I waited for no more. Almost running, I went the two blocks to the stop sign and turned toward the drugstore. "Made it," I said under my voice as I pushed open the door and went in. I slid into the same seat I had occupied before. The same counter girl took my order for coffee. "Black this time," I said. "And where's my paper?" My heart wasn't pounding any more. I was still shaky, but there wasn't a chance of my dying. Not a chance. I grinned to myself. My coffee came. Also a paper. I sipped the coffee and tried to get interested in the paper. But I kept going back to what had happened. Then I heard the sound of police sirens. They approached until they were just outside. I looked out and saw the police cars turn the corner, going in the direction of the house where I had been. So someone had died after all! * * * * * I reached under my coat and touched the spot where the needle had struck me. It was a little sore, but not enough to bother me. Who had been killed? George Wile? Suddenly I remembered the exchange of wallets I had made. I reached into my hip pocket and took out his wallet. I looked in the money compartment and saw I had enriched myself by twenty dollars. Grinning, I looked in another pocket of the wallet. There was a package of needles. My grin wiped off. They were ordinary sewing needles. But the pointed ends were covered with what seemed to be gray paint. The counter girl was at the far end scrubbing the counter. The baldish cashier was on the other side of the store behind a counter, waiting on a man and a woman. I took Golfin's billfold and quickly thumbed through it. There were several of the three dollar bills. There were two ones. And there were five twenty dollar bills. I shoved all the money into my pocket except one of the three dollar bills. I made sure no one was looking my way, and dropped Golfin's billfold on the floor, kicking it under the counter behind me in the center aisle where it wouldn't be found unless the janitor swept under there. I decided to do the same with Wile's. After all, if Sam Golfin were right, and there was a murder, I didn't want a couple of strange wallets on me. Nor those coated needles. I looked at the three dollar bill in my hand. It was like that other one. Picture of Truman on it, atomic mushroom on the other side, with the atom superimposed. I squinted at the fine print. _Series of 1958._ That made me frown. Why would someone bother to change the date on phony money? And it was too nice a job of engraving for such a thing too. I thought of one of the tests for good money. I rubbed the three dollar bill against the margin of the newspaper. Some of the ink came off.