The sign reminded Frelaine. He would call Morrow as soon as he reached his apartment.
He crossed the street, quickening his stride. He could hardly wait to get home now, to open the envelope and discover who his victim was. Would he be clever or stupid? Rich, like Frelaine’s fourth Victim, or poor, like the first and second? Would he have an organized Spotter service, or try to go it on his own?
The excitement of the chase was wonderful, coursing through his veins, quickening his heartbeat. From a block or so away, he heard gunfire. Two quick shots, and then a final one.
Somebody got his man, Frelaine thought. Good for him.
It was a superb feeling, he told himself. He was alive again.
* * *
At his one-room apartment, the first thing Frelaine did was call Ed Morrow, his spotter. The man worked as a garage attendant between calls.
“Hello, Ed? Frelaine.”
“Oh, hi, Mr. Frelaine.” He could see the man’s thin, grease-stained face, grinning flat-lipped at the telephone.
“I’m going out on one, Ed.”