Treasures [antikvár]

The two United States marshals, who had come to make an arrest, parked their inconspicuous black car, got out, and looked up at the ornamental ne-omodern roof of the sixty-five-storied tower. Somber rain clouds drooped over the city, releasing their first drops just as the pair in their plain dark suits reached the bronze doors that fronted the avenue. The younger man, who seemed almost imperceptibly to hesitate, followed the other across the marble floor to the long rank of elevators. This was no ordinary assignment today, nor was this a part of New York into which he usually was sent, and he was feeling a certain tension. It bothered him that he did. It was unprofessional. "It seems funny in a way to handcuff the guy," he said. "Guy'll be wearing a Brooks Brothers suit probably. You know what I mean? He's not an armed thug." "But you can't ever tell what a person will do. He could go off his nut and start punching. Or he could even head for the window. Press the forty-first floor, will you?" The elevator shd upward silently as if on silken cords. VII