Kopfelman, winded and slightly wary, his glasses fogged up from perspiration, had cast about through the growing dusk and dire portent of traffic lights to check out an old lady with a Dump Nixon button who had been doggedly trailing him from the subway stop on Sixth Avenue to the entrance-way of Horn and Hardart on West 57th Street.

He was definitely sure he was being followed, though maybe through a system of relays, the old lady acting as an innocent decoy—Apple Annie.