singularly discouraging. He had not known exactly what he had expected to prove by it, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, ticking off the results, and omitting speculation, he saw that all he had actually learned was a little something about the background of Miranda's marriage, his feeling for his wife, and his—Miranda's— knowledge of her association with Grayson, all of which he had suspected. The only fact to come out of the discussion was the announcement that Grayson's wife would probably inherit his estate.
'I don't know if he actually knew,' lie said, 'but he must have suspected something like that might happen. What I'd like to find out is whether Diana Grayson suspected the same thing.'
'Luis Miranda would not steal the money/' Cordovez said.
'You said that before/* Jeff said, an unwanted edge in his voice.
'I'm sorry/* Cordovez said. 'I did not mean—*
'No, I'm sorry/' Jeff said, a little ashamed because he had snapped at his friend. 'Don't pay any attention to me/' he said. 'I'm in a lousy mood.'
'A drink will help/' Cordovez said cheerfully., 'and some food. But first we will go to my place.'
Jeff slumped back in the seat, observing the passing scene, but no longer having any idea where he was, until Cordovez pulled the car to the curb in front of an apartment house on the steep slope of a side street,
'Is this it?' he asked.
'No,' Cordovez replied. 'A friend. If you will wait I will not be long.'
Jeff twisted his body far enough to get a cigarette out and when he had a light he stayed slumped, his eyes brooding and his mouth slack as the black mood of his depression settled more heavily about him. He did not stir when Cordovez opened the door. Not until he realized that the detective had brought something with him did he glance round to find Cordovez putting a suit on its hanger on the back seat and then placing a neatly folded white shirt on top of it.
'It should fit/' Cordovez said as he slid behind the wheel.
'What?'
'The suit. It is for you.'
'Me? But what-'
'I will explain,' Cordovez said and chuckled at Jeff's
reaction, *1 do not mean to criticize/' lie added. 'The clothes you now wear are very fine, but too—shall we say —American. In the daytime it is less important, but after dark the successful Venezuelan wears a suit here in Caracas/'
'Oh/' Jeff said, impressed by the little detective's thoughtMness and sagacity.
'Yes. With your dark hair and eyes you will pass for a citizen. With the proper suit it will be more difficult for the ears and arms of Pedro Vidal to penetrate this disguise. Also, you yourself will feel more secure and that, too, is important.'
'Amen/' said Jeff.
'Pardon?'
'What I meant was, I'm very glad I hired you.'
'Me, too,' said Cordovez and settled back to concentrate on his driving. . . .
The apartment house they came to presently was new-looking and three stories high. It contained six flats and Cordovez occupied the middle floor on the right side. Verandas had been recessed into the sides of the building instead of at the front, and inside the layout proved to be the railroad type—living-room, kitchen, and dinette, a hall from which opened a bedroom, bath, and bedroom.
The living-room was rather sparsely furnished but spotless, the curtains clean, the children's toys neatly piled in one corner. A small bed and a crib, visible from the doorway of the first bedroom, testified to its use. Cordovez was snapping on the light in the rear room.
'You will sleep here tonight/' he said, indicating the double bed.
'And where will you sleep?'
'In the front room.'
'Oh ? no.'
ONE MINUTE PAST EIGHT
'But yes/' Cordovez said firmly. 1 will explain why. For one your size, the sofa will be uncomfortable. For me it serves very well. Believe me, I have tried it often. Come,** he said, as though the matter was decided. 'Try on the suit. Let us see if it will become you.'
He slipped the coat and trousers from the hanger and unbuttoned the clean shirt while Jeff undressed. 'My friend is about your size,' he said. 'You will find the coat somewhat different in cut to your own, but that is good. One noticing it will be assured it was manufactured in Caracas/*
The shirt proved to be adequate, the sleeves a little short but the collar fitting perfectly. Jeff needed his belt to secure the waistband of the trousers, but the coat hung well and the shade of blue was inconspicuous.
'You see,' Cordovez said happily.
He stood back. He spread his hands, and the expression on his face could have been no more pleased had he designed the suit himself.
'Dressed that way you look better. How does it feel?'
'Feels O. K.,' Jeff said and began to transfer his things from his slacks and jacket to the new suit.
'Since I will do the talking,' Cordovez said, 'no one will suspect you are not a countryman of mine. Now, if you are ready,' he said, 'we will eat. w
Once in the car, Cordovez went round the block and turned downhill Still without knowing where he was, Jeff was again reminded of Southern California when the valley opened up and he saw the patternless brilliance of the lights and neon signs. He had the feeling that he had seen this part of the city in daylight but he did not recognize the triangular plaza where Cordovez parked the car,
'I hope you will like this,' he said as he locked the doors. 'There are three choices: Grilled meat, of many kinds and
in small pieces; steak, which is usually good; and chicken, which is always dependable.'
'How's the chicken fixed?' 7
'Grilled, like the others, You will see for yourself.*'
He led the way into a low-ceilinged room that was crowded, smoke-filled, and noisy. A trio consisting of accordion, violin, and bass played loudly and with gusto, and at first glance every table seemed taken. Then, at the steps which led to die adjacent room, Cordovez exchanged Halos with one of the proprietors. Words were spoken and a waiter dispatched to clean up a recently vacated place along the wall
'Now/' said Cordovez, settling himself, 'you would like the chicken? And a salad?'
'And a drink.'
'Yes/'
'Whisky,' Jeff said. 'With a little soda. Tell the man 'a double whisky.'
Cordovez conferred with the waiter, who was putting out knives, forks, and spoons of the kitchen variety. By the time Jeff had his cigarette going the whisky came and so did a beer for the detective.
'Salud' he said, and raised his glass. He drank thirstily and wiped his mouth. He took out Ms notebook and ripped out a clean sheet, wrote down an address with his mechanical pencil, and passed the slip to Jeff.
'This is the address where I live,' he said, 'in case you need it to show to some taxi driver. Also'—he took a key from his pocket—'this is an extra key. My house is yours and you can come and go as you like. 5 *
'Until Pedro Vidal's boys pick me up,' Jeff said dryly,
'Let us hope this does not happen— Ah-h.' The dark eyes opened and the white teeth Hashed in a smile of anticipation as he unfolded his paper napkin and eyed the food.
Jeff smiled in eager anticipation, too, not so much because lie was hungry but because he had never seen anything quite like this. For when Cordovez said the food was grilled he meant just that, and on an individual basis. Each table had its own small grill and the charcoal was still smoldering when the waiter whisked it in front of them. On top of the grill a chicken had been split and rested with the skin up, a golden brown now and glistening with some clear sauce faintly flavored with onion.
To complete the presentation, individual cutting-boards were placed in front of them, instead of plates, to make the dismantling of the chicken easier. After that came the French fried potatoes in a basket, the hot bread, and a salad that was aromatic and crisply cool.
