quailed in the leather chair and pounded a pudgy hand impotently against the armrest. “I didn’t shoot him!”
“If you hadn’t been in such a hurry with your gun last night, Anglin would have strolled right in here. We’d have a few right answers instead of a flock of wrong guesses.”
“I knew you’d take it this way,” muttered Odell miserably.
Barselou turned to consider him sarcastically. “You want a merit badge or something, fat boy? You not only kill off the goose but you make it so hot around here we can’t even look for the eggs.”
“I didn’t kill him,” the plump aide repeated wearily. “Maybe Conover did, I don’t know.”
“Sure — Conover’s got long arms. Reached around and shot Anglin in the back. Then he swallowed the gun.”
“They didn’t have to come alone. Maybe they brought some armor along. I tell you I saw somebody pull a gun down at the end of the alley.” Odell’s eyes were redder than ever and his round cheeks twitched. “Lay can tell you — that’s not my bullet in Anglin’s back.”
Barselou snorted. “Ask Lay — that’s your best yet. We’d all be in the gas chamber. They don’t call it anything but first degree when you plug a guy in the shoulder, chase him around all evening, then drill him through the back. And then this!” He yanked open a bottom drawer and lifted yards of gay cloth into view. It was the Arab burnoose. “You leave this lying in the alley. Didn’t want to make Lay guess at anything, did you? Lucky I found it instead.”
Odell wisely kept silent. After a moment while Barselou clenched and unclenched his big fists, he thought it safe to ask, “What do you want me to do now?”
“Nothing,” Barselou snapped. “You’re dead on this job. Get out to my place and lay low till this blows over.”
“Okay.” The plump man squinted in weary relief and heaved himself to his feet. “I’m bushed from staying in the car all night.”
“Don’t think I got any sleep, either. Odell, we got to find what Anglin knew about the Queen. She’s too attractive to hide out forever.”
“I’ll wait for you to call me, chief,” Odell said.
Barselou watched his henchman trudge for the door and scowled after him. Too bad Odell had canceled out his own usefulness. Good tough boy — if he just wasn’t so quick on the trigger. But the Conovers would remember him. He wasn’t good to have around.
Barselou’s eyes pointed at the grain of the desk top, unfocused, analyzing. The Conovers. There had been nothing in their luggage, according to Gayner. Maybe it had been left in the first cottage — 15. They’d been pretty upset about being moved.
That girl — Faye Jordan — was in there now, but he’d better tell Gayner to search the place carefully. No use overlooking any angles.
Barselou picked up the phone and began to dial.
“My business sense must have gotten the better of my social graces,” apologized Mr. Trim. He put his straw hat back on his head and pulled it down tightly to keep as much sun from his scalp as possible.
Thelma Loomis sat at an umbrella-shaded table on the yellow tile bank of the swimming pool. She had been pretending to read the Sunday comic section while her eyes traveled a regular course between Dick Tracy and the silver-thatched Sagmon Robottom on the opposite bank.
“Perfectly all right,” she said unenthusiastically. “You’re not the first fellow to run from me.” From the corner of her eye, the Hollywood woman saw Mr. Trim’s gnarled hand close over the back of the other canvas chair at the table. Involuntarily, she groaned.
Trim said, “Thanks — I guess I will sit for a while.” Miss Loomis laid her funny paper on the metal table between them. Across the pool, Robottom idly kicked at blue water with his muscular legs while he talked gaily with a young girl in a white knit bathing suit.
The four of them were alone at the poll. Most of the hotel guests were Sunday morning sleepers. The Las Dunas
“If you hadn’t been in such a hurry with your gun last night, Anglin would have strolled right in here. We’d have a few right answers instead of a flock of wrong guesses.”
“I knew you’d take it this way,” muttered Odell miserably.
Barselou turned to consider him sarcastically. “You want a merit badge or something, fat boy? You not only kill off the goose but you make it so hot around here we can’t even look for the eggs.”
“I didn’t kill him,” the plump aide repeated wearily. “Maybe Conover did, I don’t know.”
“Sure — Conover’s got long arms. Reached around and shot Anglin in the back. Then he swallowed the gun.”
“They didn’t have to come alone. Maybe they brought some armor along. I tell you I saw somebody pull a gun down at the end of the alley.” Odell’s eyes were redder than ever and his round cheeks twitched. “Lay can tell you — that’s not my bullet in Anglin’s back.”
Barselou snorted. “Ask Lay — that’s your best yet. We’d all be in the gas chamber. They don’t call it anything but first degree when you plug a guy in the shoulder, chase him around all evening, then drill him through the back. And then this!” He yanked open a bottom drawer and lifted yards of gay cloth into view. It was the Arab burnoose. “You leave this lying in the alley. Didn’t want to make Lay guess at anything, did you? Lucky I found it instead.”
Odell wisely kept silent. After a moment while Barselou clenched and unclenched his big fists, he thought it safe to ask, “What do you want me to do now?”
“Nothing,” Barselou snapped. “You’re dead on this job. Get out to my place and lay low till this blows over.”
“Okay.” The plump man squinted in weary relief and heaved himself to his feet. “I’m bushed from staying in the car all night.”
“Don’t think I got any sleep, either. Odell, we got to find what Anglin knew about the Queen. She’s too attractive to hide out forever.”
“I’ll wait for you to call me, chief,” Odell said.
Barselou watched his henchman trudge for the door and scowled after him. Too bad Odell had canceled out his own usefulness. Good tough boy — if he just wasn’t so quick on the trigger. But the Conovers would remember him. He wasn’t good to have around.
Barselou’s eyes pointed at the grain of the desk top, unfocused, analyzing. The Conovers. There had been nothing in their luggage, according to Gayner. Maybe it had been left in the first cottage — 15. They’d been pretty upset about being moved.
That girl — Faye Jordan — was in there now, but he’d better tell Gayner to search the place carefully. No use overlooking any angles.
Barselou picked up the phone and began to dial.
“My business sense must have gotten the better of my social graces,” apologized Mr. Trim. He put his straw hat back on his head and pulled it down tightly to keep as much sun from his scalp as possible.
Thelma Loomis sat at an umbrella-shaded table on the yellow tile bank of the swimming pool. She had been pretending to read the Sunday comic section while her eyes traveled a regular course between Dick Tracy and the silver-thatched Sagmon Robottom on the opposite bank.
“Perfectly all right,” she said unenthusiastically. “You’re not the first fellow to run from me.” From the corner of her eye, the Hollywood woman saw Mr. Trim’s gnarled hand close over the back of the other canvas chair at the table. Involuntarily, she groaned.
Trim said, “Thanks — I guess I will sit for a while.” Miss Loomis laid her funny paper on the metal table between them. Across the pool, Robottom idly kicked at blue water with his muscular legs while he talked gaily with a young girl in a white knit bathing suit.
The four of them were alone at the poll. Most of the hotel guests were Sunday morning sleepers. The Las Dunas
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