Judas Journey. Lee Roberts

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      The next day, Monday, they pooled their cash, a little over thirty-five hundred dollars. Everything was to be share and share alike, with all expenses and the hoped-for profits split three ways. Simpson then proposed a legal partnership agreement. Ramsey and Pete protested, saying that it was not necessary, that they could trust one another. But Simpson was firm, and in the end they picked a lawyer from the telephone book. His office was close to the Gulf Hotel and his name was Jefferson W. Carr.

      “A good, solid American name,” Simpson said. “We shall give him our patronage.”

      The outer office of Jefferson W. Carr, Attorney-at-Law, consisted of paneled walls, thick tan carpeting, a few straight chairs, framed diplomas, and a pale blonde secretary behind a typewriter on a small desk. She wore heavy dark-rimmed glasses and a crisp white blouse with frilled collar and sleeves. Her nose was a trifle too long and her lips were thin but very red. She gazed at the three men with an expression of cool inquiry.

      Before Nevil Simpson could speak, the door to an inner office opened and a man carrying a bulging brief case stepped out. He was stocky and a little below average height. His eyes were a frosty gray behind rimless glasses, his nose thin, and his mouth beneath a narrow black mustache was sullen-looking, with drooping corners. He wore a dark gray suit with a vest, a white shirt with a stiff collar; his tie was a sober court room gray. A gray felt hat with the brim turned up all around sat squarely on his head. His expression, at the sight of the three men, was one of faint annoyance.

      Nevil Simpson said politely, “Mr. Carr?”

      “Yes, but I am just leaving, as you can see.” The lawyer spoke in a flat nasal voice. “I must catch a plane for Austin.”

      Simpson inclined his head gravely. “Very well, sir. We will see another lawyer.” He nodded at Pete and Ramsey and turned to leave.

      “Wait,” Carr said quickly. “I have a few minutes. What do you want?”

      “A partnership agreement,” Simpson said, “for the three of us.”

      Carr took a gold watch from a vest pocket, glanced at it. “Very well,” he said shortly. “I have time for that.” He turned back into the office.

      Simpson, Ramsey and Pete Davos followed him into a large room where a wide window overlooked the gulf. One wall was filled with thick legal volumes behind glass doors. There were chairs, but Carr did not ask them to sit down. He sat behind a big glass-topped desk and poised a fountain pen over a ruled yellow pad, not bothering to remove his hat. “Just what sort of agreement do you want?”

      Simpson told him in a quiet, precise voice, glancing occasionally at Pete and Ramsey for approval. It took twenty minutes to draw it up. Then Carr pressed a button beside his desk. The long-nosed secretary entered immediately, and he handed her the agreement. “Please type this, Miss Whitney. Three carbons.” She nodded and left. Carr said to Simpson, “That will be twenty dollars.”

      Pete Davos whistled softly. “A buck a minute,” he murmured.

      “I am not charging for my time,” Carr said coldly. “I am charging you for knowing how to draw up a partnership agreement.”

      “Very well, sir,” Simpson said. “Please keep it for us. We will return in three or four months perhaps. If not, we will contact you by mail.” He nodded at Ramsey. “Pay the gentleman, Rackwell.”

      Ramsey paid him. Carr dropped the money into a desk drawer and locked it. “Thank you,” he said shortly. “Miss Whitney will have the typed copies for your signatures in a few moments. Each of you sign them in her presence. She is a notary public and will certify them. You may retain one copy, if you wish. We will keep the others on file.” He stood up, lifted his brief case from the desk, and started for the outer door. He stopped abruptly.

      A girl stepped into the office. Miss Whitney was behind her, looking nervous. “I told her you were busy . . .” She gnawed at the knuckle of one finger.

      “Very well,” Carr snapped, and Miss Whitney disappeared. Carr smiled at the girl, but his gray eyes showed annoyance. “Hello, Marcia. What brings you down here?”

      The girl’s gaze flicked over Ramsey, Pete and Simpson, and then back to Carr. “Did I interrupt something?” she asked lightly, moving up to Carr with a long graceful stride. “I just came to say goodbye, darling.” She patted his cheek.

      Watching her, Ramsey saw that she was tall and slim, with black hair combed smoothly back over small flat ears and tied with a red ribbon in back. Her eyes beneath neatly plucked black brows were big and soft brown, with heavy lashes. Her dove-gray suit clung smoothly and smartly to her slender form, accentuating the slim waist, the delicate curve of her hips and the soft swell of her breasts. A red silk scarf was knotted at her throat, bringing out the whiteness of her rather large but well-shaped mouth.

      “I’m just leaving, Marcia,” Carr said. “I must hurry.”

      “Can I drive you to the airport?” Her voice was strong and clear.

      “I have my car,” Carr said. “I’ll leave it at the airport until I return.”

      “Have a nice trip, darling.” She kissed him lightly, seemingly unaware of the presence of the other three men.

      “Thank you,” Carr said stiffly. He dabbed a handkerchief to his mouth, inspected it for lipstick stains. “I’ll be back in four or five days, I hope, but you know how those legislature committee things are.” He moved past her to the outer office.

      The girl turned then and gazed curiously and frankly at Simpson, Pete and Ramsey. When her gaze met his, Ramsey thought he detected a sudden glint of interest. He watched for things like that. He knew, of course, that he was attractive to women, most women, anyhow, but he wasn’t vain about it. He smiled at her.

      She didn’t smile back, but her steady cool gaze never wavered. Something like a shiver went up Ramsey’s spine.

      From the doorway Jefferson Carr said impatiently, “I really must go, Marcia. My plane . . .”

      She blew a kiss on long slender fingers. “Run along, darling.”

      Carr hesitated, his expression suspicious and doubtful. Then he turned abruptly and went out, carrying the brief case. The outer door slammed behind him and the only sound was the busy typing of Miss Whitney. Then the tail girl’s gaze swung slowly back to Ramsey. He was aware that Pete and Simpson were moving past him to the door, but he didn’t look at them. There was a small silence. And then Miss Whitney’s typing stopped and he heard her say crisply, “Sign there, please.”

      Ramsey didn’t move. He had an odd sensation that if he looked away the girl would be gone. She was smiling a little now, her full lips barely curved, and there was a reckless light in her eyes. He wondered briefly if she had begun her afternoon drinking early, and decided that she had not. She was the cocktail-swimming pool-country club type, but for all he knew she could have been a tennis champion in training. She had that look, too.

      Ramsey heard Nevil Simpson’s voice, “Rackwell, will you sign this agreement, please?”

      “In a minute,” Ramsey said, not taking his gaze from the girl. “You go ahead. I’ll see you at the hotel.”

      “Very well,” Simpson sighed.

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