“Now what the hell did I say?” she wondered.

It was twenty minutes past six when the telephone rang.

A proper male voice answered. “H. Exodus Clay’s Funeral Parlor. Good evening. May we be of service to you?”

“This is the Pinkerton Detective Agency,” the voice said at the other end. “Leave me speak to the boss.”

It was a Southern voice with a Mississippi accent. It was a white man’s voice.

The attendant said, “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

A moment later Clay’s querulous voice came on the line, “What is it now?”

“This is the Pinkerton Detective Agency,” the voice repeated.

“You said that before,” Clay snapped. “This is my funeral parlor. Now let’s get on.”

“We are sending three men up to your place to guard the ambulance you’re sending for Mister Holmes,” the voice informed him.

During the past hour, the voice had repeated the same words to sixteen other ambulance services and funeral homes in Harlem without the desired result. But this time the voice struck pay dirt.

“It’s not an ambulance I’m sending,” Clay said tartly. “It’s a hearse.”

A chuckle came over the wire. “That’s just the right thing,” the voice said. “What time are you sending it?”

“Casper has arranged for his own guards,” Clay replied with a note of racial pride in his thin, peevish voice. “We’re all local people up here. We don’t need any big-time race-track detectives with machine guns just to go a few blocks down the street. Inform your employers that it’s already covered.”

“That’s mighty fine,” the voice said. “But we’ve been employed by the national party. We’ll cover the coverers.”

“Well, you’d better hurry then. It’ll leave here in half an hour.”

“That’ll work out fine,” the voice said. “We won’t interfere with any of the arrangements; we’ll keep in the background. You don’t even have to mention us.”

“You needn’t worry about that,” Clay said sarcastically. “I don’t get paid to advertise the Pinkertons.”

With that rejoinder he clapped down the receiver.

There was a traffic jam on the Brooklyn Bridge.

A trailer truck had skidded on a spot of slick ice caused by the overheated radiator of a passenger car that had passed a short time previously, and sideswiped a passenger bus.

There were no casualties, but the truck bumper had gored a hole in the side of the bus and it took time to get them apart.

Grave Digger and Coffin Ed sat in the stalled line of cars and fumed. They had the feeling that time was rushing past like a maniac with a knife and they were caught barefooted with their hands tied. They couldn’t back out, couldn’t squeeze through; they couldn’t abandon the car on the bridge and walk.

Roman sat in the back in his sailor’s suit, white cap stuck on the back of his head and his manacled hands in his lap.

Grave Digger looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes past six. The snow was coming down.