It was more than cold at six thirty the next morning when Ken hurried Sandy out of the apartment and along quiet gray streets toward Barrack’s address. It was bitter. Ken had pointed out that Sandy ought to wear a hat, to hide his all-too-obvious red hair, and for once Sandy had raised no objections. But he had complained loudly when Ken insisted that they both put on sunglasses, to further conceal their identity.
“If you don’t think dark glasses will look crazy, in the dead of winter—” Sandy began.
“They’re a protection against snow blindness,” Ken told him. “Go on. Put them on.”
They walked quickly, their chins buried in their coat collars, until they reached the corner of Barrack’s block.
“You stay here and I’ll go up to the next corner,” Ken suggested. “That way we’ll be able to pick him up whichever way he turns when he comes out of the house.”
“All right. But if he doesn’t come out soon I’ll be picking up double pneumonia instead,” Sandy warned.
“We’ll both follow him, but not too close together,” Ken went on. “And if one of us should lose him—if we should get separated—we’ll meet at the museum at ten o’clock.”
The icy minutes dragged slowly by. But actually it was barely seven o’clock when Ken caught sight of Barrack. The man was dressed this time in a battered hat and well-worn overcoat, and he was walking briskly toward the corner where Ken stood.
Ken could see that Sandy had already left his own post and was coming along behind Barrack. Ken stepped hastily inside a convenient hallway.
He waited there until Barrack passed by, and then sauntered slowly in the man’s wake, giving Sandy a chance to pass him.