Again the statement concealed questions: Did Spode work for an organization big enough to handle that kind of chore quickly? Did Spode know how soon the occupant would return?
Spode gave him no satisfaction but took what he could from Kemp’s statement: Kemp didn’t know where Trumble was or how long he would be away.
It was all shadowboxing and Spode could do better away from here. It was time to clear out. He said, “I’ll go out first. You can lock up when you leave. When I’m gone give me a few minutes to get clear—I might get trigger happy if you’re too tight on my ass.”
“Sure you might. I can see you’re the type who’d just go all to pieces.”
“Why take the chance?”
“I’ll give you five minutes. Do I get my gun back? If I lose the thing I not only have to pay for a replacement but I’ve got to explain how I lost it. You understand.”
“I understand, but I’ll keep it. Next time you’ll know better.” Spode backed out into the hallway.
“You’ve probably left prints on some more of that glass. Was I you I’d wipe them off before I left.”
“I guess I’ll have time for that.”
“I guess you will.” Spode turned and walked toward the front of the house, not hurrying.
In a hedge across the street Spode concealed the battery tape recorder that would pick up signals from the bugs he had planted in Trumble’s house. The bugs were voice-activated and the tape would run only when there was sound, but just the same there was only two hours’ tape on the machine and that meant someone would have to retrieve the tape once or twice a day and replace it. Spode didn’t know what good it would do to monitor Trumble but sometimes a blind shot paid off.
He spent two minutes going through Kemp’s car. He had left the house ahead of Kemp for two reasons: to see what was in the Ford, and to see what Kemp might bring out of the house with him. He was sure that Kemp had been searching for something too large to hide under his jacket.
Spode made it look as if he was planting a bug in Kemp’s car. It was what he would have done if he’d had a bleeper on him, but that wasn’t the kind of thing he carried around. Anyhow it would take Kemp quite a while to make sure the car was clean.
By the same token there was no reason to believe Kemp hadn’t planted a directional bleeper on Spode’s own car before he’d gone into the house. It was unlikely because Kemp probably thought the car belonged to a neighbor, but it was always possible. Still, Spode didn’t have time to hunt for it now. He just got in the car and drove away. His headlights swept the trees when he turned the corner; he made a circuit around three sides of the block and extinguished the lights and waited near the corner, doubting Kemp would fall for it but always willing to try the elementary things first. He could see Kemp’s car through a ranch house’s corner windows. Kemp hadn’t appeared yet and Spode used the time to review the clues Kemp had dropped.
When five minutes had elapsed he was satisfied he had milked Kemp’s hints for all he was going to get out of them. But the interval began to disturb him. Kemp had had plenty of time to get on the phone and summon reinforcements and if Spode was still hanging around when they arrived he might find himself in trouble. He began to think about giving it up.
Then Kemp came out of the house and walked casually to the Ford. He was clearly emptyhanded. The Ford backed into a driveway to turn around, and came forward; and Spode let him go. No point tailing a professionaclass="underline" the man would know how to ditch a tail and there was no way on earth to keep single-handed surveillance on a man who didn’t want to be followed and knew how to shake pursuit.
Spode switched on his lights and drove away.
He pulled into the lot behind the Tropical Inn on Speedway Boulevard and went inside to use the pay phone. It had been a long time since he had last dialed this long-distance number but his fingers worked without hesitation. It was nearly midnight and that meant in Virginia it was almost two in the morning, but that didn’t matter to the Agency; the Agency worked a twenty four-hour day.
A girl’s plastic voice chirped in his ear. “Good morning, six-eight-seven-nyun.”
“Extension three, please.”
He heard the whistles and buzzes of the automatic switchboard. A man’s voice came on the line: “Extension three.” It was a voice Spode knew well and he was relieved it was still there.
“Howdy, George. This is Jaime Spode.”
“Well for Christ’s sake. Where the hell you been keeping yourself? Still working for that politician?”
“Aeah. Too dumb to quit. How’s everything back at the old stand?”
“Situation normal all screwed up. Where you calling from, Jaime?”
“Arizona. Listen, do you boys happen to have a tourist taking in the scenery down here in Tucson?”
“Why?”
“Because I just ran into a fellow who dropped a few hints.”
“Describe him.”
“He’s pushing fifty, all brown—hair, eyes, clothes. Maybe five-foot-ten, hundred and seventy-five, round face, no visible marks, small earlobes, square hands with small fingernails. I took him for an insurance salesman the first time I saw him. He knows all the tricks, he’s a pro. Standard American speech pattern, light baritone. He was carrying an S & W nine-millimeter with a Swiss-cheese silencer, hip holster. I took a few snapshots and I think I’ve got some fingerprints but that takes time and I wondered if the description would ring a bell.”
“Not offhand it doesn’t, but then with fifty thousand field agents kicking around the world—”
“Look, George, the guy gave me Colonel Cecil’s phone number and told me to check him out there. He didn’t say whose number it was and I guess he was waiting to see if I knew. I didn’t call Cecil for obvious reasons. All I want to know at this point is whether I should lay off this guy or not.”
“What’s your phone number there?”
Spode read it off to him.
“Pay phone?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, stay put, I’ll call you back.”
Spode hung up and stood in the airless booth with the door slightly open so that the dome light in the ceiling was off. A plump girl got off a bar stool and came over to buy cigarettes from the machine; she gave him a speculative look and Spode grinned at her but shook his head. The girl shrugged and went back to the bar.
Something was needling Spode’s mental corners. He scowled and tried to focus on it but it was elusive. He still didn’t have it when the phone rang.
“Jaime?”
“Still here.”
“Look, where’d you run into this guy?”
So it was like that. Spode stiffened and pulled the booth door shut. “Who is he, George?” His voice had an edge now.
“I don’t think we want to talk about that on an open line, Jaime.”
“Then we don’t want to talk about where I saw him either, do we?” Spode was horse-trading. Evidently George had run the verbal description through the massive computerized R & I and a card had popped up.
“Look, Jaime, this is kind of touchy because you’re not an employee any more. But we all know you’re no security risk so I’m going to play this a bit looser than the regulations call for. I want you to deliver those fingerprints and negatives to Art Miller right now. Can do?”
“Maybe. There’ll be a price tag.”
“I thought there would but that’s okay. This may turn out to be big enough for all of us.”
“Does Miller have a safe line?”
“Yes.”
“Then you phone him and tell him to cooperate with me. Will you do that?”
“Of course. He’ll tell you what you want to know. But you’re going to have to play this one strictly by our rules, Jaime. As far as this one goes you’re back on our team again.”
“Up to a point. I still work for the Senator.”
“We’ll talk about that later. I’ll call you at Art’s. How long will it take you to get there?”