Jeffrey Meyer sat back in his chair and waited. He could hardly breathe
in the stifling air of the place. His hand clenched his glass until
the knuckles were white, and his lip curled slightly as he watched the
crowd around him. His whole body was tense. His legs, knotted tightly
under the seat, were ready to move in an instant, and his eyes roved
from the front to the back of the place. They were pale gray eyes that
were never still--moving, watching, waiting. He had waited for so long,
waited and hunted with bitter patience. But now he knew the long wait
was drawing to a close. He knew that Conroe was coming and the trap was
set.
For the thousandth time that evening, a shiver of chilly pleasure
passed through him at the thought. He squirmed in eagerness, hardly
daring to breathe. With his free hand he caressed the cool plastic
handle of the gun that was close to his side, and a tight smile
appeared on his thin lips. Conroe was coming ... at last ... at
last.... And tonight he would kill Conroe.
The place was a madhouse around him. In the front of the room, by
the street door, was a long horseshoe bar. It was already crowded
by the early revelers. A screechie in the corner blatted out the
tinny, nervous music that had recently become so popular, and a loud,
hysterical burst of feminine laughter echoed to the back of the room.
Jeff Meyer rubbed his eyes, smarting from the bluish haze filling the
long, low-ceilinged room. The unhealthy laughter broke out again, and
someone burst into a bellow of song, half giggle, half noise.
At the adjoining table an alky-siky stirred, muttered something
unintelligible and returned his nose sadly to his glass. Jeff's eyes
flicked over the man with distaste. The scrawny neck, the sagging
jaw, the idiotic, almost unearthly expression of intent listening on
the vapid face: a typical picture of the type. Jeff watched him for a
moment in disgust, then moved his eyes on, still watching as a flicker
of apprehension passed through his mind.
A girl, quite naked except for the tray slung at her waist, strolled
by his table, wagging her hips and turning on her heaviest personality
smile.
"Drive a nail, mister?"
"Beat it."
The smile cooled slightly on the girl's lips. "Just askin'," she
whined. "You don't have to get--"
"Beat it!" Jeff shot her a venomous look, trying frantically to keep
his attention from straying from the front of the room. It would be too
much to slip up now, more than he could stand to make a mistake like
the last time.
The trap was perfect. It _couldn't_ fail this time. Each step of the
way had been carefully sketched, plotted through long sleepless nights
of conference and planning. They couldn't have hunted a man like
Conroe all these years without learning something about him--about his
personality, about the things he liked and disliked, the things he did,
the places he frequented, the friends he made.
Last time, after Jeff's own blundering error had allowed him to slip
through the net at the last frantic minute, there seemed to be no hope.
Everything seemed all the more hopeless when the man had disappeared as
completely as if he were dead. But then they had found the girl--the
key to his hiding place. She had formed the top link in the long,
meticulous chain which had been drawn tighter each day, drawing Paul
Conroe at last closer and closer to the hands of the man who was going
to kill him. And now the trap was set; there could be no slip this
time. There might never be another chance.
The street door opened sharply, and a short, bull-necked man with sandy
hair walked in. He was followed by two other men in neat business
suits. The first man stepped quickly to the bar, shouldering his way
through the crowd, and stood sipping beer for several minutes. He
glanced closely at the people around the bar and the surrounding tables
before he walked toward the back and seated himself next to Meyer.
Looking at Jeff with an indefinable expression, he finished his beer at
a gulp and set the glass down on the table top with a snap.
"What's up?" Jeff said hoarsely.
"Something's funny." The sandy-haired man's voice was a smooth bass,
and a frown appeared on his pink forehead. "He should have been here
by now. He left the hotel over in Camden-town an hour ago, private
three-wheeler, and he headed for here."