Sight Unseen by Brad Latham Page B

and his attaché case, in which he’d packed
     the three radio transmitters, in the other. Nowhere in the neighborhood did he see the panel truck that Guy Manners had told
     him would be recording the conversations broadcast by the small transmitters.
    Barbara Wilson was a big-boned woman with raven-colored hair whose mouth was a red gash of lipstick. She greeted him with
     a boisterous, “So, Georgie’s buddy! Come in, come in!”
    Putting the bottle into her hands, Lockwood gave her his most dazzling smile and doffed his snap-brim hat.
    “Gee, what a terrific little place you’ve got here,” he said.
    With a flutter of silk housedress she led him into the living room, which was filled with plush sofas and little tables on
     which stood small porcelain statues of children, cats, and elves.
    “I love it,” she said. She led him to the seating area at the far end of the living room, which looked out onto a small garden
     filled with spring flowers. “Let’s sit here,” she said, and Lockwood saw a small feast of pastries and whipped cream and a
     large silver pot of what he assumed to be coffee, with steam coming from its spout.
    “Sort of like teatime in England,” Lockwood said. He didn’t normally eat at this time of day, and he wasn’t that hot for sweets,
     but it seemed best to play along.
    “Let me take your attaché case,” she said and reached for it.
    Lockwood gave a start.
    “Oh, you won’t be needing your work in here,” she said and gave one of her rich laughs again. “I’m surprised you even brought
     your work with you.”
    “I’m looking for land out here,” he said. “I want to keep my eye on my papers.” Lockwood grinned and winked. “Competitors,
     you know.”
    She laughed again, a rich throaty sound that said she did indeed know the villainy of competition. “Why don’t you just keep
     it by your side, if that makes you feel better.” She pointed to the end of the silk-covered sofa. “Sit there, and let me fill
     your plate and pour you coffee.”
    Lockwood sat where he was instructed to, which gave him a breathtaking view of her smooth curving breasts as Barbara filled
     his plate and poured the slow liqueur and coffee into their cups, a view he was sure had been finely calculated. He smiled
     to himself and settled more into the sofa. He would have to pay her something, he mused, and of course Mr. Gray wouldn’t allow
     him to put down its real purpose—perhaps he could get away with “purchase of information” on the expense voucher.
    Barbara, with a rustle and a flounce, sat demurely for such a big woman next to him on the sofa, and as they ate the sour
     tarts, the sweetened whipped cream, and the spiced coffee, they had a spirited conversation about the prices of farm land,
     a subject that sobered Barbara and about which she displayed detailed knowledge.
    The white phone on the small covered table in the corner rang, and she rose, ignoring it, to excuse herself and take the call
     in the next room. She closed the door softly behind her, and faintly Lockwood heard her laugh. From its heartiness he judged
     she would be at least a minute or so, and working against the few seconds he was sure he had, he whipped out one of the little
     transmitters and turned on its switch and quickly shoved it under the hem of the sofa cover, pulling out the wire aerial as
     far as it would stretch.
    He had no sooner straightened up when he heard the door opening, and he reached for the coffee cup to cover his swift movements.
    “Could you pour me another cup?” he asked.
    “Of course I could! You like my
café anisette
, do you?”
    “This is wonderfully relaxing, being here,” he replied.
    “I’ve turned the bell on that damn phone off,” she said. Her voice had lowered to what in any other woman would have been
     a purr, but in her it came across as a low insistant roar.
    Lockwood smiled at her, wondering how hard this creature could crush a man if she were displeased while