THIS IS MY NIGHT (Novel Sample)

This Is My Night is an original crime novel.

Chapter I

The Office of the Assistant Minister of Information for the Republic of Cuba was plush and over-decorated, a relic of the Batista regime. Three men were in it. A bald, heavily built man with a swarthy complexion sat behind the elaborate, oval-shaped desk. A burly man with flaming red hair and a cherubic Irish face leaned quietly against a wall, listening to the conversation between the other two, but taking no part in it.

The third man was lean, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a finely featured face whose almost delicate lines were tempered by the opaque hardness of his eyes and the faint aura of recklessness which seemed to surround him. He lounged indolently in a guest chair next to the desk, his spine curved against the chair back and his feet outthrust so that he lay as nearly horizontal as possible without sliding to the floor. He was not a large man, no more than five feet eleven and weighing possibly a hundred and seventy pounds, but his body was so smoothly muscled that even in relaxation he gave an impression of feline alertness. You sensed that, like a cat, he could move from complete repose to violent action in a split instant.

He made the bald man uncomfortable.

The bald man said in meticulous English, with no trace of Spanish accent, “Where did you learn that Pedro Bianca got away with so much money, Captain Denver?”

“Just plain Casey Denver,” the lean man corrected. “I have an honorable discharge in my pocket.”

“Ah, yes,” the bald man said. “I keep forgetting that you and Sergeant McCabe are no longer members of our armed forces.” He glanced briefly at the red-haired man, then returned his attention to Denver. “But to repeat the question. The Ministry for Recovering Stolen Government Property has released no such figure as you claim.”

“They haven’t released figures on most of the Batista stooges who absconded with loot. They’d rather get it back quietly through their own agents than go through the red tape of asking foreign governments to confiscate it. Particularly when they’re not sure where the abscondees are hiding. Bianca got away with four million. In crisp United States currency. I was present when the rebels questioned what was left of his staff.”

Rudolfo Cassino, newly appointed Assistant Minister of Information for the Republic of Cuba, digested this information with a musing expression on his face. “I wondered why the Ministry was so eager to find a relatively minor official such as Bianca,” he said finally. “What you say explains it. But what you suggest is perilously close to treason.”

“For you, maybe,” Denver said. “Sam and I are citizens of the United States.” He threw a grin at the redhead, who grinned back.

Cassino nodded. “I forget again. Of course you and Senor McCabe are no longer subject to our laws. But I am,” Casey Denver said amiably. “A little treason shouldn’t bother you, Senor Cassino. You’re about as crooked as they come.”

The bald man’s spine stiffened. But his anger at the insult was modified by the caution of a man who is trying to make friends with a rattlesnake. With more petulance than indignation he said, “You needn’t be rude, Senor Denver.”

Denver said, “I’m not in the habit of tiptoeing around an issue, Senor Cassino. If you weren’t a crook, I wouldn’t be talking to you. I need a crook in the right place to swing this. You want a million dollars, or don’t you?”

The Assistant Minister of Information licked his lips. His expression was a mixture of offended dignity and greed. As though seeking strength, his eyes strayed to the painting of Fidel Castro on the far wall. The painting showed the bearded revolutionary leader wearing a green fatigue cap, with a flowing banner behind him on which was printed: 26 Julio. Not too long in the past a painting of Fulgencio Batista had hung in the identical spot.

The portrait of Castro didn’t strengthen the moral fiber of the Assistant Minister of Information, but studying it gave him a chance to control his indignation. He said, “You are a hard man to understand, Captain—Senor Denver. You fought valiantly with the anti-Batista forces. You were given a citation for bravery by Castro himself. You were regarded by your fellow officers as dedicated to the cause. Yet now you suggest bleeding the cause for which you fought of four million dollars.”

“Why not?” Denver inquired cheerfully. “I’m a professional mercenary. You’re a professional opportunist. If either of us had thought there’d be more in it for us on the other side, we’d have fought for Batista.”

Cassino frowned. Then, deciding it was useless to keep up a feeble pretense of patriotism, he shrugged. “How do you propose to relieve Pedro Bianca of his four million dollars?”

Casey Denver pushed himself up in his chair until he was seated erect, produced a cigarette and lit it. “I thought you’d come around,” he said with faint cynicism. “It’s going to take some doing. You have one ear stuck into everything going on in the current regime. Where does the Ministry for Recovering think he is hiding?”

Cassino raised his eyebrows. “If you don’t even know that, how do you expect to steal the money he absconded with?” Denver said impatiently, “If I knew where to look, I wouldn’t be offering you a million-dollar cut. I figure he’s somewhere in the States. The Ministry has agents spread all over the United States, hunting down fugitives of the Batista regime. Or at least the ones who absconded with government funds. If they’d already found him, you wouldn’t waste your time talking to me. But they must have at least a hint as to where he is.”

The Assistant Minister of Information considered for a moment, then said reluctantly, “Someone in the area of Los Angeles, California, is aiding fugitives of the former Batista regime to escape our vengeance.”

“And the Ministry for Recovering thinks it’s Bianca?”

“He’s the only one of the whole filthy crew with enough fanaticism to worry about anything but his own skin. They don’t think any other former Batista aide would bother. Pedro Bianca actually believes in Batista.”

“He wasn’t so fanatical about the cause to neglect taking all the loot he could carry when he skipped,” Denver said drily.

“Which you plan to steal how?”

“Not steal,” Denver said cheerfully. “Just liberate. It doesn’t belong to Bianca. I consider it fair spoils of war.”

“All right,” Cassino conceded. “If you insist on rationalizing. How do you plan to liberate it?”

“Simply take it away. He can’t very well kick to the law. He’d be jailed for illegal entry the minute he poked his nose out of hiding.”

“You make it sound easy,” Cassino said. “But Bianca is no fool. He is not alone, either. Three of his key aides, two servants and his mistress fled with him.”

“Yeah, I heard. Tell me about them. I didn’t want to excite any curiosity by inquiring around too much.” Cassino said, “As you know, Bianca was a district commander of the secret police. The three aides he took with him were secret policemen in his district, all ruthless killers and all fanatically loyal to Bianca. Their names are Juan DiMarco, Alfredo Cruz and Jose Mantellagro. I am sorry I cannot give you their descriptions. I have never heard them. The servants are unimportant—merely a valet and a cook whose names I don’t recall. His mistress is the famous flamenco dancer, Magdalena Diego, half gypsy and one of the most beautiful women in all Cuba.”

“I’ve heard her described,” Denver said. “Can you get me photographs of any of these people?”

Cassino shook his head. “Bianca carefully destroyed all photographs of himself and the others before he fled. Why do you think you can find this man, when the best agents of the Ministry for Recovering have failed?”

Denver smiled slightly. “I plan to make him come to me. You gave me the idea just a minute ago.”

“How is that?”

“When you said Bianca aids fugitives of the Batista regime. I’m going to be one. You can earn your cut by intercepting and answering inquiries about me.”

“What sort of inquiries?” Cassino asked.

“I’ll arrange to get myself in the Los Angeles papers. As an ex-Batista man. The L.A. papers probably will cable their Havana correspondents to make a routine check on my background. The correspondents will never have heard of me, because Castro played down the mercenaries in his army. It was supposed to be a people’s uprising. So they’ll come to the Ministry of Information for data. You make sure it’s you who briefs them. All you have to say is that I was a Batista stooge.”

Cassino considered this with a frown. “It is risky,” he objected. “While your name isn’t known to the public, it is known to some of the revolutionary leaders, including both Castros. Someone may ask why I gave the American press a lot of lies about a revolutionary hero.”

“That’s the chance you take,” Denver said philosophically. “I’m not offering a twenty-five percent cut for nothing. All you can do is hope Castro doesn’t read the Los Angeles papers. Or think up a good excuse in case he does.”

The bald man considered again. “How do I know you will not simply walk off with the entire amount and forget me?”

Casey Denver exposed white teeth in a cynical smile. “Because you’re too crooked to cross. You’d simply inform the Ministry for Recovering Stolen Government Property that you have information that I hijacked Bianca. Your government would contact Washington. My government would come looking for me and confiscate the whole boodle until its legal status could be determined. Eventually it undoubtedly would be returned to the Cuban treasury.”

A slow smile formed on Cassino’s face. “You have a Latin’s talent for intrigue, Senor Denver. That is exactly what I would do, of course. I think we have an agreement.” Casey Denver lazily rose to his feet. “Fine, Senor Cassino. Just try to keep your fingers out of the public till until this is over. You won’t be much good to me if you get caught and end up before a firing squad.”

Denver motioned to the silent redhead leaning against the wall. “Come on, Sam. We’re off to Los Angeles.”

Chapter II

Casey Denver and Sam McCabe arrived in Los Angeles by separate planes from Miami on March second. Denver checked in at the Beverly-Hilton in Beverly Hills. McCabe registered at the Beverly-Wilshire a few blocks down Wilshire Boulevard.

At three P.M. on March third Denver was sitting at the bar just off the main lobby of the Hilton. Only one bartender was on duty at that time of day, and there were only two other bar customers. A middle-aged couple sat at one of the tables.

A burly, dark-skinned man with thick black hair and a cherubic expression entered the hotel by the Wilshire Boulevard entrance. With a determined stride, he walked past the desk and through the wide archway into the bar. He halted in the middle of the floor so abruptly that the couple at the table looked at him curiously.

Casey Denver threw the man a casual glance, then stiffened and slipped from his bar stool to face him. The middle-aged woman at the table emitted a mouselike squeak as the dark man drew a gun from his pocket.

“Viente y sies Julio!” the dark man yelled.

Denver dived headlong around the end of the bar as the gun went off twice. Both bullets slammed into the upright part of the bar where Denver had been standing an instant before.

The dark man turned and ran through the lobby, wildly waving his gun. The few guests there, nonplused at such outrageous behavior in the sophisticated atmosphere of the Beverly-Hilton, looked on open-mouthed as he sped through the door.

There was no doorman stationed at the Wilshire Boulevard entrance, as taxicabs always dropped arriving guests at the main entrance facing the parking lot. As no pedestrians happened to be nearby either, no one got a good look at the black Ford illegally parked in the bus stop in front of the hotel. A look wouldn’t have been very helpful anyway. The rear license plate was coated with dried mud, and the small sign ordinarily attached to the license plate announcing that the car was a Hertz rental had been removed.

Slipping behind the wheel, the dark man drove at ordinary speed straight down Wilshire to the Beverly-Wilshire parking lot. Parking, he took a damp cloth from the glove compartment and wiped off the rear plate. With a screw driver, he replaced the Hertz sign. Then, he entered the hotel and took an elevator to the fourth floor.

Letting himself into a room, he locked the door behind him, drew off a dark wig to disclose flaming red hair and stripped to the waist. In the bathroom, he used lots of soap and hot water to scrub the dark stain from his face and hands. When his complexion had returned to its customary pink, he replaced his shirt, necktie and coat.

Ten minutes later, he was having a drink at the hotel bar.

Meantime, some quietly efficient action was taking place at the Beverly-Hilton. Casey Denver had hardly climbed to his feet from behind the end of the bar when an assistant manager appeared. In a calm voice, he assured everyone in the bar, plus the few guests who had strayed after him from the lobby, that the excitement was over and the police were already on the way. Politely, he asked Denver, the middle-aged couple and the two male bar customers if they would mind stepping into the office to await the arrival of the police.

Docilely, they all moved after him. As they disappeared into the office, some of the rubber-neckers from the lobby went to the bar to question the bartender about the shooting. Others drifted back into the lobby. Five minutes after the shooting there was no evidence aside from two bullet holes in the bar that so much as a ripple had disturbed the hotel’s smooth surface.

Inside the office, the assistant manager courteously invited everyone to have seats. Apparently, his sole purpose in bringing them to the office was to get the witnesses to the shooting out of sight, and he intended to let the police delve into the reasons for the disturbance, for the only question he asked was, “Are you all guests of the hotel?”

Denver and the two other bar customers said they were. The middle-aged man, a plump tourist type with a camera slung over his shoulder, said, “We were just taking a walk and stopped for a drink. We’re visiting relatives up the street.”

“The police will want to talk to all of you,” the assistant manager said. “Just routine, of course. They’ll want your descriptions of the madman.”

One of the bar customers, a blond, athletic-looking man, said, “Madman? He wasn’t just shooting for the hell of it. He was gunning for this guy.” He jerked a thumb at Denver.

The assistant manager gave Denver a shocked look. His expression suggested that the hotel normally expected its guests to refrain from being targets. Denver gave him an amiable smile and said nothing.

Two uniformed policemen were the first to arrive. After listening to separate and widely varying versions of what had happened from the two bar customers and the middle-aged couple, they looked inquiringly at Denver.

“I think they all described it rather well,” Denver said with a smile.

The patrolmen decided to leave the matter to abler hands. After taking down the names of everyone concerned, they politely asked them all to remain in the office a few minutes more and went out into the lobby.

Five minutes later one of the patrolmen returned with two men in plain clothes.

“Sergeant Quinby and Officer Doyle will take over now, folks,” he announced.

Sergeant Quinby, a thick-set man with blunt features and dull gray eyes which didn’t quite hide the sparkle of intelligence deep within them, did the taking over while his partner merely stood and listened. He had the witnesses repeat their versions of what had happened one at a time, starting with Denver.

Denver shrugged. “The guy just walked in and started shooting, Sergeant. I never saw him before.”

The plump tourist said diffidently, “He shouted some Spanish or Mexican name. Then he started shooting at this gentleman here.” He nodded toward Denver, then glanced at his wife. “Did you hear what the man yelled, Martha?” She shook her head. “I was too frightened to notice what he looked like even.”

“He was Spanish-looking,” the blond man said. “About five ten and built like a barrel. Not fat, though. Looked like he was all muscle.” He glanced at the other bar customer. “Right?”

The man nodded. “It wasn’t a name he yelled. I know Spanish. He said, ‘Viente y seis Julio’ Twenty-six July.” Denver was pleased. He had expected to have to translate the phrase himself. It seemed much more natural coming from an innocent bystander.

Sergeant Quinby turned his dull eyes toward Denver. “Twenty-six July. Isn’t that the rallying cry of the Cuban revolutionists?”

“I believe so,” Denver said urbanely.

“You don’t look like a Cuban, mister.”

“I’m not. I’m a native American.”

“Ever been to Cuba?”

“I lived there for a time,” Denver said. “Left early in January.”

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “Just before Castro took over, huh? What were you doing down there?”

“I was in the army.”

“Government or rebel army?”

“I was a major under Batista,” Denver said negligently. The sergeant grunted. Turning to his partner, he said, “Think we better finish this down at headquarters.” Then he said to the uniformed patrolman, “You get out an APB giving the gunman’s description?”

“While we were waiting for you guys,” the policeman said.

“His car too?”

“Nobody saw it.”

Quinby turned back to his partner. “Better phone in a supplemental giving the information that the guy is probably a Castro sympathizer.” He crooked a finger at Denver. “Let’s go, mister.”

In the lobby they stopped to wait for Officer Doyle to make his phone call. A thin, carelessly dressed man with horn-rimmed glasses approached them from the direction of the bar and said, “Ah, there you are, Sarge. What’s the pitch?”

“Hello, Burt,” Sergeant Quinby greeted the man. “Since when does the Examiner send legmen out on simple shootings?”

“What’s simple about a shooting at the Hilton?” the man inquired. He glanced at Denver. “You witness it, sir?”

“You a reporter?” Denver asked.

The man displayed a press card. “Burt Harris of the Examiner.”

Denver shook his head. “No comment.”

With raised eyebrows the reporter glanced inquiringly at Quinby.

The detective said, “He was the target. Casey Denver. Claims he’s a U.S. citizen and that he used to be a major in Batista’s army. The gunman yelled, ‘Twenty-six July,’ in Spanish before he started shooting.”

“Well, well,” the thin man said, examining Denver with interest. “An assassination attempt by some rebel sympathizer, huh? What do they have against you, Mr. Denver? You execute a few rebels?”

“I set Castro’s kid brother’s beard on fire,” Denver told him. “Haven’t you noticed in news pictures that Raul’s beardless?”

Officer Doyle finished his call to headquarters and rejoined them.

“Let’s go,” Sergeant Quinby said. “You can sit in on the questioning down at headquarters, Burt.”

Chapter III

At the Beverly Hills Police Headquarters, Casey Denver underwent intensive questioning. He professed complete ignorance as to why anyone would attempt to kill him. Sergeant Quinby didn’t believe him. He seemed to think Denver could identify the gunman if he wanted to.

“I don’t know the man from Adam,” Denver protested. Reporter Burt Harris, sitting in on the interrogation, said, “He may be telling the truth, Sarge. If the rebel sympathizers have set up some sort of an underground to get Batista-regime fugitives, they wouldn’t use gunmen the victims knew by sight.”

“There haven’t been any other assassination attempts,” Quinby growled. “So far the Cuban government has contented itself with squawking to Washington about returning war criminals to Cuba for trial.”

“The government itself wouldn’t be behind such an organization,” Harris told him. “But you know this country is full of Castro sympathizers. A lot of them U.S. citizens. They’ve held demonstrations all over the country. Anyway, how do you know there haven’t been some killings? If it’s an efficient organization, maybe it doesn’t leave any corpus delicti. Besides, a squawk to Washington wouldn’t work in Denver’s case. He’s an American citizen.”

“So he claims,” the sergeant said. “You got any proof, mister?”

Denver produced a photostat of his birth certificate. After examining it, Sergeant Quinby grunted and handed it to Harris.

“Born in Geneva, New York, eh?” the reporter said, glancing at Denver.

“Uh-huh,” Denver said. He took the paper back and stuffed it into his wallet.

Quinby said, “We’ll get off a wire to Geneva checking on him, but I don’t see how we can hold him if there’s nothing there.”

“And I’ll cable our Havana correspondent to run down his record under Batista,” the reporter said. He looked at Denver. “You could save us both a lot of trouble.”

“You get paid for it, don’t you?” Denver inquired. Sergeant Quinby had Denver booked on an open charge pending a reply from Geneva, New York. Denver had a lonely dinner in his cell. At eight P.M. he was ushered back into the office where he’d originally been interrogated.

Sergeant Quinby had a long telegram on the desk before him. Glancing up as Denver was escorted into the room by a uniformed policeman, he waved the latter out again.

“You seem to be pretty well known in Geneva,” he said glumly.

“It’s my home town,” Denver told him.

“Korea, Israel, Algeria, Cuba and a half-dozen other hot spots. Wherever there’s fighting. A sort of soldier of fortune, huh?”

“That’s the polite term. I call it a mercenary soldier.”

“The Geneva police chief isn’t sure whether you’re a hero or a bum,” Quinby said. “He says most of the town thinks you’re a hero. Which are you?”

“Isn’t everybody some of both?” Denver inquired. “Which are you?”

The sergeant considered. “A hero to my kid,” he admitted. “A bum to my wife. Anyway, Geneva’s got nothing on you, and doesn’t know of anywhere that has. I guess you can go.”

“Fine,” Denver said. “Thanks for the meal.”

“Want police protection for a while?” Quinby asked. Denver exposed white teeth in a grin. “I think the hotel’s assistant manager had the right theory, Sergeant. It was just a madman cutting loose at the first person he saw.”

“It’s your funeral,” Quinby said with a shrug. “If you decide to tell me about it sometime, you know where to find me.”

“Sure,” Denver said. “But don’t hold your breath.” Back at the hotel, he bought an evening paper and checked it for the story of the shooting. It was on an inside page, and was a bare account of the incident. There was no mention of Denver’s claimed Batista-regime background. Apparently, the editor had decided to sit on the story until a reply from Havana to Burt Harris’ cable.

From his room Denver phoned the Beverly-Wilshire and asked for Sam McCabe. When he answered the phone and recognized Denver’s voice, the redhead asked, “How’d she go, Casey?”

“Smooth as silk. But by the time the papers break the story tomorrow, I suspect I’ll be politely asked to leave here. The Hilton won’t want to house a walking target. Locate anything yet?”

“Yeah,” McCabe said. “There’s a place on South McCarty Drive only a couple of blocks from here that rents furnished apartments for as short a period as two weeks. I got us one with twin beds for two-fifty a month. We can move in tonight, if you want.”

“Maybe we’d better,” Denver told him. “It’ll save the management here the embarrassment of evicting me tomorrow. What’s the address?”

McCabe told him and said he’d meet him at the place in a half-hour. “Just ask for a key to apartment 204,” he said. “There’s a front desk just like at a hotel.”

Denver packed immediately and moved out, leaving his new address at the desk in case anyone inquired for him. It wasn’t quite nine P.M. when a taxi deposited him in front of a neat-looking two-story apartment building on a quiet side street.

Carrying his bags into the lobby, he found a pallid young man of about eighteen behind a registration desk.

“I’m Casey Denver,” he told the clerk. “May I have a key to 204?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” the boy said. “Mr. McCabe just checked in. This way, please.”

Coming from behind the desk, he picked up the bags and led the way down a short hall to a door opening onto a courtyard. The building was a hollow rectangle with the courtyard in its center. They crossed the courtyard, entered another door and climbed one flight.

The door to apartment 204 was open. The desk clerk walked in, went through a neatly furnished living room beyond which Denver could see a small kitchenette, and into a bedroom with twin beds. Sam McCabe was unpacking a suitcase on one of the beds.

“Hi, Casey,” he said. “Some better than a hotel room, huh? There’s even a place out back in the alley to park.”

“Looks comfortable,” Denver agreed. He said to the desk clerk as the boy lowered his bags to the floor, “Can we get papers delivered?”

“Yes, sir. Morning or evening?”

“Both,” Denver told him.

He flipped him a coin and the boy departed.

Sam McCabe was up early the next morning to go shopping. By the time he returned loaded down by two huge grocery bags, Denver had showered, shaved and dressed, too. He watched as the burly redhead packed the refrigerator. Two dozen eggs, a pound of bacon, butter, a loaf of bread, some instant coffee, canned milk and sugar was all the food the two heavy bags contained. The rest of the weight was bottled beer and a quart of bourbon.

“At least we won’t go thirsty,” Denver said drily.

“I’ll cook some breakfast,” McCabe offered. He opened a beer. “Want one?”

“Before breakfast?” Denver asked. “I want to live to spend my share of the four million.”

The morning paper’s account of the shooting was as brief as that of the evening before. Denver and McCabe lolled around the apartment all day, going out only for lunch and dinner and returning as soon as they finished. The evening paper was in front of their door when they got back from dinner.

Denver spread open the paper in the front room while McCabe mixed a pair of drinks in the kitchen. The item was on the second page, but it got as good a spread as Denver had hoped for. It was headed: ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT MADE ON FORMER BATISTA AIDE.

“Listen to this,” Denver called to McCabe. “‘A shooting at the Beverly-Hilton, reported in yesterday’s paper, may prove to have international significance. The victim of the assassination attempt, which took place in the Hilton’s main bar at 3:00 P.M. yesterday, was Casey Denver, at the time a guest of the hotel. The management reports he has since moved out. Today, this paper learned by cable from its Havana correspondent that Casey Denver is a fugitive of the former regime of ousted dictator Fulgencio Batista, now in exile in the Dominican Republic, and that Denver is under indictment in Cuba for war crimes and atrocities. Denver, a United States citizen, was a major in the Cuban army under Batista for three years, according to government sources in Havana. He is charged with ordering the murder of 120 rebel fighters, with the torture of prisoners, including some women, and with the burning of two rebel villages.’”

Denver paused to grin wryly at Sam McCabe, now standing in the kitchenette doorway with two drinks in his hands. “Rudolfo really came to bat, didn’t he? He almost outdid himself.”

The redhead brought one of the drinks to Denver, seated himself on the sofa with the other. “Go on,” he said, taking a sip of his drink.

“‘Witnesses to yesterday’s shooting describe the assailant as Latin in appearance. He was heard to shout, “Viente y sets Julio” Spanish for “Twenty-six July,” just before shooting. As this phrase was the rallying cry of the Cuban rebels, police theorize that some rebel sympathizer made the attempt. Denver insists he did not know his attacker, and can think of no motive anyone would have to kill him.’”

Denver paused again, took a sip of his drink and scanned the rest of the item quickly. “That’s the gist of it,” he said. “The rest is just biographical data about me they got from Geneva.” Folding the paper, he tossed it across the room to McCabe, who merely caught it and laid it on the sofa next to him.

“That ought to get a nibble, if this Bianca really likes to help out fleeing Batista men,” the burly redhead said. “Think it’ll make the wire services and get Cassino in trouble?”

Denver shrugged. “In abbreviated form, maybe. It’ll probably just refer to me as a former Batista aide, if they pick it up at all, and not list my atrocities. The public must be pretty sick of long lists of Batista atrocities by now. If Castro or any of the other Cuban wheels who knew us run across it, they’ll probably think the press just got twisted what side I was on.”

McCabe drained his glass and rose to fix another drink. “How long you figure it will take Bianca to bite?”

Denver shrugged again. “Tonight, possibly, if he reads the papers. He won’t have any trouble tracing me here. I left a forwarding address at the Hilton with instructions to give it to anyone who asked for it.”

His guess was right. The phone call came at ten-thirty P.M.