Circle of Death

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IT was evening in Manhattan. The blazing illumination of the Times Square district showed teeming throngs amid the man-made chasms. Blocked traffic was noisy with the sound of tooting horns.

A taxi twisted out of line. It negotiated a difficult right turn while pedestrians scrambled out of its path. The cab reached the clear stretch of a side street, shot along for a block, turned left through close but broken traffic, and followed an avenue a block.

Another quick left turn; the cab pulled up at the entrance to one of Manhattan’s popular low-priced hostelries — the Hotel Zenith. A pale-faced occupant alighted. He seemed nervous as he paid the driver. He puffed at a cigarette, then tossed it, half-smoked, to the sidewalk.

A big doorman in gorgeous uniform was superintending the unloading of the arrival’s luggage. A porter had stepped up to take the bags. The door of the taxi closed. The car pulled away while the man who had occupied it turned to enter the hotel.

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