Riggs is Here

of the man himself. He was standing there on the porch, close against the white front of the house.

Tommy sank down lower until his body was buried in the shadows of the hedge, moved on around the corner out of sight of the man. Then he straightened, vaulted the hedge. He retraced his steps on the other side until he could see the red tip of the cigarette again.

He waited there, moving only slightly when his muscles cramped. The guy on the porch snapped his cigarette in a spinning arc to the driveway, kept his place close to the front door. Then Carey came, the headlights of his car throwing a white brilliance up the drive. Carey drove the coupe up to the doors of the garage, left it parked outside. Before the headlights flicked out, Tommy saw that the doors were locked with a heavy padlock.

The man came down off the porch. He called ahead of him softly: "Carey!"

The International Agency dick stopped halfway out of his car. "Yeah? Who is it?"

"Me," was the guy's only a