I got to my feet and moved off toward the palace, keeping well in the shadows. When the drive swung to the right to curve across in front of the building, I left it, went to hands and knees and followed a trimmed privet hedge, past dark rectangles of formal garden to the edge of a secondary pond of light from the garages. I let myself down on my belly and watched the shadows that moved on the graveled drive. There seemed to be two men on duty--no more. Waiting around wouldn't improve my chances. I got to my feet, stepped out into the drive and walked openly around the corner of the gray fieldstone building into the light. A short, thickset man in greasy Baronial green looked at me incuriously. My weather suit looked enough like ordinary coveralls to get me by--at least for a few minutes. A second man, tilted back against the wall in a wooden chair, didn't even turn his head. "Hey!" I called. "You birds got a three-ton jack I can borrow?" Shorty looked me over sourly. "Who you drive for, Mac?" "The High Duke of Jersey. Flat. Left rear. On a night like this. Some luck." "The Jersey can't afford a jack?" * * * * * I stepped over the short man, prodded him with a forefinger. "He could buy you and gut you on the altar any Saturday night of the week, low-pockets. And he'd get a kick out of doing it. He's like that." "Can't a guy crack a harmless joke without somebody talks about altar-bait? You wanna jack, take a jack." The man in the chair opened one eye and looked me over. "How long you on the Jersey payroll?" he growled. "Long enough to know who handles the rank between Jersey and Filly." I yawned, looked around the wide, cement floored garage, glanced over the four heavy cars with the Filly crest on their sides. "Where's the kitchen? I'm putting a couple of hot coffees under my belt before I go back out into that." "Over there. A flight up and to your left. Tell the cook Pintsy invited you." "I tell him Jersey sent me, low-pockets." I moved off in a dead silence, opened the door and stepped up into spicy-scented warmth. A deep carpet--even here--muffled my footsteps. I could hear the clash of pots and crockery from the kitchen a hundred feet distant along the hallway. I went along to a deep-set doorway ten feet from the kitchen, tried the knob and looked into a dark room. I pushed the door shut and leaned against it, watching the kitchen. Through the woodwork I could feel the thump of the bass notes from the orchestra blasting away three flights up. The odors of food--roast fowl, baked ham, grilled horsemeat--curled under the kitchen door and wafted under my nose. I pulled my belt up a notch and tried to swallow the dryness in my throat. The old man had fed me a half a gallon of stew, before we left home, but I was already working up a fresh appetite.