Chapter 1
THE FACE OF HATEIt was three o'clock in the morning. Along a deserted pavement
of Riverside Drive strode briskly a young man whose square-set
shoulders and erect poise suggested a military training. His coat,
thrown carelessly open to the cold night wind, displayed an expanse
of white indicative of evening dress. As he walked his heels
clicked sharply on the concrete with the forceful firm tread of the
type which does things quickly and decisively. The intense
stillness of the early morning hours carried the sound in little
staccato beats that could be heard blocks away. A few yards behind
him, moving furtively and noiselessly, almost as if he had been
shod with rubber, crept another figure, that of a stocky,
broad-shouldered man, who despite his bulk and weight moved
