The gadget had a ghost
jumped again. "Where'd he get that address?"

"You will see," said the Turk. "I repeat that this was two months ago! I replied that you were registered, but not at that address. He wrote again, forwarding a photograph of part of that sheepskin page and asking agitatedly if those were your fingerprints. I replied that they were, save for the scar on the thumb. And I added, with lively curiosity, that two days previously you had moved to 750 Fatima--the address M. Duval mentioned a month previously."

"Unfortunately," said Coghlan, "that just couldn't happen. I didn't know the address myself until a week before I moved."

"I am aware that it could not happen," said Ghalil painedly. "My point is that it did."

"You're saying," objected Coghlan, "that somebody had information three weeks before it existed!"

Ghalil made a wry face. "That is a masterpiece of understatement--"

"It is madness!" said Duval hoarsely. "It is lunacy! _Ce n'est pas logique!_ Be so kind, M. Coghlan, as to regard the rest of the page!"

Coghlan pulled off the clips that held the police-department letterhead over the top of the parchment page, and immediately wondered if his hair was really standing on end. There was writing there. He saw words in faded, unbelievably ancient ink. It was modern English script. The handwriting was as familiar to Coghlan as his own--Which it was. It said: 

_See Thomas Coghlan, 750 Fatima, Istanbul._ 

_Professor, President, so what?_ 

_Gadget at 80 Hosain, second floor, back room._ 

_Make sure of Mannard. To be killed._

Underneath, his fingerprints remained visible.

Coghlan stared at the sheet. He found his glass and gulped at it. On more mature consideration, he drained it. The situation seemed to call for something of the sort.

There was silence in the room, save for the drowsy sounds of the night outside. They were not all drowsy, at that. There were voices, and somewhere a radio emitted that nasal masculine howling which to the Turkish ear is music. Uninhibited taxicabs, an unidentifiable jingling, an intonation of speech, all made the sound that 
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