I strolled off the plane and into the terminal. This was the rough point, right at the beginning. The dossier said Lowney had never been to Philadelphia and knew none of Klaus’ men personally. So far as we knew, no photo had been sent. The letter we intercepted mentioned only that Lowney could be recognized by the yellow shirt, string tie, and sunglasses. But if a photo had been sent—

I stood near the baggage counter and lit up. Two or three minutes went by. Then I saw two guys edging up. One was six-three high, and about the same wide. The other was small and ratty-looking. They both wore heavy slouchy-looking winter clothing. I ignored them.

The big one rumbled, “Uh—Lowney?”

I looked them over. “Mister Lowney,” I said coldly.

“Yeah. We’re from Klaus.”

“Mister Lowney.”

They looked at each other. I stared right through them. The ratty one said, “Klaus sent us, Mister Lowney. We’ve got a car waiting outside.”

I made no comment on that. “Where’s the john in this place?” I asked.

“There’s one right around that bend,” the big one said.

“Are you going to call me Mister Lowney or do I have to report that you boys are a bunch of crude yeggs?”

The big lad glowered at me. “The washroom is right back there, Mister Lowney.”

“Thanks,” I said. I pulled my baggage claim check loose and, handed it to the ratty one. “Here. I’m going to go comb my hair. Pick up my luggage. Two Samsonite cases.”

“Yes, Mr. Lowney.” I could see him gagging over every syllable.

I ducked into the washroom, gave my pompadour some fresh curlicues, and leaned against the wall and looked at my watch for five minutes. Then I walked slowly out. The reception committee was waiting by the baggage counter, and the little one had his foot up on one of my suitcases. When he saw me, he got his foot off. In a hurry.

“We got your bags, Mr. Lowney.”

“Okay. You want a medal?”

“Follow us, Mr. Lowney.”

I let them carry my suitcases. By now they had caught the idea that I wasn’t going to get chummy with underlings. We marched out through the terminal to the parking lot, and up to an Imperial sedan half a block long. Why gang boys go for these big black limousines I’ll never understand. They might just as well put up a neon sign that said Gangster.

The little man opened the back door and I got in. Pint-size tried to get in next to me, but I shooed him away with my foot.

“You sit in front, man.”

The beady eyes were marbles of hate. “Now listen here, tough guy—”

“I said you sit in front. Want to debate it with me?”