return and it might be premature. Finally, in the late afternoon, I got hold of Mr. Sanders. I told him that you had gone looking into something and weren't back. I told him my house had been searched and I was worried about staying there. I asked if he could possibly send me a man or two to stand watch. He was delighted to help out."
"Good heavens!"
"He did ask me what you were doing--and I said I had no idea. I think he finally concluded that I was an over-nervous woman. But he sent three dandy men. They arrived--at Laura's, where I was then--around five. I came over here with them and that's all. Now you talk!"
At the conclusion of a story that left Bedelia numb, he looked at the telephone. "I suppose I must call the police, or the F.B.I., or both of them--now. And yet I hate to.
What I have found out will cause the arrest of a lot of underlings. French Paul and that detestable Wilser and a hundred more will probably get out of it. The whole, hideous thing should be untangled quietly for a while. And I'm absolutely exhausted. I don't know how I can even go to police headquarters--or any place-and answer hours of questions."
"I wouldn't, then. I'd go right upstairs and get a good night's sleep. Morning's sleep. Then you can go to the head of the F.B.I. Right now, there wouldn't be anybody on duty but a clerk of some sort. A minor person. And the police--from what Double-O says-
-aren't to be relied on entirely. You might be giving information to one of them who would pass it straight to the Maroon people."
He thought about it. "I believe you're right, Bedelia."
"I'm sure of it! Anyone who tried to come in here after us tonight would get hurt!"
He lowered himself into his tub. He was bruised, scratched, strained-sore from head to foot. He scrubbed at his hands and face without much success. He nearly fell asleep.
The trousers of Franz Wasser and the jacket of the nameless man lay on a chair in his bedroom. He picked them up, sat tiredly on his bed, and examined them. No labels.
The customers of the Maroon Gang were careful about labels. The jacket was rather thick. He squeezed it--and went to his bureau for scissors. He ripped the lining. Inside was a second, double lining of black cloth. Stitched in sections were ten one thousand dollar bills and many hundred dollar bills. The professor was becoming accustomed to such sums. He started to the stairway door to call Bedelia. He decided the fact would wait till they had slept. He tossed the jacket with the stitched-in money onto a chair. His bed creaked just once.
In a little-patronized, old-fashioned hotel in the coastal town of Vellehomez, in Cuba, the owner of the coat--the nameless man--came into a numb consciousness about an hour after a plane had quietly taken off.
The man's head hurt. He reached out and felt walls. One wall was cold and smooth. He remembered the antique tub. He remembered everything, then.
His coat was gone. That fact filled him with fury. The plane for America would be gone too. He got to his feet and found the door.
The kerosene lamps were still burning in the big room. No one was there.
Abandoned luggage lay about.
He walked over to the larger table and took matches back to the bathroom. He lighted the candle. He looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was sticky. He started to wash. Then he noticed the diluted iodine spilled on the dirty, cracked sink--and the face powder on the floor.
He peered at his own face for a moment, and thought about the last one to arrive: Burke-the man who had spent most of the day scribbling something which their guards had taken away, every few hours. Burke--whoever he was--had dark hair and a light skin.
Iodine and powder would reverse those characteristics. They were the same height and build.
The nameless man knew what had happened--although not why. The other, whom he had estimated to be something of a fool, had gone in his place. His rage increased.
Without the money, without
"Good heavens!"
"He did ask me what you were doing--and I said I had no idea. I think he finally concluded that I was an over-nervous woman. But he sent three dandy men. They arrived--at Laura's, where I was then--around five. I came over here with them and that's all. Now you talk!"
At the conclusion of a story that left Bedelia numb, he looked at the telephone. "I suppose I must call the police, or the F.B.I., or both of them--now. And yet I hate to.
What I have found out will cause the arrest of a lot of underlings. French Paul and that detestable Wilser and a hundred more will probably get out of it. The whole, hideous thing should be untangled quietly for a while. And I'm absolutely exhausted. I don't know how I can even go to police headquarters--or any place-and answer hours of questions."
"I wouldn't, then. I'd go right upstairs and get a good night's sleep. Morning's sleep. Then you can go to the head of the F.B.I. Right now, there wouldn't be anybody on duty but a clerk of some sort. A minor person. And the police--from what Double-O says-
-aren't to be relied on entirely. You might be giving information to one of them who would pass it straight to the Maroon people."
He thought about it. "I believe you're right, Bedelia."
"I'm sure of it! Anyone who tried to come in here after us tonight would get hurt!"
He lowered himself into his tub. He was bruised, scratched, strained-sore from head to foot. He scrubbed at his hands and face without much success. He nearly fell asleep.
The trousers of Franz Wasser and the jacket of the nameless man lay on a chair in his bedroom. He picked them up, sat tiredly on his bed, and examined them. No labels.
The customers of the Maroon Gang were careful about labels. The jacket was rather thick. He squeezed it--and went to his bureau for scissors. He ripped the lining. Inside was a second, double lining of black cloth. Stitched in sections were ten one thousand dollar bills and many hundred dollar bills. The professor was becoming accustomed to such sums. He started to the stairway door to call Bedelia. He decided the fact would wait till they had slept. He tossed the jacket with the stitched-in money onto a chair. His bed creaked just once.
In a little-patronized, old-fashioned hotel in the coastal town of Vellehomez, in Cuba, the owner of the coat--the nameless man--came into a numb consciousness about an hour after a plane had quietly taken off.
The man's head hurt. He reached out and felt walls. One wall was cold and smooth. He remembered the antique tub. He remembered everything, then.
His coat was gone. That fact filled him with fury. The plane for America would be gone too. He got to his feet and found the door.
The kerosene lamps were still burning in the big room. No one was there.
Abandoned luggage lay about.
He walked over to the larger table and took matches back to the bathroom. He lighted the candle. He looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was sticky. He started to wash. Then he noticed the diluted iodine spilled on the dirty, cracked sink--and the face powder on the floor.
He peered at his own face for a moment, and thought about the last one to arrive: Burke-the man who had spent most of the day scribbling something which their guards had taken away, every few hours. Burke--whoever he was--had dark hair and a light skin.
Iodine and powder would reverse those characteristics. They were the same height and build.
The nameless man knew what had happened--although not why. The other, whom he had estimated to be something of a fool, had gone in his place. His rage increased.
Without the money, without
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