“But I thought—!”
“Here he comes.”
Barrack’s car was pulling up to the same spot their taxi had left only a few seconds before. The man in the turtle-neck sweater, wearing his pea jacket again—apparently he hadn’t had time to stop for his cap—jumped out of the front seat. Then Barrack, at the wheel, drove the car away.
“Let’s go.” Ken took Sandy’s arm and moved casually forward. “I’m glad we’ve got Cal instead of Barrack. From the way he banged around in that cabin tonight, I don’t think he’s very quick on his feet.”
“It certainly would be nice,” Sandy said, “if I knew what you had in that alleged mind of yours.”
Ken glanced over his shoulder. “Good,” he murmured. “He’s only about fifty feet behind. Everything’s proceeding according to plan.” He steered Sandy toward the Information Desk. “When is the next train to Brentwood?” he asked in a clear voice.
“Brentwood? Just a minute.” The information clerk consulted a schedule. “Eight one. On Track Ten.”
“Thank you,” Ken said. “Might as well get our tickets now,” he added to Sandy.
At the ticket window, Ken spoke loudly and clearly. Their shadow, partly concealed by a mountainous heap of luggage, was only a few feet away.
As Ken tucked the two one-way tickets to Brentwood into his pocket he said, glancing at his watch, “We’ve got just an hour. How about something to eat?”