Hoag turned. Where across the street? Where was Muller waiting with the rifle? Narrow four story buildings ran the length of the block like books tightly packed on a shelf. Most of them could be eliminated; Muller's would have to be one of the half dozen almost directly opposite. The legation was generously set back from the building line; if the angle of fire were too great the jutting buildings on either side would interfere. Would the shot come from a roof? He ran his eye along the roof copings; almost at once a figure bulked up. But dully glinting on the dark form were the buttons and badge of a policeman. With a cop patrolling the road Muller would have to be inside a building -- if he was here at all, and not waiting for the prime minister somewhere between this street and the terminal building at La Guardia Airport.

Hoag crossed the narrow street, squeezing between parked cars to reach the sidewalk. From this side he could see farther into the legation's third story window, but he saw no faces; the room's occupants were still seated or they had been called into the hallway by an alarmed police captain. If only the latter were true. He walked rapidly along the buildings scanning their facades: one was a club -- that was out; two others he ruled out because all their windows were lighted. That left three, possibly four, one looking much like the next. He climbed the steps of the first and opened the door to the vestibule. He quickly closed it again. He had assumed that all these buildings had been divided into apartments, but this one, from a glance at the hall furnishings, was obviously still a functioning town house, and its owners were in residence; that made it doubtful as the hiding place of a man whose plans had to be made in advance.