CHAPTER 1

A cold, driving rain slanted down from the black sky, looked like buckshot hitting the puddles along the curb. A bitter wind swept 64th Street as though down a canyon of man-made stone. The few pedestrians abroad leaned against the wind, clutched their hats and coats, scurried for the shelter of their doorways.

Above the entrance to Morgan’s Cave halfway up the block a neon buzzed and spit, staining the rain-drenched canopy a murky red.

A black Cadillac swung around the corner from Fifth Avenue, rolled to a stop in front of the curb. Rocky, the uniformed club doorman, hustled from the shelter of the entrance out to the car with an umbrella, but the driver shouldered him aside, ran across the sidewalk to the short flight of stairs that led down into the club.

The doorman folded the umbrella, slid into the driver’s seat and drove to a vacant space at the curb a few doors beyond the club. He cut the motor, doused the lights, checked the rear-view mirror to make certain the owner of the car was nowhere in sight.

Then he brought a small square of wax from his pocket and pressed the ignition key into it until he had a clear impression. He turned the wax over, repeated the process with the other key on the ring. In the reflected light of the street lamp, he examined the impression, grunted his satisfaction. He wiped the key carefully on his coat, got out of the car, shuffled back to his post.

Inside the Cave, it was close after the cold and wet of the street. Smoke stirred lazily around the ceiling like an early morning mist. Andrew Reeves grinned at the hatcheck girl as he handed her his hat. He waited to enjoy the effect on the loose peasant blouse and skimpy shorts as the girl reached up to put his hat on the top shelf. It was a ritual by now. She never disappointed him and he never failed to express his appreciation with a big tip.

Andrew Reeves had the bulk of a one-time athlete whose muscles had run to fat. His jaw, still strong and heavy, was making a last-ditch effort to keep from being engulfed by his jowls. The high color of his face testified to a diet of beef and bourbon supplemented by frequent massage. But it was a losing battle. Already a fine network of broken veins was visible along the sides of his nose.

When the hatcheck girl had finished making a production of checking his hat, Reeves walked over