“Yes, they’re going to try to contact tonight. We still don’t know just where—just that it’s in New York City, I’m to be on reserve: I’ll rush around to whoever finds the contact. You know, reinforce, lend a helping hand, be a staunch ally, give an assist to, help out in a pinch, stand back to back with, buddy mine, pards till hell freezes over. You’ll be at the plumbers’ ball, won’t you? Where is it?”

Alfred shook his head violently to clear it of the fog of clichés thrown out by Jones. “Menshevik Hall. Tenth Avenue. What do I do if I—if I discover the contact?”

“You phmpff, guy, phmpff like mad. And I’ll come a-running. Forget about telephones if you discover the contact. Also forget about special-delivery mail, passenger pigeon, pony-express rider, wireless telegraphy, and couriers from His Majesty. Discovering the contact comes under the heading of ‘emergency’ under Operating Procedure Regulations XXXIII-XLIX inclusive. So phmpff your foolish head off.”

“Right! Only thing, Jones—” there was a click at the other end as Jones hung up.

Tonight, Alfred Smith thought grimly, staring into the mirror. Tonight’s the night!

For what?

Menshevik Hall was a gray two-story building in the draftiest section of Tenth Avenue. The lower floor was a saloon through whose greasy windows a neon sign proclaimed:

THE FEBRUARY REVOLUTION WAS THE ONLY REAL REVOLUTION BAR GRILL BEER--WINES--CHOICE LIQUORS Alexei Ivanovich Anphinov, Prop.

The second floor was brightly lit. Music oozed out of its windows. There was a penciled sign on a doorway to one side of the bar:

BOSS PLUMBERS AND STEAMFITTERS OF THE METROPOLITAN NEW YORK AREA SEMIANNUAL FANCY DRESS BALL You Must Be in Costume to Be Admitted Tonight

(If you haven’t paid your association dues for this quarter, see Bushke Horowitz at the bar before going upstairs—Bushke’s wearing a Man in the Iron Mask costume and he’s drinking rum and Seven-Up.)