unfamiliar accent and a different manner. A porter carried his two suitcases, he carried his briefcase, which had faked business papers — he had become a salesman for British-made cars. He could talk intelligently about cars. He scanned the little crowd waiting in the big, low-ceilinged airport terminal, and a young-looking man in a well- cut suit with broad shoulders, wearing a narrow-brimmed trilby, came up to him.
“Mr West?”
“Yes.”
“It’s good to see you, Mr West. I’m Ed Pullinger of the FBI. I’m told I have to apologize for being Ed.” He had an open smile and an easy manner, his accent seemed strong to Roger, and he spoke more slowly than most men at home. “I hope you had a good flight.”
“First-class,” said Roger.
“I’m very glad to hear it.” Ed led the way, and the porter followed. Outside, lights glistened on a vast mass of cars across the tarmac road; one car was drawn up by the exit. “This is my car,” said Ed Pullinger, waving his hand towards a low-slung, gleaming giant of a Chrysler. “Put those grips in the back,” he said to the porter, and tipped the man. “Why don’t you get in, Mr West.”
Roger started to get in, banged against the wheel
“We drive on the wrong side,” Pullinger said. “I should have warned you.”
Roger laughed and sat in pillowed comfort as Pullinger drove off. The car moved smoothly on its automatic gears. They swept along a nearly deserted road.
“The parkway,” Pullinger said. Traffic was all one way, and travelled fast — fast compared with London city traffic “We go over the Queensborough Bridge,” he continued. “If it’s your first visit, that’s as good a way as any. Have you been here before?”
“Once — five years ago.”
“You’ve plenty new to see,” said Pullinger. He turned off, and they followed a twisting road for a mile or so, then turned again into a road which was divided into three — two carriageways with a wide gap between. Soon, they were going through a brightly lit section; advertisement signs which dwarfed London’s had a novelty which fascinated. They blinked, flashed, changed colour; they never stopped moving. “This is Queens,” Pullinger said. “Wait until you get to the bridge. Does Tony Marino still use his wheelchair?”
Roger’s head jerked round.
“Didn’t you know?” Pullinger looked surprised, almost guilty. He’s sensitive about it, I guess, although you wouldn’t know it He lost both legs during the war. Had a special wheelchair made. When he was here he used to sit at his desk and never move, looking at him you wouldn’t guess.”
“I didn’t realize why he never got up,” Roger said heavily.
Pullinger laughed.
“That would give Tony a big kick. A great guy, Tony Marino. Remind me to show you the letter I’ve got from him.” They were moving quickly past what seemed to be an endless stream of green lights at every intersection; the lights stretched out a long way ahead. “Now we won’t be long,” Pullinger said.
They reached the long approach to the Queensborough Bridge, with its cobbled surface; turned corners; and were suddenly on the bridge itself, tyres humming oddly on the metalled surface. Ahead, the lights of the skyline stood out against the pitch-black sky. From above, they had seemed brilliant; here they scintillated. They didn’t seem real
Pullinger kept up a running commentary.
“The one with the red vertical line at the top is the Empire State Building, that top part’s used for television transmitting. There’s the Chrysler Building.” They were jewelled swords, blades pointing skywards; thousands of windows and thousands of bright lights. “It’s some city,” Pullinger said. “It’s the finest city in the world.” He glanced sideways, expecting a challenge.
“I’ll argue when I get to know it better,” said Roger. “Just now, I’m trying to remember everything.”
He found himself thinking of the reason for Marino sitting in the same place and seldom moving his body. Nothing else about the man had suggested he had been so crippled.
“Fifty-seventh Street,” said Pullinger. “One for shops.” He named the avenues they passed. The lights seemed brighter than in Queens, traffic was thick, huge yellow, red and blue taxis crowded the streets. “Broadway,” said Pullinger. “I’ll drive you to Times Square, and then you can go and recover at your hotel You don’t have to work tonight.” He turned left, there was no change in the street scene until they turned a bend in the road, and ahead of them light seemed to blaze from the ground and from the sky. “More lights in that square mile than any other place in the world,” said Pullinger.
“It looks it,” Roger said faintly. He laughed. “And it’s real.”
“You’ll learn how real. The Milton’s on 44th Street, only a step from Times Square, Tony said to put you in the heart of things. Say, Mr West, would you like to have dinner with me? The hotel food is pretty good, I guess, but if you’re not too tired, we could go down to the Village, or any place you like.
The Village sounds fine! I’ll wash and freshen up.”
“I’ll see you to your room and then leave you for an hour,” said Pullinger. “Give you time to get an appetite. You’ll need one.” He had all the brightness and frankness of Herb, Dr Fischer, and the others at the Embassy. “It’s not a big hotel, but it’s good.”
The Milton Hotel had an unexpectedly old-fashioned look, and the foyer was half empty. Roger signed a slip of paper, not a book; a bell-hop, looking too small for the two big suitcases, took them up to the ninth floor; Room 901. Pullinger ordered drinks, right away. The room was on a corner, with windows in two walls. Lights flashed on and off from nearby signs; a police siren shrilled out down below, a car blared and went on blaring.
“Don’t let me forget that letter,” Pullinger said, and took out a billfold not unlike Ed Scammel’s but made of alligator skin. He handed Roger a letter. It was on the Embassy note-paper, signed by Marino, and ran:
