When she had taken her second dip and sat toweling herself she decided not to bother dressing for lunch, so she walked over to one of the round tables at the far end and caught the eye of one of the waitresses. She ordered a salad and iced tea, turning her back to the pool as she ate so she could look out over the distant rooftops of the city.
It was less easy to control her thoughts. She kept thinking of Jeff Lane and his trouble and her own part in the chain of events that had started in Boston. She was
ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT
ashamed of what she had been forced to do in Miami, but her cheeks still tingled when she remembered his kiss and the way he had looked at her. She did not believe he could have done this if he had not forgiven her and this pleased her greatly because she realized now how much his approval meant to her. She wanted so much to help him, and because she did not know how, she went back to her room, struggled out of the damp suit, and put on her robe.
She stretched out on the bed, intending only to rest a bit, but she made the mistake of closing her eyes and once her thoughts began to drift she was asleep. It was after three when she awoke and now, realizing what had happened, she twisted off the bed, annoyed with herself for wasting this time.
Although she had no particular place to go, she showered hurriedly and then dressed, selecting a checked skirt, a tailored blouse, and the white blazer. When she had inventoried her bag and her wallet, she went downstairs and took the first taxi in the line, telling the driver to take her to the avenida Urdaneta. She had no particular destination in mind, but she had seen the modern shops along the street near the old center of the city, and it was her intention to do some shopping once she was in the right neighborhood.
The corner she selected held no special significance as she stepped out of the cab and paid the driver; but as she stood waiting for the light to change, it seemed familiar. When she glanced up at the street sign she knew why. For this was the cross street where Arnold Grayson had his office. If she turned right, here, and walked two blocks, she would come to it, and now, moved by some unaccountable impulse, she found herself making the turn and starting up the sloping street.
She was thinking now and took no notice of die pedestrians she passed. She still had no purpose but seemed moved
by some fascination that drew her back to the scene of the crime. She had made the same trip the previous afternoon, riding, that time, and taking with her the hope that she might get the stock assignment she had been sent here for.
That was al over now. A man was dead—two men—and Jeff was hiding. So far she had been unable to help him. She saw no hope of helping now, but still she continued on until she passed the open door of the Daily Bulletin. Up ahead was the gray masonry building she knew so well, but suddenly, her thoughts Eying off on some illogical tangent, she found herself wondering about Dan Spencer.
She did not know why, but having once made the reporter the center of her attention, her mind went on and things began to happen. Her footsteps slowed. She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. Because of the narrow walk, people had to detour about her or step into the street and so she crossed to the opposite side and turned to Inspect the entrance of the newspaper office.
Spencer had been one of those who had seen Jeff outside Grayson's office. He worked in the neighborhood. He had also been at the Tucan the night Harry Baker had been murdered.
Was this coincidence?
There was no answer to this, but she could not get the thought out of her mind. She began to recal the things she had heard about Spencer, the things Jeff had said the night before about Spencer and Carl Webb and the money.
So far no one suspected him of murder. He had been around when things happened but he had never been a suspect. Why not, if he knew about the money?
His office was less than a half a block away. Suppose he had somehow managed to get his hands on that money yesterday afternoon? How simple it would be to explain his presence, to take the package—or whatever it was—and
stroll back to Ms office and put it in the bottom of a desk drawer.
Had anyone thought of that?
His apartment had been searched—but what about the office? Oh, stop it! she thought, as her mind raced on uninhibited.
But it was not that easy. Once having started, she kept building on her imaginative premise until she had nearly reached the point of doing something about it. She wondered if Spencer would be working at this hour. She could easily find out, and if he was, what harm could there be in going in and talking to him? She could think of some excuse and maybe she could find out something that would help.
This is what she told herself, as she stood there drawing on her reservoir of nerves. Then, when she was at the point of acting, the decision was made for her and she got the break she had been hoping for.
Some intuitive impulse which could never be explained had put her in the proper spot at the proper time. But it was luck, or fate, or chance—the name did not matter-that gave her the chance to pursue her project. For even as she stood there, still undecided, Dan Spencer walked out of the doorway she was watching and turned downhill
He looked better groomed than usual with his dark suit and necktie, but it was the envelope he carried under one arm that sent the quick excitement coursing through her veins and gave the green light to her imagination. And now, already conditioned by suspicion and uncertainty, she gave in to the following impulse without further thought.
She was walking now, trying to keep pace with Spencer's stooped, loose-gaited strides. The questions that popped into her mind she answered as best she could. She
knew, first, that the Manila envelope was at least ten inches by twelve. From a distance she thought it had a sizable bulge, but she could not be sure.
And she knew that money could be carried in such an envelope, a lot of money, if the bills were in the right denominations.
And who knew how big the bills were? Had anyone said? How much room would one hundred and twenty thousand dollars take up? How much if the money was in bolivar bills?
She realized now she did not care. For all she knew Spencer had an envelope full of copy paper and was on his way to some interview. It did not matter. She intended to find out where he was going, and if her thoughts and actions proved to be ridiculous, she could laugh about them later.
She stopped suddenly when she saw him come to Urda-neta and wait for the traffic light. Keeping to the inside of the walk and not wanting to miss the light herself, she advanced slowly. She crossed the street safely, still a third of a block behind the thin figure. At the next intersection he crossed to her side and she had to stop again.
Halfway down the next block he seemed to vanish, and she felt a momentary thrust of panic. She hurried forward and then, uncertainly, she slowed her steps until she saw the familiar sign of a well-known airline above a plate-glass window. Then, even before she peeked round the corner of that window, her pulse quieted as she wondered if Spencer's business might have to do with a flight reservation.
Dark-haired men passed by and eyed her with approval. Some hesitated hopefully and most of them smiled. She ignored them all, not worrying about appearances now as she sneaked a quick look from the edge of the window.
A glance was enough to tell her that Spencer had
stopped at the counter at the far end of the room. It was a sizable office, with several pillars, some leather settees and chairs, and a stand-up desk along the wall. Spencer stood with his back to the entrance, his elbows propped on the counter, as a clerk began to fiU out some form on a typewriter. Other men and women were similarly occupied and still others waited on the settees. In all, there were twenty or more people in the room, and when Karen saw the telephone booth near the door she knew what she had to do.