“Be here at seven-thirty Monday morning, or at the airfield at eight-twenty, Mr. Harris.”
“By the way, if she should come back here to check anything about her ticket, don’t tell her that I got a seat on the plane. I’m going to tell her I couldn’t make it, and then surprise her.”
“Certainly, Mr. Harris.”
Schedule time was five and a half hours. Certainly not a very long time in which to wiggle into her good graces. Particularly since she’d be cautious. She looked intelligent. No point in taking any chances at this stage of the game.
He remembered how delighted Wesley Gibb had sounded over the phone. “Good work, Harris! Excellent. Daytona, you say? And you figure that he’ll join her there? This is much better than I expected.”
One stop at Washington and one at Atlanta. Maybe there’d be a chance to get better acquainted. She’d feel bound to stick close to him just to back up the story he had handed Red-face.
He made the sounds and movements of a man waking up. She responded faintly to his smile.
“Going all the way to Miami?” he asked, making it sound like polite conversation.
“Just to Jacksonville.”
“I get off there too.”
He saw her eyes narrow a bit. Was that pushing it too fast? He said, “This is the best time to go down. Before the mob hits Florida. Lots of people stay up north for Christmas. Last year I flew down in late January. Had a bad time finding a place to live. Are you all set for a place?”
“No.”
“Well, don’t fret about it, Miss Quinn. You’ll find a place without any trouble this time of year. Of course, you’ll pay through the nose for it. Prices don’t collapse down there until April when the season is about all over. Or have you been there before?”
“This is the first time,” she said. And he saw the mistrust fading.
“I get down every year. Have to. Sinus kills me if I stay in New York. Of course, Jax itself is no resort town. You have to go down the line to find that. Daytona isn’t too bad.”
“I’ve always wanted to see Florida!” she said.
He saw the eagerness on her face, the light in her blue eyes, and she was like a grave child, suddenly pleased by an unexpected gift. He decided suddenly that he liked her very much indeed, and that annoyed him, because it is not healthy to like what you must destroy. A surgeon does not operate on his own. And Steve’s business was, in essence, an operation. To remove the cash and turn the criminal over to the police. In that order.
He told himself that she was as crooked and dangerous as Al Barnard. He wondered what she would do if he got his small bag, opened it up and handed her the two glossy prints. Probably the serenity of her face would be distorted into feline rage, and her nails would reach for his eyes.
“What sort of work do you do, Mr. Harris?” she asked.
He had that all set, and answered quickly, “Commercial art. That’s how I’m able to follow the weather around. Of course, I’m closer to my markets in New York, but a little sunshine is worth the trouble.”
He saw her glance at his hands. He guessed that she was trying to visualize him sitting at a drawing board. He flexed his fingers, said, “I’d like to sketch you some time, Miss Quinn. Maybe we can get together in Florida.”
“That would be nice,” she said, smiling, “but I’m not exactly a cover girl.”
“Turn your head a little. There. Now look up a little more. Fine. I’d want to get that line of brow and cheekbone. When an artist sees that sort of bone formation, he knows he’s looking at a woman who will merely get lovelier as the years go by.”
She flushed.
“I bet your mother is a nice looking woman.”
Gloria’s mouth twisted. “She... she was, before she died.”
“Sorry, Miss Quinn. Always have my foot in my mouth.”
She frowned. “My ears feel funny,” she said.
“Sure. Hear how the sound of the motors has changed? We’re coming into Washington. Better fasten that belt again.”
The stewardess, standing at the door, announced that there would be a delay of an hour before take-off. The scheduled stop was only a half hour. That meant that they would arrive at Jacksonville at three instead of two-thirty, provided there were no more delays.
Gloria walked slowly toward the administration building. It was much warmer in Washington than it had been in New York, but the air was thick and damp. She glanced up and saw that Steve Harris had fallen in step with her.
“Coffee?” he said, smiling. She found that she liked his smile. Yet it was hard to know what he was thinking. He had a... well, a masked looked about his eyes. If she refused, the two drunks might give her more trouble.
“Good idea,” she said.
They sat at the long bar in the coffee shop. Her coat was uncomfortably warm. She threw it back off her shoulders, and he took it and hung it up for her.
He was very polite and very nice, she thought. And he certainly looked more muscular than she had imagined any commercial artist would look. She had a vague idea of men with thick glasses and hair worn a little too long, and high nervous voices.
Funny, she thought, how a person’s mind can be split into two parts. One part of her mind was dark and miserable with thoughts of Al, and what danger he must be in. With another part of her mind she was enjoying the excitement of the trip, enjoying Steve’s warm smile and his quiet courtesy. She half decided that she was merely shallow.
Steve said, “This delay is just the wrong length. If it had been two hours, we could have taken a run into town. An hour is just long enough to stand around and fidget.”
At that moment a heavy hand landed on Steve’s shoulder, and a booming voice said, “Steve Harris! What the hell are you doing in town?”
She saw the faint annoyance flicker across Steve’s face, but he got up and pumped the big hand of a tall man in army uniform, silver eagles on his shoulders.
“Nice to see you, Bill,” Steve said. “Miss Quinn, may I present Colonel Grydon, the guy who made my military career miserable.”
Colonel Grydon was a tall, balding man with a wide mouth and small eyes. “Glad to meet you, Miss Quinn. We professionals had to keep amateurs like Steve in line. I got him so he was almost earning his pay.” He turned to Steve. “I heard from one of my New York friends, boy, that as a private gumshoe, you’re doing okay.”
Gloria felt cold all over as she grasped the implications of his words. Steve laughed heartily. “No gumshoe, Bill. Art gum eraser. Have you been watching the famous Harris touch on you-know-what-cigarette ads?”
She was watching Colonel Grydon’s face, saw the almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes. “Hell, yes, Steve,” he said quickly. “They’re good, too. And don’t forget, you got your training in the army. I ought to take a cut on the dough you must be getting.
“I’ll mail you a dime tomorrow.”
The colonel glanced at his watch. “Got to run, Steve. Nice to have met you, Miss Quinn. When you’re in training, Steve, drop in at my office at the Pentagon and look me up.”
He went off through the wide door into the waiting room.
Steve sat down on the stool, chuckled and said, “He was in charge of one of the propaganda outfits. I did poster work for him.”
“It must have been very interesting,” she said. Her lips felt numb. She felt as though she had been running blindly toward a vast pit and had slid to a stop on the very brink. Now she was cautiously picking her way back from the edge. It was important to smile, to be natural. “I’d like more coffee,” she said...
As they walked back to the plane, Steve Harris spent a long thirty seconds mentally cursing Bill Grydon. Such an incredibly stupid break. And he couldn’t tell whether or not Gloria Gerald had caught on.
He sat beside her once more, pulled an envelope out of his pocket and, with a soft pencil, quickly drew a caricature of Bill Grydon. His anger at Grydon was such that it was even more biting than his usual efforts. It was a knack he had developed many years before, and it was all tied up with his ability to remember a face forever after having only seen it once. With that knack, he had amused countless people at parties, infuriating some, and sending others into spasms of helpless laughter.