“I don’t operate that way,” Steve said.
“Don’t be annoyed, Stevie. Lots of people would. Everybody tries to take advantage of me because I’m generous. Besides, I own a piece of property in Miami and I always check on it this time of year and get them set for the big season.”
“You’re generous. Is that why you brought Muscles, here along to see me?”
Harry stopped drumming on the table, half turned and gave Steve a long look. “Watch your mouth, Harris.”
Steve turned back to Gibb. “Do I have to listen to your cheap imitations of a Hollywood-type hood?”
“Go for a walk, Harry,” Gibb said.
Harry snorted, stood up and wandered off.
Gibb said, “If it isn’t asking too much, Stevie, could you let me in on what I’m paying for?”
“I don’t know why I should, but here it is. I think she came here and got undercover fast. I think she’s sitting tight somewhere in this town waiting for word from Barnard. I think Barnard is somewhere between here and New York, working his way down here, being very, very cautious about throwing people off the trail. When he gets here, I figure they’ll leave the country by private plane or boat. I’ve spread a little dough around so that I can find out quick when they try to hire something. In the meantime, I keep my eyes open.”
“And suppose you’re wrong? Suppose they’ve already gotten out of the country?”
“Then you toss a little more money after bad money. Remember, you’re not paying for my time. This is on spec. You’re only paying my expenses, Gibb.”
“Maybe I’ll leave Harry here to help you.”
Steve smiled tightly. “I could stand him for maybe twenty minutes, and then I’d float him out with the tide.”
“Harry’s a good boy.”
“He’s maybe okay handling drunks at the Candor Club. Maybe.”
Gibb finished the last piece of chicken, wiped his mouth and his hands on the empty napkin. He smiled. “I guess, Stevie, I meet too many angle boys. I keep thinking you are one.”
Steve looked steadily at him. “Gibb, it makes me feel dirty to have you as a client. Twenty minutes after I accepted the case, I began to regret it. But I’ll follow through and play square. But I wouldn’t have anything more to do with you after this is over for five times the potential profit on this one. Understand?”
Gibb’s smile was undisturbed. “Perfectly, Stevie. As long as we’re being personal, I might add that I don’t believe I’d hire you again anyway, not after the way you let a simple girl slip through your fingers.”
Steve glanced at his watch. “Two buses and a train due. I’ve got to cover them.” He stood up, walked out of the place. The night was warm. At the corner he turned sharply and looked back, caught a glimpse of someone melting into the shadows. He smiled tightly. That much was obvious. Gibb was anything but a trusting soul. It wasn’t worth the trouble to shake Harry.
The man who looked like Al Barnard hurried diagonally away from the bus terminal. Steve got one quick glance at his face. All of the uncertainty faded away. The face of Al Barnard was engraved on the surface of his mind. The man who had passed under the street light matched that image — and the new mustache, the rimless glasses were a feeble smokescreen for Barnard’s real identity.
The man carried a small brown suitcase. Steve glanced at the suitcase and his smile was tight. There goes eighteen thousand bucks for Harris! Hosanna!
Barnard was difficult to tail. He walked quickly, selected the quieter streets. Steve kept a good block behind him, cursing himself for not having shaken off Harry.
Barnard made a left turn and, as Steve got to the entrance to the block, he looked up and saw Barnard making another left. That made it a lot simpler to figure. Steve doubled back on his own tracks, grinning as he saw Harry pause, turn and scurry away. Steve hurried to the next street, looked up the block and waited.
In a few minutes Barnard went by. Stretching his long legs into what was almost a run, Steve went back to the brighter section of town, passing the familiar bus terminal. The street Barnard was on joined the street he was on just beyond the terminal. At the junction there were two cheap hotels.
A drugstore was opposite. Steve found a stool at the counter where he could watch the entrance to both hotels. Barnard went into the first one, pausing to give a long look back up the quiet street. He had walked ten blocks to get to a point only a hundred yards from the bus terminal. Twenty minutes later Steve had moved over to the same hotel. Fortunately the management made it simple by using a register book rather than cards.
The previous arrival was a Mr. Stanley Webster of Providence, Rhode Island, assigned to Room 412.
The desk clerk was an old man with the sallow bleary look of the backwoods native.
“Something on the fourth,” Steve said to the old man.
He obtained Room 417. He carried his own bag up, marked the location of Room 412, diagonally across the hall and three doors nearer the elevator.
With the room light out, he sat in a chair and looked through the inch-wide gap of his open door down toward Barnard’s room. At last the thin line of light under Barnard’s door clicked out. On shoeless feet Steve tiptoed down the hall, listened with his ear against Barnard’s door. The man was breathing heavily. He was evidently sound asleep.
Steve went back to his room, went to sleep quickly, telling himself that he should awaken at six, knowing that some unknown factor in his mind would awaken him within a few minutes of that hour...
At nine o’clock, Barnard left his room, locking the door behind him. At nine five, the cheap lock responded to the lock pick, and Steve let himself in. The brown suitcase was in the corner by the window. A long ash from a cigarette significantly rested on the top surface of the suitcase. Steve squatted, memorized the general countour of the cigarette ash, blew it away and quickly searched the bag. Except for clothes, it was empty. He shut it, lit a cigarette, waited until the ash was the right length and then carefully placed it on the suitcase where the other one had been, touching it gently with his finger to move it into the exact position of the former one.
It took another five minutes for him to determine to his own satisfaction that the money was not hidden in the room. He fixed the inside lock, held the latch back with a thin strip of celluloid, pulled the door shut and pulled out the celluloid, letting the latch snap into place, locking the door.
At nine-twelve he rode down to the lobby, glanced into the grimy dining room, walked across the street, saw Barnard at the counter of the drugstore, lifting a coffee cup to his lips. Knowing that Barnard had no way of knowing him, he went into the drugstore, stood at the rack of postcards a mere six feet from Barnard’s back, and began to carefully select cards. He turned slightly sideways so that, out of the corner of his eye, he could watch Barnard’s movements.
In a few minutes, Barnard wiped his mouth, slid off the stool and turned toward the cash register at the front of the store. At the same instant, Steve turned sharply, blundering into him.
“Watch where you’re going!” Barnard snapped.
“Sorry, friend,” Steve said.
Barnard grunted and walked up to the counter, reaching into his pocket for change to pay the check. Steve stooped and picked up the scattered cards, a scowl on his face. In the instant of collision, he had determined that, no where on his person, did Al Barnard carry a bulk which would represent the money he had stolen.
He saw Barnard cross the street and go into the hotel. He sat on the stool at the end of the counter where he could watch the hotel entrance. Of all the damn fools, he thought. That girl had had the money all the time.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bald and sunburned head of Harry. He turned and smiled peacefully at him.