“Maybe you’ve got something there, Chief,” I cut in. “Cadigan’s got the superduper of all wagons—a seven passenger luxury limousine with bulletproof glass, stereo, a bar, venetian blinds and heaven knows what else. Hot and cold running androids, maybe. He prowls the elevated highways with an ‘In Conference’ sign flashing over the windshield. So’s he can’t be wire-tapped or miked, I guess. It’d be a natch for Al Benson to go for.”
Pollini grinned.
“So if you were Benson what’d you do to fix the Mayor’s wagon?”
“Hitch it to a star,” I said, “and the closest spot to a star would be the observation platform of the Greater Empire State.”
“You’re probably right,” the Chief said. “Get going!”
I got.
Ten minutes later I walked out onto the observation platform on the 150th floor of the Greater Empire State Building—and found an incredulous crowd gathered around the mayor’s limousine. I felt good. I’d predicted.
I asked a guard, “How’d it get here?”
His eyebrows were threatening a back somersault.
“Don’t know,” he said. “I was looking over the side; then turned around and here it was! You have any ideas?”