The Face of Fear

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They weren't on his trail after all.

He felt slightly disappointed.

He put the gun away and studied the street. Six mercury vapor street

lamps-two at each end of the block and two in the middle-drenched the

pavement and the automobiles and the buildings in an eerie purple-white

light. The street was lined with three- and four-story townhouses, some

of them brownstones and some brick, most of them in good repair. There

didn't seem to be anyone at any of the lighted windows. That was good;

he did not want to be seen. A few trees struggled for life at the edges

of the sidewalks, the scrawny plane trees and maples and birches that

were all that New York City could boast beyond the boundaries of its

public parks, all of them stunted trees, skeletal, their branches like

charred bones reaching for the midnight sky. A gentle but chilly

January wind pushed scraps of paper along the gutters; and when the wind

gusted, the branches of the trees rattled like children's sticks on a