"SO FAR IVE HIT NOTHING
BUT A SERIES OF STONE WALLS!"
Butcher said to the director of White Hat. "I need
something—anything—^to go on."
The director handed Bucher a telegram. He read
the message quickly. The message disclosed that
United States narcotics agents had raided a house
in the port city of New Bedford, Massachusetts,
and had found an even five hundred kilos of uncut
heroin,
"You see, Mr. Bucher, the thing is getting bigger
and bigger by the hour. Customs is at wit's end
trying to discover how the stuff is being shipped
into the country, but so far they've uncovered absolutely
nothing. Locating Procetti is about the
only lead any of us have to go on, even if you don't
think he could engineer the job. I'm afraid it's up
to you."
"You don't want Procetti burned.'' It was a statement,
not a question.
"Not until after we learn what he knows. Once
that's taken care of, do what you see fit. I understand
he's got some debts long overdue."
"You're damn right he has," Bucher growled,
getting to his feet. "I've got a personal score to
settle with that son of a bitch. I'll keep you posted
on what happens in Reno."
"Just a minute, Mr. Bucher." The director of
White Hat motioned Bucher back into his seat
"The plane's engines have been kept warm. I think
we can have you in Reno long before any commercial
flight will be able to."