The counterman put a paper bag in front of me and I paid him and went out. I stood by the car, jingling the keys on my palm and thinking. I would be in Miami in an hour, and I knew where to go for the passport job. Foster was a nice guy, and I liked him--but I'd never have a break like this again. I reached for the car door and a voice said, "Paper, Mister?" I jumped and looked around. A dirty-faced kid was looking at me. "Sure," I said. I gave him a single and took the paper, flipped it open. A Mayport dateline caught my eye: "Police Raid Hideout. A surprise raid by local police led to the discovery here today of a secret gangland fortress. Chief Chesters of the Mayport Police stated that the raid came as an aftermath of the arrival in the city yesterday of a notorious northern gang member. A number of firearms, including army-type machine guns, were seized in the raid on a house 9 miles from Mayport on the Fernandina road. The raid was said by Chief Chesters to be the culmination of a lengthy investigation. C. R. Foster, 50, owner of the property, is missing and feared dead. Police are seeking an ex-convict who visited the house last night. Chief Chesters stated that Foster may have been the victim of a gangland murder." * * * * * I banged through the door to the darkened room and stopped short. In the gloom I could see Foster sitting on the edge of my bed, looking my way. "Look at this," I yelped, flapping the paper in his face. "Now the cops are dragging the state for me--and on a murder rap at that! Get on the phone and get this thing straightened out--if you can. You and your little green men! The cops think they've stumbled on Al Capone's arsenal. You'll have fun explaining that one...." Foster looked at me interestedly. He smiled. "What's funny about it, Foster?" I yelled. "Your dough may buy you out, but what about me?" "Forgive me for asking," Foster said pleasantly. "But--who are you?" * * * * * There are times when I'm slow on the uptake, but this wasn't one of them; the implications of what Foster had said hit me hard enough to make my knees go weak. "Oh, no, Mr. Foster," I said. "You can't lose your memory again--not right now, not with the police looking for me. You're my alibi; you're the one that has to explain all the business about the guns and the ad in the paper. I just came to see about a job, remember?" My voice was getting a little shrill. Foster sat looking at me, wearing an expression between a frown and a smile, like a credit manager turning down an application. He shook his head slightly. "My name is not Foster."