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for aiding the Russians. The letters are postmarked New York City. The stationery is from the Taft Hotel.”
    It wasn’t much of a lead. I took the small stack of letters and noticed that there was a check on top of the pile made out to Toby Peters. I considered not cashing it and keeping it for the autograph but I had bills to pay and places to go.
    “I’ll be back,” I said.
    “And I,” he said, looking out the window, his back to me, “will be here.”
    The breeze played the early spring leaves like glass chimes. The street smelled clean and the check felt good in my pocket. I crossed the sidewalk, suitcase in hand, and waited for a Chevy coupe to pass before I strode the street and went up to the porch where I had seen the guy with binoculars. He wasn’t there now, but someone was behind the curtain to the right of the front door as I climbed the stairs.

2
     
    Before I could knock, the door opened. The guy in front of me didn’t look like the FBI. He looked like a grey stork wearing a dark, pressed suit. He was too skinny for FBI, too old. He was almost bald, but the hair that was there was rapidly going grey. There were dark sacks under his eyes.
    “Come in, Peters,” he said, pushing the door all the way and making a shoveling motion with his hand to hurry me along. The element of surprise was certainly not with me.
    “You want a cup of coffee, a beer? We’ve got Rheingold,” he said, leading me into the living room. He stopped and turned to me with a smile that crept up the right side of his face. “Pepsi, you like Pepsi, right?”
    “Right out of the bottle,” came a deep voice from a high-backed stuffed chair of faded yellow with big pink flowers embroidered on it. The guy in the chair stood up. He was about two inches shorter than I was and about the same age as the guy who opened the door. This one had more hair, all black, probably dyed.
    “You don’t look like FBI,” I said.
    “The gravy’s in the navy,” said the one who had answered the door. “We’re retreads, retirees brought back to do our duty. There’s a war on, Peters. The Japanese and Germans are trying to kill us and we’re trying to stop them. Simple enough?”
    “Pretty clear to me,” I said. “Can I sit?”
    “You may sit,” said the short one. “Whether you can or not depends on whether you have a sore ass or that bad back of yours is acting up.”
    I put down my suitcase and sat on the sofa, which was just as yellow and pink and flowered as the chair. The whole room was a washed-out vase of flower patterns and faded yellows.
    “Place belongs to an English professor named May,” said the stork who had let me in. “His wife went on vacation with him.”
    “At your request,” I said, smiling.
    “We politely asked him to leave or be considered a Nazi spy,” said the shorter one, turning his chair and sitting in it so he could face me. “It’s remarkable what you can accomplish during wartime by appealing to people’s sense of patriotism …”
    “… and fear,” his partner added.
    “You two had this act going quite a while,” I said.
    “Hey,” said the skinny one, “we go back to Alvin Karpis. Remember Alvin Karpis?”
    I was about to answer when I realized the question was part of the act.
    “G-men,” said the shorter guy. “He called us G-men, gave us the name. Better than a million dollars’ worth of publicity.”
    “Only Karpis never said it,” chirped the big guy. “Hoover made it up. A little bit of party chatter for you, Tobias. You’ll never get us to confirm it for you publicly though.”
    “Never,” agreed the shorter one with a shake of his head. “You want that Pepsi?”
    “Sure. Do you guys have names? Moran and Mack? Gallagher and Shean, Abbott and Costello?”
    “Just call us Spade and Archer,” said the shorter one. “I’ll be Spade. He’s Archer.”
    “He looks more like an arrow,” I said.
    “I’m on a diet,” said Archer. “Spade, you want