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.
One eye on Spencer's back, she moved quickly through the glass doors and slipped into the telephone booth. She closed the door, feeling secure now as she opened her bag and looked for Julio Cordovez's telephone number. She no longer had to watch Spencer. Whatever happened at the counter she could find out later. All she had to do was wait until she saw him leave the office.
Her voice trembled a little with excitement when Cor-dovez answered and she identified herself and asked for Jeff.
'Jeff,' she said a moment later and then the excitement got die best of her and she started to babble. 'I think I might have something. It's Spencer. He's in a downtown airline office. I think he's making a reservation and —'
'Karen!'
The quick and forceful sound of his voice stopped her and told her she'd been letting her emotions run away from her. She heard him ask where she was. She told him.
'And what's this about Spencer?'
'I followed him here. I saw him come out of the newspaper office and he had this envelope under his arm and I-I followed him'
'Why? What were you doing there in the first place?'
The question stumped her for a second because it was so hard to answer. Why had she gone there? Could she
explain an impulse or justify by logical means an Intuitive compulsion she herself did not understand? The answer was no, and suddenly she was annoyed with his questions and impatient with his attitude.
'What difference does it make?' she cried. 'He has an envelope, too, a large one. It might even have the money in it.'
'All right,' Jeff said. 'All right. Slow down. You followed Spencer. He's at the ticket counter. Now where are you?'
'In a phone booth near the door. I'm going to wait right here until he leaves and then I'm going to the counter and find out if he actually has made a reservation/ 3
She hesitated and when there was no reply she said: 'Jeff!'
'I'm thinking,' he said. 'Maybe you've got something. Just be sure he's gone before you go to the counter. And don't try to follow him 9 do you hear?'
'All right.'
'Let him go. Don't fool with him. Promise?'
'I promise.'
'Good girl. After you've checked at the counter call me back and we'll figure out what to do next. O. K.?'
She broke the connection but kept the telephone to her ear in case anyone should look through the door and wonder what she was doing. She put on her dark glasses and turned her head so that she could get an oblique, corner-of-the-eye look at the entrance. She sat that way, with the stuffiness increasing and the perspiration prickling on her body, until Spencer cut across her line of vision. She counted five very slowly before she replaced the instrument and opened the door; then she hurried to the counter, waiting until she could get the same clerk who had talked to Spencer.
'Did Mr. Spencer get his reservation?' she asked.
