In the police car Galpin sat beside Harper. He grunted, said, “These two killings hook up. Faces smashed—”
“Dressed the same way?” interrupted Harper. He took his hat off, shook it, put it back on his head and reached for a cigarette.
“Exactly—no underwear and new overalls.” The reflected light from the dash showed Galpin's face grim, his eyes narrow.
Harper lighted his cigarette, puffed silently. In the dim light his brown eyes were black pools, unblinking and steadfast.
CHAPTER III. AT THE GOLDEN QUAIL.
WALT HARPER, in pajamas, was having breakfast in his room. His gray-flecked black hair was smooth, his injured eye was nearly normal and he had removed the adhesive tape from his face.
He was sitting in front of the window, idly watching a squatty tugboat pull four barges through the blue- green waters of the harbor toward Charlestown, when Charlie came in and said:
“Pretty soft for the visiting fireman.”
“Yeah.” Harper's smile was genuine, but thin. “What'd you find out?”
“Not much.” Charlie went over to the table, picked a half slice of toast and crammed it into his mouth. “A taxi picked those fellows up at the airport,” he muttered through the toast, and crumbs sprayed the floor. “For a wonder the guy on duty at the office noticed the number.”
“Yes?”
“It was a hot cab.” Charlie drained what remained of a glass of water.
Harper got up and started to dress while Charlie slid into the vacated chair and stared out the window.
When he was satisfied with the set of his tie, Harper went over to the telephone table by the bed. He pawed through the directory, then put in a call. A moment later he was talking.
“Weather bureau? . . . I'd like to find out if it was raining the night of May 15th?” He waited for a moment with narrowed eyes fixed on the opposite wall. “Yeah? . . . It was? . . . Rained all night, and quite hard, eh? . . . Thanks a lot.”
He stepped over to the dresser, slipped his watch, chain, and knife into diagonally opposite vest pockets. He felt of his fountain pen and pencil, stepped over to his traveling bag, lifted out a lightweight shoulder holster and a .38 revolver. As he adjusted the holster, Charlie lifted his eyebrows and said:
“Goin' calling?”
“Yeah.” Harper slipped the gun into the holster, drew on his coat. “Where'll I find Louis Wyman?”
Charlie's eyes popped a little and he whistled softly. “We'll probably find him at the Golden Quail,” he said, and gave an address off Washington Street.
“The 'we' is out,” said Harper.
“But that guy is poison,” sputtered Charlie, coming to his feet.
“The 'we' is out,” repeated Harper. “This is just a social call.”
THE electric sign that outlined the squat quail looked ridiculous in the daylight. Walt Harper opened the green door under the sign and passed into a deserted foyer. He pushed aside the curtains at the end and stepped into a rectangular room with a balcony at the far end. There were tables on both floors; all were vacant except one.
Two men, sitting at this table, got up when Harper came into the room. They were both young and white-faced, and their dark suits made them look thinner than they were. One of the men walked over to Harper.
“What's on your mind?” he said, and his hostile gaze shifted up and down Harper's slender height.
“I want to see Wyman.”
The man hesitated, then walked over to his companion. They talked in low tones for a moment, then the first man came back. “Sit down,” he said. “Give me your name and I'll see if he's in.”
Harper dropped into a nearby chair and hooked his feet over the rungs of another one. “Harper's the name,” he said.
He took a cigarette from his pocket, and watched the man walk along one side of the room and up the stairs. He circled the balcony to a door in the shadows.
Harper rose quickly and started for the stairs.
The other man at the table stood up and said, “Hey!”
Harper reached for his .38, slipped it into his side pocket. The man at the table took one step after him.
Harper picked his way hurriedly between the tables on the balcony. The door swung open as he reached it. He tried to squeeze past as the man came out, but the fellow grunted angrily and grabbed his arm. Harper swung sidewise, shook off the hand. The man stumbled, regained his balance and shot a clumsy right at Harper's chin.
Without taking his hand from his gun, Harper stepped inside the right and hooked his own left to the man's stomach. The fellow gasped loudly, clamped his hands to his belt and doubled up. Harper slipped through the doorway, shut the door and stood with his back against it.
The room was spacious and cool-looking; the rug on the floor was ankle deep. There were two steel filing
