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The dead Mexican lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. On the flat’s close air still lingered the tang of gunpowder, but the unnatural angle of the Mexican’s head suggested his Colt .38 had been a poor idea. He had gotten off one shot, then had been knocked backward over the sprung worn sofa, had landed on the back of his neck and had died.

The blond man flexed his hands once, like a wrestler who has thrown his opponent in the ring and is waiting for him to rise again.

“Goddam fool,” he said aloud, even though he was quite alone in the shabby flat.

He looked like a wrestler, in fact, or a pro football player, apart from horn-rimmed glasses with dark heavy frames which gave his hard, bony face an unexpected scholar’s cast. Ash-blond hair came nearly to his shoulders, and his short-sleeved white shirt, open at the throat, exposed arms which were lumped and knotted with muscle. His dark slacks emphasized the trimness of his waist and hips.

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