"Dammit, Phil, are you trying to wreck my career?
Because that's what you're doing -- wrecking it, wrecking it, wrecking it"!
Griffith had confronted Hoag on the building's front steps -- Hoag had been permitted no further -- and backed him against a wrought-iron railing.
His rage had built up as he made his way here from the second floor, helped by the quantity of champagne he had consumed.

Hoag said, "I didn't send for you, Leigh.
I want the captain in charge.
Where is he"?

"Phil, for God's sake, go away.
The undersecretary's in there.
I told you there's nothing between Midge and me, nothing.
It's all in your mind".
A couple of sobs escaped him, followed by a sentiment that revealed his emotional state.
"Why, I'm not fit to touch the hem of her garment".

"Leigh, get a grip on yourself.
It's not about you or Midge.
I have some security information about the prime minister".

Griffith looked at him suspiciously through red-rimmed eyes.
"Not about me?
You mean it, Phil?
You wouldn't pull my leg, old man?
I did get you on the platform this morning".

"I'm not pulling your leg.
Will you call that captain"?

"No use, he won't come".
He peered closely at Hoag in the gathering darkness.
"What happened to your head"?

"I was hit -- knocked out.
Now will you get him"?

"He says I'm to take the message".
He stared at Hoag drunkenly.
"Who'd hit you in the head"?

"It doesn't matter.
You get back to the captain and tell him this: Somebody's going to take a shot at the prime minister, and Mahzeer is in on the plot.
Tell him under no circumstances to trust the prime minister with Mahzeer".

Griffith said, "That's impossible.
Mahzeer's the ambassador".

"Nevertheless it's true".

"Impossible".
Griffith was trying to clear his head of the champagne fuzz that encased it.
"I'll show you how wrong you are.
Mahzeer and the prime minister are alone right now".
He nodded triumphantly.
"So that proves it"!

Hoag looked terrified.
"Where are they"?

"Where'd you expect, the john?
Mahzeer's office".

"Where is that"?

"Facing us, two flights up.
Look, old man, you can't go up.
They won't even let you in the front door.
So why don't you be a good boy and" --

Hoag grabbed him by the shoulders.
"Listen to me, Leigh.
If you want to spend another day in the State Department -- another day -- you get in there and tell that captain what I told you".
He bit out the words.
"And you know I can do it".

Griffith raised placating hands.
"Easy does it, Phil.
I was just going.
I'm on my way".
He turned and fled into the house and made his way up the marble stairs without once looking back.
On the second landing he paused to look for Docherty, didn't see him, and accepted a glass of champagne.
He took several large swallows, recollected that Docherty had gone up another flight, and decided he would be wise to cover himself by finding him.
The way Hoag was, no telling what he might say or do.
He finished his champagne and climbed uncertainly to the next landing.
At the top a uniformed officer blocked further progress.
"Yes, what is it"?
He asked.

"I want Captain Docherty".
He spotted Docherty coming out of a room at the far end of the corridor and called to him.

Docherty said, "It's okay, Bonfiglio, let him by".
They walked toward each other.
"Well"?

Griffith said, "Hoag told me to tell you" -- he waited until they were close;
it was hideously embarrassing -- "not to let the prime minister be alone with Mahzeer".

Griffith looked half-crocked to the captain;
it would be just like him.
"Why not"?

"He claims Mahzeer's in a plot to kill the P.M.".

Docherty went taut: was it possible?
Could the ambassador himself be the man on this side the prime minister feared?
Not possible, he thought;
the prime minister knew who his enemy was here;
he wasn't going to allow himself to be led meekly to the slaughter.
And if by some wild chance Mahzeer was the man, he wouldn't dare try anything now -- not after Docherty had looked in on the two of them to see that all was well.
Docherty was damned if he would make a fool of himself again the way he had earlier over the laundry truck.
One more muddleheaded play like that one and they'd be leading him away.
Still, this had to be checked out.

"Where'd your friend Hoag get his information"?
He asked.

"Haven't the faintest, Captain".

"Would you mind sending him up here?
I'd like to talk to him".
Troubled, he continued along the corridor, poking his head into the next office for a careful look around.

But Hoag had not stayed on the front steps when Griffith disappeared into the building.
He was unwilling to rely on Griffith's carrying his message, and he had no confidence the police would act on it.
If Mahzeer was alone with the prime minister he could be arranging his execution while Hoag stood out here shivering in the darkening street.
He would have to do something on his own.
But what?

The door opened and three men and a woman in a sari swept past him and down the stairs.
In the lighted interior he saw other men and women struggling into their wraps.
These were the early departures;
in half an hour the reception would be over.
If Mahzeer was planning to set up the prime minister for Muller he would have to do it in the next few minutes.
Hoag descended the stone steps to the street and looked up at the building.
Wide windows with many small leaded panes swept across the upper stories.
On the second floor he saw the animated faces of the party guests;
the scene looked like a Christmas card.
On the third floor one of the two windows was lighted;
it was framed in maroon drapes, and no faces were visible.
This would be Mahzeer's office.
He and the prime minister would be back from the window, seated at Mahzeer's desk;
they would be going over papers Mahzeer had saved as excuse for just such a meeting.
In a minute, or five minutes, the business would be done;
Mahzeer would stand up, the prime minister would follow.
Mahzeer would direct the prime minister's attention to something out the window and would guide him forward and then step to one side.
The single shot would come;
Hoag would carry its sound to his grave.
Mahzeer, of course, would be desolate.
How was he to suspect that an assassin had been lurking somewhere across the street waiting for just such a chance?

Hoag turned.
Where across the street?
Where was Muller waiting with the rifle?
Narrow four-story buildings ran the length of the block like books tightly packed on a shelf.
Most of them could be eliminated;
Muller's would have to be one of the half dozen almost directly opposite.
The legation was generously set back from the building line;
if the angle of fire were too great the jutting buildings on either side would interfere.
Would the shot come from a roof?
He ran his eye along the roof copings;
almost at once a figure bulked up.
But dully glinting on the dark form were the buttons and badge of a policeman.
With a cop patrolling the road Muller would have to be inside a building -- if he was here at all, and not waiting for the prime minister somewhere between this street and the terminal building at La Guardia Airport.

Hoag crossed the narrow street, squeezing between parked cars to reach the sidewalk.
From this side he could see farther into the legation's third-story window, but he saw no faces;
the room's occupants were still seated or they had been called into the hallway by an alarmed police captain.
If only the latter were true.
He walked rapidly along the buildings scanning their facades: one was a club -- that was out;
two others he ruled out because all their windows were lighted.
That left three, possibly four, one looking much like the next.
He climbed the steps of the first and opened the door to the vestibule.
He quickly closed it again.
He had assumed that all these buildings had been divided into apartments, but this one, from a glance at the hall furnishings, was obviously still a functioning town house, and its owners were in residence;
that made it doubtful as the hiding place of a man whose plans had to be made in advance.

He went on to the next building and found what he expected -- the mingled cooking aromas of a public vestibule.
On one wall was the brass front of a row of mailboxes;
there were six apartments.
Now what?
The names on the mailboxes meant nothing to him.
This was senseless -- he had no idea what to look for.
He peered in the boxes themselves;
all were empty except one, and that one was jammed with letters and magazines.
The occupants of Apartment Number 3 were probably away for a few days, and not likely to return on a Friday.
Had Muller made the same deduction?
Muller was attracted to the lore of mailboxes.

He opened the inner door;
the cooking odors were stronger -- all over the city, at this hour, housewives would be fussing over stoves.
He climbed, as quickly as he could urge his body, up the two unbroken flights to the third floor, pulling himself along on a delicate balustrade, all that remained of the building's beauty.
He paused on the landing to steady his breathing and then bent to examine the single door by the light of the weak bulb overhead.
Now he was certain: the lock had not yielded to Muller's collection of keys;
fresh scars showed that the door had been prized open.
It had been shut again, but the lock was broken;
he noted with a thrill of fear that the door moved under his touch.

What was he to do now?
He had thought no further than finding Muller.
He realized now he had more than half hoped he wouldn't find him -- that Muller would not be here, that the attempt would be scheduled for somewhere beyond Hoag's control.
He could not break in on an armed man.
He would have to climb back down to the street and signal a cop.
Was there time?

His thoughts were scattered by the sharp report of a rifle from the other side of the door.
Hoag pushed open the door: at the far end of the long dark room Muller was faintly silhouetted against the window, the rifle still raised;
he stood with his feet apart on a kitchen table he had dragged to the sill.
He turned his head to the source of the disturbance and instantly back to the window and his rifle sight, dismissing Hoag for the moment with the same contempt he had shown in their encounter at Hoag's apartment.

Hoag stretched his left hand to the wall and fumbled for the switch: evil flourishes in the dark.
The room was bathed in light at the instant Muller's second shot came.
Muller, nakedly exposed at the bright window like a deer pinned in a car's headlights, threw down the rifle and turned to jump from the table;
his face wore a look of outrage.
A shot caught him and straightened him up in screaming pain;
a following volley of shots shattered glass, ripped the ceiling, and sent him lurching heavily from the table.
He was dead before his body made contact with the floor.
Hoag stumbled back into the hall, leaned against the wall, and started to retch.

After Captain Docherty sent Arleigh Griffith for Hoag he was able to complete his detailed inspection of the third floor and to receive a report from his man covering the floors above before Griffith returned, buoyed up by a brief stop for another glass of champagne.