let Dris work on the girl alone, when I’m the one who’s to have her if it turns out she’s a live one? And would you trust Dris in that situation?”
“Certainly! Dris wouldn’t look at anyone but me!”
“Really?” The portly man’s laughter was even colder. “I seem to recall you saying something of the sort about the small dark man with glasses.” The woman’s answer was a cat-snarl that made Carr jerk. “Don’t ever mention that filthy traitor to me again, Wilson! I can’t sleep nights for thinking of giving him to the hound!”
“I respect your feelings, Hackman,” the portly man said placatingly, “and I certainly applaud your plans for the chap, if we ever find him. But look here, facts are facts. I had you—and a very pleasant experience it was, Hackman. You had . . . er . . . the chap and then Dris. So in a sense you’re one up on me—”
“I’ll say I am!”
“—and so I want to be very sure that I’m the one who gets the next girl. Dris will have to wait a while before he’s allowed a conquest.”
“Dris will have no one but me! Ever!”
“Of course, Hackman, of course,” the portly man buttered.
Just then there was a rush of footsteps outside. Carr heard the street door open fast.
“What the devil is it, Dris?” the portly man managed to say before a new, hard voice blurted, “We’ve got to get out of here fast. I just saw the four men with black hats!”
THERE WAS a scramble of footsteps. The door closed. Carr peered around the rack. Through the window he could see the big blonde and the portly man entering a long black convertible. The driver was a young man with a crew haircut. As he opened the front door for the others, Carr saw that his right arm ended in a hooking contrivance. He felt a thrill of recognition. These were the people Jane had mentioned in her note, all right. “. . . affable-seeming older man. . .”
Yes, it fitted.
The driver’s hand and hook clamped on the wheel. The blonde, scrambling into the front seat ahead of the portly man, dangled her hand momentarily above the back seat. Something gray flashed up at it. The blonde jerked back her hand and made what might have been a threatening gesture. Carr felt a shiver crawling along his back. Perhaps the blonde had merely flirted up the corner of a gray fur driving robe. But it was almost summer and the gray flash had been very quick.
The convertible began to move swiftly. Carr hurried to the window. He got there in time to see the convertible swinging around the next corner, too fast for sensible downtown driving.
Carr returned. The proprietor was still standing behind the counter, head bowed, busy—or pretending to be busy—with some printed forms.
Just then Carr’s mind got around to the phrase, “the four men with black hats.”
He didn’t go back to the window to look for them. He hurried out of the shop and up the stairs and got behind his desk as fast as he could. His mind was occupied by the two things he felt he must do. First, stick out the afternoon at the office. Second, get to Jane and warn her.
Just as he sat down at his desk, his phone rang.
It was Marcia. “Hello, darling,” she said, “I’m going to do something I make it a rule never to do to a man.”
“What’s that?” he asked automatically.
“Thank him. It really was a lovely evening, dear. I’ve never known the food at the Kungsholm to be better.”
“I don’t get it,” Carr said stupidly, remembering his flight from Marcia’s apartment. “We didn’t—”
“And then that charming fellow we met,” Marcia interrupted. “I mean Kirby Fisher. Darling, he seems to have oodles of money.”
“I don’t get it at all—” Carr persisted and then stopped, frozen by a vision of Marcia dining across the table from a man who wasn’t there, of Marcia and her invisible man meeting a certain Kirby Fisher and perhaps Kirby shaking hands with the invisible man and the three of them talking together, with
“Certainly! Dris wouldn’t look at anyone but me!”
“Really?” The portly man’s laughter was even colder. “I seem to recall you saying something of the sort about the small dark man with glasses.” The woman’s answer was a cat-snarl that made Carr jerk. “Don’t ever mention that filthy traitor to me again, Wilson! I can’t sleep nights for thinking of giving him to the hound!”
“I respect your feelings, Hackman,” the portly man said placatingly, “and I certainly applaud your plans for the chap, if we ever find him. But look here, facts are facts. I had you—and a very pleasant experience it was, Hackman. You had . . . er . . . the chap and then Dris. So in a sense you’re one up on me—”
“I’ll say I am!”
“—and so I want to be very sure that I’m the one who gets the next girl. Dris will have to wait a while before he’s allowed a conquest.”
“Dris will have no one but me! Ever!”
“Of course, Hackman, of course,” the portly man buttered.
Just then there was a rush of footsteps outside. Carr heard the street door open fast.
“What the devil is it, Dris?” the portly man managed to say before a new, hard voice blurted, “We’ve got to get out of here fast. I just saw the four men with black hats!”
THERE WAS a scramble of footsteps. The door closed. Carr peered around the rack. Through the window he could see the big blonde and the portly man entering a long black convertible. The driver was a young man with a crew haircut. As he opened the front door for the others, Carr saw that his right arm ended in a hooking contrivance. He felt a thrill of recognition. These were the people Jane had mentioned in her note, all right. “. . . affable-seeming older man. . .”
Yes, it fitted.
The driver’s hand and hook clamped on the wheel. The blonde, scrambling into the front seat ahead of the portly man, dangled her hand momentarily above the back seat. Something gray flashed up at it. The blonde jerked back her hand and made what might have been a threatening gesture. Carr felt a shiver crawling along his back. Perhaps the blonde had merely flirted up the corner of a gray fur driving robe. But it was almost summer and the gray flash had been very quick.
The convertible began to move swiftly. Carr hurried to the window. He got there in time to see the convertible swinging around the next corner, too fast for sensible downtown driving.
Carr returned. The proprietor was still standing behind the counter, head bowed, busy—or pretending to be busy—with some printed forms.
Just then Carr’s mind got around to the phrase, “the four men with black hats.”
He didn’t go back to the window to look for them. He hurried out of the shop and up the stairs and got behind his desk as fast as he could. His mind was occupied by the two things he felt he must do. First, stick out the afternoon at the office. Second, get to Jane and warn her.
Just as he sat down at his desk, his phone rang.
It was Marcia. “Hello, darling,” she said, “I’m going to do something I make it a rule never to do to a man.”
“What’s that?” he asked automatically.
“Thank him. It really was a lovely evening, dear. I’ve never known the food at the Kungsholm to be better.”
“I don’t get it,” Carr said stupidly, remembering his flight from Marcia’s apartment. “We didn’t—”
“And then that charming fellow we met,” Marcia interrupted. “I mean Kirby Fisher. Darling, he seems to have oodles of money.”
“I don’t get it at all—” Carr persisted and then stopped, frozen by a vision of Marcia dining across the table from a man who wasn’t there, of Marcia and her invisible man meeting a certain Kirby Fisher and perhaps Kirby shaking hands with the invisible man and the three of them talking together, with
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