Kintyre would not have thought an ordinary drug addict anything to reckon with: the effects are too ruinous. But in spite of all the lurid stories, marijuana is a mild sort of dope, which leaves more control than alcohol and probably does less physiological damage than tobacco. If it came to trouble, Larkin was not going to be inconvenienced by a reefer or two. "Friend of mine," said Guido. He was still tense, his smile a meaningless rictus. But a hope was becoming clear to see on him, that the episode would pass over quietly. Kintyre did not mean for it to. There was more than coincidence here. If Larkin simply had private business to discuss, even illegal business, Guido would have had no reason to fear trouble. Larkin could merely wait until the professor took his bumbling presence home. _The trouble is_, thought Kintyre, _I've been asking so many questions. I might irritate Happy here._ Wherefore he dropped his bomb with some care: "Perhaps you can help me, Mr. Larkin. I suppose you know Guido's brother was murdered. Guido won't tell me where he was during that time, Saturday and Sunday, and I'm afraid he might get in trouble with the law." Guido regarded Larkin like a beggar. Larkin sat still. So still. It must have been half a minute before he moved. Then he looked through a woman's lashes at Kintyre and said: "He was with me. We went out and picked daisies all weekend." Kintyre smiled. "Well, if that's all--" His bomb had missed. He dropped another. "To avoid trouble, though, you'd better both go to the police with a statement." "You're no cop," said Larkin. "No. It was only a suggestion." Having bracketed the target, Kintyre dropped his third missile. "If they happen to ask me first what I know about it, I can refer them to you. Where are you staying?" "_Gèsu Cristo_," groaned Guido out of a lost childhood. Larkin's face remained dead. But he laid down his cigarette and said slowly and clearly: "I told you to run along home. This time I mean it, daddy-o." Kintyre bunched his muscles--only for an instant, then he remembered that he must be at ease, at ease. "I'm beginning to wonder what you really were doing last weekend, Terry," he said. There was hardly a visible movement. He heard the click, and the switchblade poised on the bench, aimed at his throat. "End of the line," Larkin told him without rancor. "On your way. If you know what's good for you, you won't come back." "Do you know," murmured Kintyre, "I think this really is a case for the police. Ever hear of citizen's arrest?" Guido's wind rattled in his gullet. Larkin's blade spurted upward. It was an expert, underhand sticking motion; Kintyre could have died with hardly a noise, in that booth designed not to be looked into from outside.