"I just remembered the customer's friend's name. It was Magnessen." 

 "Are you sure of that?" 

 "Absolutely," Haskins said, with the first confidence he had shown in hours. "I've taken the liberty of looking him up in the telephone book, sir. There's only one Manhattan listing under that name." 

 Rath glowered at him from under shaggy eyebrows. "Haskins, I hope you are not wrong about this. I sincerely hope that." 

 "I do too, sir," Haskins admitted, feeling his knees begin to shake. 

 "Because if you are," Rath said, "I will ... Never mind. Let's go!" 

 

 

 By police escort, they arrived at the address in fifteen minutes. It was an ancient brownstone and Magnessen's name was on a second-floor door. They knocked. 

 The door opened and a stocky, crop-headed, shirt-sleeved man in his thirties stood before them. He turned slightly pale at the sight of so many uniforms, but held his ground. 

 "What is this?" he demanded. 

 "You Magnessen?" Lieutenant Smith barked. 

 "Yeah. What's the beef? If it's about my hi-fi playing too loud, I can tell you that old hag downstairs--" 

 "May we come in?" Rath asked. "It's important." 

 Magnessen seemed about to refuse, so Rath pushed past him, followed by Smith, Follansby, Haskins, and a small army of policemen. Magnessen turned to face them, bewildered, defiant and more than a little awed. 

 "Mr. Magnessen," Rath said, in the pleasantest voice he could muster, "I hope you'll forgive the intrusion. Let me assure you, it is in the Public Interest, as well as your own. Do you know a short, angry-looking, red-haired, red-eyed man?" 

 "Yes," Magnessen said slowly and warily. 

 Haskins let out a sigh of relief. 

 "Would you tell us his name and address?" asked Rath. 

 "I suppose you mean--hold it! What's he done?" 

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