By the same token there was no reason to believe Kemp hadn’t planted a directional bleeper on Spode’s own car before he’d gone into the house. It was unlikely because Kemp probably thought the car belonged to a neighbor, but it was always possible. Still, Spode didn’t have time to hunt for it now. He just got in the car and drove away. His headlights swept the trees when he turned the corner; he made a circuit around three sides of the block and extinguished the lights and waited near the corner, doubting Kemp would fall for it but always willing to try the elementary things first. He could see Kemp’s car through a ranch house’s corner windows. Kemp hadn’t appeared yet and Spode used the time to review the clues Kemp had dropped.

When five minutes had elapsed he was satisfied he had milked Kemp’s hints for all he was going to get out of them. But the interval began to disturb him. Kemp had had plenty of time to get on the phone and summon reinforcements and if Spode was still hanging around when they arrived he might find himself in trouble. He began to think about giving it up.

Then Kemp came out of the house and walked casually to the Ford. He was clearly emptyhanded. The Ford backed into a driveway to turn around, and came forward; and Spode let him go. No point tailing a professional: the man would know how to ditch a tail and there was no way on earth to keep single-handed surveillance on a man who didn’t want to be followed and knew how to shake pursuit.

Spode switched on his lights and drove away.

He pulled into the lot behind the Tropical Inn on Speedway Boulevard and went inside to use the pay phone. It had been a long time since he had last dialed this long-distance number but his fingers worked without hesitation. It was nearly midnight and that meant in Virginia it was almost two in the morning, but that didn’t matter to the Agency; the Agency worked a twenty four-hour day.

A girl’s plastic voice chirped in his ear. “Good morning, six-eight-seven-nyun.”

“Extension three, please.”

He heard the whistles and buzzes of the automatic switchboard. A man’s voice came on the line: “Extension three.” It was a voice Spode knew well and he was relieved it was still there.

“Howdy, George. This is Jaime Spode.”

“Well for Christ’s sake. Where the hell you been keeping yourself? Still working for that politician?”

“Aeah. Too dumb to quit. How’s everything back at the old stand?”

“Situation normal all screwed up. Where you calling from, Jaime?”

“Arizona. Listen, do you boys happen to have a tourist taking in the scenery down here in Tucson?”

“Why?”

“Because I just ran into a fellow who dropped a few hints.”

“Describe him.”

“He’s pushing fifty, all brown—hair, eyes, clothes. Maybe five-foot-ten, hundred and seventy-five, round face, no visible marks, small earlobes, square hands with small fingernails. I took him for an insurance salesman the first time I saw him. He knows all the tricks, he’s a pro. Standard American speech pattern, light baritone. He was carrying an S & W nine-millimeter with a Swiss-cheese silencer, hip holster. I took a few snapshots and I think I’ve got some fingerprints but that takes time and I wondered if the description would ring a bell.”

“Not offhand it doesn’t, but then with fifty thousand field agents kicking around the world—”

“Look, George, the guy gave me Colonel Cecil’s phone number and told me to check him out there. He didn’t say whose number it was and I guess he was waiting to see if I knew. I didn’t call Cecil for obvious reasons. All I want to know at this point is whether I should lay off this guy or not.”

“What’s your phone number there?”

Spode read it off to him.

“Pay phone?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, stay put, I’ll call you back.”

Spode hung up and stood in the airless booth with the door slightly open so that the dome light in the ceiling was off. A plump girl got off a bar stool and came over to buy cigarettes from the machine; she gave him a speculative look and Spode grinned at her but shook his head. The girl shrugged and went back to the bar.

Something was needling Spode’s mental corners. He scowled and tried to focus on it but it was elusive. He still didn’t have it when the phone rang.

“Jaime?”

“Still here.”

“Look, where’d you run into this guy?”

So it was like that. Spode stiffened and pulled the booth door shut. “Who is he, George?” His voice had an edge now.

“I don’t think we want to talk about that on an open line, Jaime.”

“Then we don’t want to talk about where I saw him either, do we?” Spode was horse-trading. Evidently George had run the verbal description through the massive computerized R & I and a card had popped up.

“Look, Jaime, this is kind of touchy because you’re not an employee any more. But we all know you’re no security risk so I’m going to play this a bit looser than the regulations call for. I want you to deliver those fingerprints and negatives to Art Miller right now. Can do?”

“Maybe. There’ll be a price tag.”

“I thought there would but that’s okay. This may turn out to be big enough for all of us.”

“Does Miller have a safe line?”

“Yes.”

“Then you phone him and tell him to cooperate with me. Will you do that?”

“Of course. He’ll tell you what you want to know. But you’re going to have to play this one strictly by our rules, Jaime. As far as this one goes you’re back on our team again.”

“Up to a point. I still work for the Senator.”

“We’ll talk about that later. I’ll call you at Art’s. How long will it take you to get there?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll talk to you. Get going and make sure you’re alone.”

Spode hung up and went out to the car. Drove out through the alley and made the right turn on Speedway and spent five minutes going through the standard maneuvers to disclose a tail. When he was satisfied he cut south across the city toward Broadway. Street lights made pale pools along the empty streets and at the Broadway corner a traffic light blinked red, on and off. Spode’s nostrils dilated; he was keyed up now, sensing the scope of things.

For three minutes he sat in the darkened car a block from Miller’s house and looked out the long empty street toward the desert. Nothing showed up, in front or in the mirror, and when he was sure he got out of the car carrying the camera and Kemp’s gun.

The lights were on and the drapes were drawn. Miller opened the door, looked past him in all directions and let him in. Miller was bald and slow-moving, but his big round gut was hard as a truck tire. He was only thirty-three or so. He edited a little regional monthly magazine; that was his cover. His editorial office was in the house and that made it handy. He had been divorced five years ago and lived alone. Spode hadn’t seen him in several years but they didn’t take time to cover the amenities; Spode put the camera and the gun on Miller’s desk and said, “Okay, so who is he?”

“We’ll have to make sure. George said you had prints too. On the gun?”

“Maybe, but they’d be mixed with mine. This’ll do better.” Spode dumped the broken piece of shower-stall glass out of his handkerchief onto the desk.

Miller picked up the camera and handled the glass carefully by its edges. “Let me set these up back in the darkroom—I’ve got a dusting-kit back there too. You want to wait or you want to come with me?”

“Hell, I want to talk. I’m coming with you.”

Miller took him through to the back of the house into a small windowless room that smelled of photographic chemicals. “What film you got in here?”

“Tri-X. Most of it’s documents and I’ll thank you not to read them—it’s for my boss. The mug shots will be the last five toward the end. I didn’t use up the whole roll.”

“Okay. I’ve got to turn off the light to transfer it into the tank. Stay put so I don’t go crashing into you.”