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Henry Clay said, “I have disruptions in the works. All sorts of turmoil.”
“What turmoil?”
Clay took off his hat and sank into an armchair. “Excuse me,” he said. “I haven’t shut my eyes or changed my clothes in three days. I need to sleep before I can think straight.”
“I’ll come back later.”
“You don’t have to leave. I’ll just close my eyes in this chair.”
“It would be better if I left,” she said primly.
Clay said, “Of course.”
He walked her to the door and shook her hand. Was it trembling? he wondered. Or was his?
* * *
A productive first step, thought Mary Higgins.
But she needed more. A search of his apartment, constrained by fear of it being noticed, had produced no clue to the identity of the man Claggart-Clay served, nothing that would bring her even one inch closer to the enemy.
She said, “I hope you understand that I will demand more from someone with whom I join forces.”
“More what?”
“More than vague promises of ‘turmoil.’”
Claggart surprised her. “I need to sleep. When I wake, you will have your ‘more.’”
“Promises?”
“Do you recall Harry O’Hagan’s triple play?”
“Who doesn’t?” Mary nodded impatiently. There was more in the newspapers about the first baseman’s miracle than the strike.
“I’ll give you results,” he said. “A bigger triple play than O’Hagan’s.”
41
Even after a celebrative bender that went on days too long, Court Held still could not believe his luck in selling the Vulcan King. So it seemed beyond conception when another man dressed in white, though taller and younger, walked into his office to inquire whether he had any large steamboats on the property.
“How large were you considering, sir?”
“Floating palace size.”
“I’ve got one left.”
“I was told you had two.”
“I did. I just sold one.”
“To whom, may I ask?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. I am obliged to respect the buyer’s privacy.”
To Held’s surprise, the tall young fellow, who was about his own age, laughed out loud.
“Well, that proves that.”
