Assignment — Angelina by Edward S. Aarons Page A

sorry. I forgot."
    "Don't apologize," Jessie said coldly. "I shouldn't have spoken to you in there. I almost forgot about it, myself."
    They turned the corner. Slago and Erich were waiting for them with the equipment. The canvas hood had been removed from the air-conditioning vent in the back wall of the bank building. Slago heaved the pressure tank into the back seat.
    A boy in blue jeans lay sprawled in the shadows by the rear door of the bank.
    "What happened?" Mark asked.
    "A nosey kid," Slago rumbled. "I put him out."
    "Did he get a good look at you?"
    Erich said nervously: "He saw us, but I am sure he will be afraid to talk, after Slago."
    "I don't like it," Mark said. "We were spotted by a couple on the other side of the building, too."
    Jessie drove the Cad out of the side street. Mark looked back at the courthouse square. The fisherman and the dark-haired girl were walking rapidly toward a car parked in front of the general store.
    They were halfway out of town before Miss Bunting came to the front door and began her confused screaming.

Chapter Eight
    Durell drove his rented car into the parking lot in downtown New Orleans and left it there. The Galleon Bar was off St. Charles, a businessman's luncheon place decorated with fake beams and yellow-glass ship's lanterns and a half-hearted attempt to instill a pirate atmosphere into the fixtures. Big wooden fans slowly stirred the air around the booths beyond the bar.
    Durell walked slowly back toward the booths, which were all occupied, mostly by men. One booth had four women in it. They looked like tourists.
    It was noon of the third day since he had found Pierre Labouisse in the pirogue, and he felt as if he had stood still while time raced by and he accomplished nothing.
    Turning, he walked back to the bar and found a stool. He ordered bourbon from the fat bartender and looked at a very bad oil painting above the racked tiers of bottles on their mirrored shelves. A young man who looked as if he wasn't many years out of college came in and took the stool next to him and looked at Durell's drink and ordered bourbon, too.
    Then they looked at each other in the mirror.
    "Like our weather, Sam?"
    "I was born to it," Durell said.
    "This place all right?"
    "Good enough," Durell said.
    "Why not my office?"
    "You have secretaries. Other agents, in and out."
    "So? Is it that restricted?"
    "Top secret."
    "I'm flattered."
    "Then get with it," Durell said. "What did you pick up?"
    The young man's name was Kevin MacCreedy. He was a field agent out of the New Orleans district office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but he was not in charge of the office. His name had been given to Durell by Daniel Kincaid in Washington. MacCreedy wore a fine Panama straw, a suit of pale cream, and mesh shoes. He had slick blond hair and a cheerful face and his eyes were a dark gray. He looked like a young lawyer or a young businessman or something equally innocuous. Last year he had walked unarmed up a flight of tenement steps in the French Quarter and with a shattered left shoulder he had taken Redleg Greer, third on the wanted list.
    "You want a report here?" MacCreedy asked.
    The fat bartender was at the other end of the bar. "Yes."
    "We've got Labouisse on ice. Literally. Officially, he's still listed as a missing person, and the local sheriff is beating the bayous for him. There'll be some friction when it comes out we've been holding the body. How long do we sit on it?"
    "Not much longer," Durell said.
    "Somebody did a wicked job on him."
    "Did you check Joe Tibault's boat and crew?"
    "Personally. We know Fleming met Labouisse, picked him up, and they drove away together. Old war buddies, hey? We know it was Fleming from the description you gave us. Tibault has good eyes, too."
    "How many men have you got looking for Fleming now?"
    "Not enough. An even half-dozen, including me. You want more, Sam, you'll have to ask Washington. Who are you working with now, anyway?"
    Durell said: "Do