't there?"
"Three, two occupied by members of the club staff," Erskine supplied.
"TV antenna on the roof?"
"At least one."
"Then we'll do the repair act."
"When?" Saxton wanted to know.
"Now. Send a messenger through to clean out this place."
"Can't we eat first?" Saxton sounded plaintive and Kittson agreed after a short hesitation. They were gathered about the table when Hoyt returned.
"Boy friend in the alley and another keeping his eye on the sky route," he announced, "or is all this stale news?"
"Lake?"
"Well, he hasn't a shield. But I didn't get to see him. His sister is due in from Miami on the four o'clock plane—"
Kittson looked at Erskine. "A pleasant encounter between one lady and another out at the airport might lead to bigger things," he mused in a mild voice.
The slight man sipped his coffee slowly. "The things I do for the Service! For this job I shall put in for the Star and Cross Bars."
Kittson's smile was ironic. "'It is necessary at all times,'" he was plainly quoting, "'to select the agent to fit the job, and not the job to fit the agent.'"
"A beautiful bit of pass-the-buck if I ever heard one," Erskine remarked. "Meditation will supply me with a fitting retort. Also deeds, not barren words are the order of the day. I only hope that what I learn from this flying female is going to be worth going into skirts." He left from the table.
An hour later a fashionably dressed woman wearing a tailored suit with a mink clutch cape left the apartment accompanied by Saxton. And twenty minutes after that departure, Blake was a member of the second exodus. Neither Kittson nor the others had done any packing and it appeared that he himself was expected to abandon his belongings, a casual disregard for economics which bothered him.
Wearing the coveralls of repairmen, the three took the elevator to the basement. Hoyt's thick hair was now brown and there was an odd alteration in his jaw line, squaring it more, while two front teeth protruded a little in squirrel nakedness below his upper lip.
By the same mysterious means, Kittson's features had coarsened. The hawk sweep of his nose was thicker and displayed a reddish flush. The same craft made his eyes seem a little too close together, and he walked with a lumbering gait.
They did not go through the pawn shop but in the opposite direction, winding up through an air shaft court and a second door into a parking space. There was a panel truck, the sign on its side reading: "Randel Brothers, TV-Radio Repairs."
"You can drive?" Kittson asked Blake.
"Yes."
"Take the wheel; Hoyt'll direct you." With eel-sinuosity the tall man coiled up in the limited space behind.
"Straight on to the street and turn right."
Blake proceeded with caution down the narrow way.
"This is one bolt hole they didn't find," Hoyt commented as the truck edged into traffic.
But he was answered from the van. "Shielded mind not more than a half-block behind—"
Hoyt tried to look back. "We'll take the long way around just in case. They following, Mark?"
"Yes. I can't locate which car—too many on the street."
Blake wondered why he was not uneasy. Either the precognition which these others had insisted was his was not working on schedule, or they had nothing to fear.
"A green delivery truck, but it's turning off a block back," Kittson added to his report.
Hoyt's attention went to Blake. "How's the hunch working? Are we heading toward trouble?"
"Not as far as I can tell."
"That truck may be delivering another shift of stakeouts for duty, to watch an empty mousehole," Hoyt mused. "To be on the safe side, we'll lay a fancy trail. Turn left at the next corner, Walker, then straight on five blocks to the ferry."
"It's close to three o'clock." Kittson sounded a warning.
"Ferry takes about five minutes to cross. We can cut over the end of the freight yards and hit the highway at Pierce and Walnut. Make it back into town at the Franklin bridge. Use up about forty minutes, but if that doesn't foul up any tail, nothing will."
"Very well," Kittson sounded resigned.
On the ferry they changed drivers and by inspired mastery of his vehicle and a knowledge of routing, Hoyt brought them back into the city from another direction in five less than his forty minutes.
From the crowded business section they passed into a district which had been fashionably residential fifty years or so earlier. Tall brownstones were built about an iron fenced park. But now many of the houses had fallen to the indignity of small grayish signs of "Rooms" in the lower windows and several had been converted into shops. Hoyt pulled up at the end of a block. The steep stairway leading down into the half-basement was covered with a curve of awning and a neon sign flashed on to notify the world that this was the Crystal Bird.
The thick winter dusk was gathering in and there was a hint of worse weather to come in the steady sifting of large snow flakes. As far as Blake could see, save for their truck, the street was clear of both cars and pedestrians. But after he had stopped the motor, Hoyt did not get out; he remained where he was as if listening. When he spoke, it was hardly above a whisper.
"Two shields in the club. But I think the house is clear."
"Yes," assented the unseen Kittson. Then he scrambled out of the back as Hoyt gave Blake his orders.
"Be ready to pull out in a hurry if we have to run."
Kittson came around and held out a comic book. "Stay in character but don't get too interested in the literature."
Blake slumped down in the seat, and over the edge of the comic watched the other two climb to the front door and be admitted by a drab woman.
More lights winked on through the dusk—dim ones in the "Rooms" houses, brighter ones in the shops. Now there were more people on the street. One man, his head bared in spite of the snow and rising wind, took the steps down to the entrance of the club with a speed suggesting he was late for an appointment. Blake wondered how it would be to reach out and read the thoughts of those passing.
Then came something he did understand—Danger! A smothering pillow of danger pressing down upon him. He could taste it—feel it! Not since his encounter with the presence had Blake been so shaken. His fingers curled about the wheel and he forced himself to look about to try and discover the source of the warning.
He could see nothing new in the house containing the Crystal Bird. The neon blazed, a light or two was visible in the windows above. From that point his gaze traveled slowly down the block, appraising each house: no people, no cars. Wait!
On the other side of the square a delivery truck had stopped before one of the shops—a green truck.
Hoyt had ordered him to stay at his post. But over there he was sure was the source of his warning. If he got out—walked only a foot or two. . . .
Only the building tension held him in the driver's seat. On impulse he started the motor. He looked back at the club. A tall shadow flitted around the side of the house making for him; a second followed the first. Then the one to the rear stopped beside a rubbish can, grabbed off the lid and groped in its depths, just as the first reached the truck and climbed into the van. Blake gunned the motor. The man by the can thrust something into the front of his jacket and joined them with a couple of running leaps. As Hoyt got in Blake gave the warning:
"Green truck—there on right—!"
Hoyt leaned out as they swept past. "Denise, Gowns," he read aloud. "Pranj disguised as three yards of silk and a belt buckle. Perhaps—"
But Blake's attention was divided between his driving and the overwhelming sense of menace.
"Turn right!" Hoyt snapped.
Another street of old houses. Street lamps made wild white whirls as the snow fell through their beams.
"Left, here—"
He drove automatically by Hoyt's direction. There was no sound from the rear where Kittson had gone to cover. A series of turns brought them out on an avenue bordering the large park which almost bisected the city.
"Get into the park and then let me have the wheel."
Blake eased through the growing rush of homeward bound traffic and brought the truck into the obscurity of tree and brush which made an effective screen against city lights; then he changed seats with Hoyt.
They went on, switching from wider ways to narrow ones until at last they came out on a cindered parking lot beside a white theater-restaurant closed for the season.
"All out!"
Blake hit the cinders in time to see Kittson slam the back door.
"Come on!" The agent turned away.
"Where?"
"We get out of the park at 114th street. You cross the avenue there and wait on the opposite corner for the 58 bus. Take that and get off at Mount Union, about a forty minute ride uptown. Walk down Mount Union to the first street—that's Patroon Place. Go to the service entrance of the third house—the one with the wall around the yard. Knock twice. Got that?"
"Yes."
They did not speak again during the walk out of the park. And once outside the other two left Blake without a goodbye, speedily lost in the crowd on the pavement.
He crossed the street and joined the group at the bus stop. Fifty-Eights were, he discovered, not too plentiful, and he had to squeeze into a jammed one. The massed buildings of the lower city gave way to private homes set in yards.
There was a drugstore on the corner of Mount Union, a brilliantly lighted super mart of its kind. But the block he was to walk was dark, the lamps far apart. One block down and Patroon Place. He counted houses.
Number three had a row of lighted windows. The gate to the drive was open and recent tire marks slicked down the snow. Sound was muted here. As Blake stepped over the beginning of a drift to reach the back door the wind drove a flurry of flakes into his face. He rapped as instructed. The door opened and Erskine drew him into light and warmth.