"I think not. Better not, I think." "Then I can't snap a picture of him. I can only give you a description." "That will suffice." "Okay." I dropped the notebook on my desk. "Your address on Sixty-eighth Street, that's not an apartment building, is it?" "No, it's a house. My house." "Then I shouldn't enter it and I shouldn't get too near it. If it's an operative he would probably recognize me. This is how it will be. At seven o'clock on the dot you will leave the house, walk to Second Avenue--don't cross it--and turn left. About thirty paces from the corner is a lunchroom, and in front--" "How do you happen to know that?" "There aren't many blocks in Manhattan I don't know. In front of the lunchroom, either at the curb or double-parked, a blue and yellow taxi will be standing with the driver in it and the flag down. The driver will have a big square face and big ears. You will say to him, 'You need a shave,' and he will say, 'My face is tender.' To make sure, when you get in look at his name on the card. It will be Albert Goller." I spelled it. "Do you want to write it down?" "No." "Then don't forget it. Give him the address on West Eighty-second Street and sit back and relax. That's all for you. Whatever the driver does, he'll Too Many Clients 7 know what he's doing. Don't keep looking back; that might make it a little harder." He was smiling. "It didn't take you long to set the stage, did it?" "I haven't got long." I glanced up at the clock on the wall. "It's nearly five." I stood up. "I'll be seeing you, but you won't be seeing me." "Wonderful," he said, leaving the chair. "Measure your mind's height by the shade it casts. I knew you would be the man for it." He moved and offered a hand. "Don't bother to show me out, I know the way." I went along, as always for some years, ever since the day a visitor left the door unlatched, sneaked back in, and hid behind the couch in the front room, and during the night went through everything in the office he could open.