A few sharp blows and the tube in the set was broken, leaving a large, empty space. Carrying the set in both arms, Catell slammed the rear door with his foot and went up the stairs of the apartment house. Catell kept on whistling loudly, even when he saw faces looking at him through the glass of the door.

Cops.

Again he didn’t have to think, to decide.

“Is one of you jerks going to open that door?”

For a moment they didn’t move, just stared at the man with the television set. Through the glass Catell saw the lips of one of them move, and he seemed to be saying, “Of all the rotten luck—”

The one with the cigarette opened the door and Catell went through. He gave the man with the cigarette a push with the back of the television set.

“Pardon me, buster. Step aside.” He went to the stairs and up, whistling as before.

He didn’t see an agent on every floor, but he knew they were there. They didn’t worry him. The one on the fourth floor—he’d have to get rid of him.

When Catell came to Schumacher’s door, he looked down the corridor and saw a man busying himself with the hallway window. The guy was concentrating very hard on the window.

“Hey, buddy,” Catell said.

“You calling me?”

“Yeah. Gimme a hand, willya?”

That’s the guy he had to get rid of. When the agent came closer, Catell pushed the television set at him.

“Hold this for a second, buddy?”

The man put his arms around the bulky cabinet and looked at Catell with a question, but just as he was going to say something, Catell’s arm whipped out and the ridge of his hand slashed across the man’s Adam’s apple. That was all there was to it. Catell caught the set and let the man drop. Then he kicked his foot against Schumacher’s door.

“Open up. It’s Tony.”

Schumacher pulled the door open a crack.

“Open up quick. Drag that cop in here.” Catell pushed past Schumacher into the apartment. “Don’t stand there, goddamn it, get that guy on the floor there!”

Schumacher dragged the unconscious man from the hall and kicked the door shut.

“Tony, what goes here? Did you say ‘cop’?”

“Quick, where’s the stuff? Same place?”

“Of course. You didn’t think I was going to go near—”

“Shut up and listen. The place is lousy with cops. Feds, I think. The whole street is staked out. Now I’m going to take this stuff and walk right out of here. You stay put. They got nothing on you, they don’t find nothing, and you don’t say nothing. Understand? I’ll contact you.”

Catell went to his knees before the bookcase and pulled up the rug. Then he lifted three boards, stuck his hand inside the hole, and dragged out the battered yellow cartridge case he had hidden there. When he lifted it, something thumped inside the locked case.

“Wanna take a quick look, Otto?” Catell started to undo the latch.

“For God’s sake, Tony, leave it closed. That gold is poison, Tony. It’s poison of the worst kind.”

Catell had shoved the box inside the television set and started toward the door.

“Tony, I beg you, I beg you to listen—”

“Out of my way!”

Catell had his hands full with the cabinet. He kicked at Schumacher with his foot and caught him on the shin. Schumacher doubled up with pain.

“Out of my way, damn you. Now open this door.”

Schumacher moved awkwardly, limping. He opened the door.

“Tony, please—”

“You heard what I said. I’ll get in touch with you. When I’m downstairs, throw this guy back out in the hall.” Catell was at the stairs already.

“Tony! Tony, I’m sick!”

Catell was running down the stairs. He was whistling again. For a moment Schumacher staggered with a new rush of nausea that choked his throat and blurred his vision. Then, sweating with the effort, he dragged the limp agent back out into the hall. Panting and weak, Schumacher closed his eyes. When he looked at the man on the floor again, their eyes met. With a horrible effort the hurt agent strained his injured throat and let out a weird, loud scream.

As Schumacher staggered back into the room he could hear them clambering up the stairs. He was fumbling for his gun in the desk drawer. When they clattered up to the door, guns drawn, a rushing nausea curled Schumacher’s insides. He lost sight of them, and with a head-splitting effort he retched helplessly. He heard noise, he heard the crash of the guns, and when he retched the second time, there