Scarlet Imperial by Dorothy B. Hughes Page B

questioning.”
    “But you didn’t tell me who he was.”
    The eyes of the Federal man were distant. “He was—” he began. He returned them to her sharply. He said, “I want you to have a look at Renfro Hester.”
    “No!” She breathed it quickly, her hands clenched. “I didn’t know him. I never saw him before last night.”
    He said, “If you don’t mind, I want you to take another look at him.”
    It was the request that was a demand.
    But she shook her mute head.
    Bry said, “See here—” He broke off at Jones’ expressionless decision. He said more calmly, “If you insist on Miss Williams viewing this man, I want to accompany her.”
    “Very well.”
    She repeated, “I didn’t know him.”
    Jones said nothing. She went in silence for her hat and coat.
    The morgue was green to smell, to breathe into her nostrils. She looked down at the death mask of the ordinary middle-aged man. She said firmly because she was holding herself firm, “I don’t know him. I never saw him before last night.”
    Bry said, “I’ve never laid eyes on him.”
    They emerged into the dreary afternoon. The rain had begun to slant again. The taxi was waiting. Jones said, “He came here from Singapore.”
    Only Bry’s arm kept her from stumbling. Jones knew. In the way the law alone could find out.
    “He traveled on an American passport. Renfro Hester isn’t his name.”
    She asked as if bewildered, “He was a crook?”
    “He was an international spy.”
    She echoed faintly, curiously, “Spy?”
    Bry spoke out. “There aren’t any spies now, are there?”
    “There are always spies,” Jones said. “They are equally as active in the period between wars as during combat. But there aren’t as many jobs for them.” He passed a box of cigarettes. “Sometimes they are temporarily forced into side lines. A man who hires himself out for money doesn’t care in what way he gets that money.” He accepted a light from Bry. “It’s an easy step from international spy to international thief.”
    It was Bry who queried now, “Thief?” His knuckles were white.
    “Yes,” Jones said. “I knew him when he was a spy. That’s why I was put on the case when we learned of his impending arrival. Before he docked in San Francisco. He’s been under surveillance across the country.”
    She was afraid for Bry to be curious. His hand was still knotted. She accused Jones. “You didn’t arrest him. Why didn’t you arrest him?”
    “Because I first wanted to know why he was in this country. I followed him last night to see whom he was meeting. As far as I know he met you.” She shouldn’t have spoken. But she was defiant. “I don’t know why he came to me.”
    The cab was held at Forty-second street. Mr. Jones said, “Nor do I—yet.” He continued as the cab moved again. “The police are looking for his effects. When they are found, maybe we’ll know more about what he wanted here. A man always carries some papers.”
    Bry said, “Unless he doesn’t want to be identified.”
    Jones’ glance was curious. “Or unless someone doesn’t want him identified. There was nothing in his pockets but a billfold, a handkerchief, a few loose cigarettes. Fatimas. Not a usual brand these days.”
    The cab pulled up in front of the office building. Unless his killer didn’t want him identified. His killer. Gavin Keane. It had been defense. Jones would never believe it.
    Bry opened the cab door. He said, “I hope you find out about the man, Jones.”
    “We will.” It was the implacable, sure answer.
    Eliza didn’t say anything, she almost ran across the walk into the building. She had to get away from Jones and his knowledge. He knew who she was but he hadn’t unmasked her before Bry. It wasn’t out of decency; that wouldn’t enter into his pursual of a job. He must believe that Bry knew. Or he was saving her. To lead him to Gavin.
    Bry caught her at the elevators. He didn’t speak, not then, not in the echoing upstairs