to focus and just stood there, eyes wide, thoughts travelling unfamiliar paths.
How?
How did he know when and where to catch a wanted man? What was it that made him just that little different from other men? All his life Don had had that edge. He could guess—if it was guessing—and those guesses had been right. So, was it guessing? Or did he know?
His record had backed his application to the C.I.A. That same record of unbroken success had paved his way into the Special Detachment. He was a man-hunter who always found his man. And he didn’t know how he did it.
As Malchin didn’t know how the ‘residents’ at Cartwright House used their talents.
* * * *
Even whittled down the list was too long. Earlman gestured towards the map, smoke drifting from the cigarette dangling from his lips, pointing to the varicoloured pins.
“I can’t get it closer than this, Don. From here on it’s pure guesswork.”
“Not quite.” Don scanned the list. “I learned something about Klieger back at Cartwright House. He is an artistic type. My guess is that he’s been visiting the museums and art galleries all along.”
“Then we’ve got him!” Earlman was jubilant. “All we need do is cover these places and he’ll walk right into our hands.”
Don raised his eyebrows and Max suddenly sobered.
“No. Every cop in the city has his photograph and description. All routes from the metropolis are covered. All field units are on the hunt. If it was as easy as that, we’d have had him by now.” He gestured towards the map. “Then why all this?”
“Concentration of effort.” Don sat on the edge of a bed. “The cops can’t spot him until they see him, and he makes certain they don’t. Mostly he’s just one man in a crowd and that’s the best disguise there is. Never forget, Max, he can ‘see’ our traps and so avoid them.”
“Then it’s hopeless.” Savagely Earlman stamped on his cigarette. “No matter what we do, where we go, he won’t be there. Have I wasted my time, Don?”
“No.”
“But—”
“It’s between him and me now,” said Don. “Up until now I’ve tackled this like a slightly abnormal operation. I’ve depended on outside help and even tried to get special assistance but that wasn’t the way to do it. Now I’ve got to use his weakness against him.” He looked down at the list in his hand.
“All right, both of you get out, I want to be alone.”
Bronson didn’t move.
“You heard the man!” Earlman jerked open the door. “Out!”
Slowly Bronson rose to his feet. His eyes shone as he stared at Don.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Gregson tiredly. “You can wait outside if you want.”
Alone he untied his shoes, loosened his tie and slipped off his jacket. Killing the lights he lay back on the bed, eyes towards the window with its glitter of reflected light. Deliberately he relaxed.
For him it was a normal procedure, this quiet relaxation while his mind digested the thousand odd items of assembled fact to come up with a guess that wasn’t a guess because it was always right. But now he had to do more than that. Now he had to pit himself against a man who could ‘see’ the future and he had to outguess that other man.
His breathing grew even, regular and deeper as he entered the first stage of self-hypnosis. Outside sounds wouldn’t bother him now, there would be no distractions, he could concentrate fully on the problem he had to solve.
Find Klieger.
Find where he would be and when.
Find him as he had found a thousand others with no doubt, no uncertainty, just the conviction that at a certain place at a certain time he would spot his quarry.
Forget the sense that he was beaten before he could start. Forget that he was up against an abnormal talent. Forget the picture of the piece of fabric and the nodes of events. Forget everything but one man and where and when he would be.
* * * *
“The Lustrum Galleries.” Earlman nodded then grunted as the cab braked to avoid a jaywalker. “They are having a private showing this evening, invitation only. The exhibition doesn’t open until tomorrow,” He looked at Don, face even more haggard in the dim light. “Are you certain he will be there?”
“Yes.”
“But—” Earlman shrugged and broke off, killing the obvious question. “A display of Chinese art,” he read from a crumpled catalogue. “Ceramics from the Ming, Han and Manchu Dynasties. It figures. The Ming vase?”
Don nodded, then closed his eyes, resting his head on the back of the seat. He felt drained, worn out yet filled with a glowing exultation. He knew! How or why he couldn’t guess but he knew! Klieger would be at the galleries. He would stake his life on it.
Their badges got them in, past a very punctilious uniformed attendant, past a fussing curator, into a long hall shining with glass cases on which in reverent array stood the exhibits.
“Tomorrow,” said the curator, “these will be within the cases but tonight, because of the selected visitors, we feel it safe to have them as they are.”
“Why?” Earlman was blunt. “What’s the point?”
“You are not a connoisseur,” said the curator. “That is obvious. If you were, you would know that there is more to ceramics than just the visual aspect. There is a feel, a tactile sense that is as much a part of the pottery as the colors. Our visitors, most of them collectors, appreciate that. And, too, the true beauty of these pieces cannot be wholly appreciated when they are seen from only one angle as they will be when sealed in the cases.”
He looked suddenly anxious.
“You haven’t mentioned your business. I trust that nothing will—”
“There will be no trouble.” Don glanced around the gallery, forehead creased in a frown. “Just operate as if we weren’t here.” He smiled at the anxious expression. “One thing I can promise you, your exhibits are in no danger.”
Satisfied, the curator bustled off about his business. Don glanced to either side then led the way towards the far end of the gallery.
“We’ll wait here. The cases will screen us and we can watch the whole gallery. When Klieger comes you will go to the stairs, Max, and cut off his escape.”
Earlman grunted then paused, a cigarette halfway to his lips.
“How come, Don? How come Klieger is going to walk right into this set-up when we know that he must know we’re waiting for him?”
“He wants to see the exhibits.”
“But—?”
“This
