A taxi took him back to his office. During the short ride he had decided on a plan of action. He took the elevator up to the fourth floor and hurried down the passage to his office.
A light was still burning, and for a moment he hesitated before entering. Then, keeping his hand on his gun, he turned the handle and walked in.
Paula was sitting in an arm-chair before the telephone. She jerked up her head quickly as if she’d been asleep.
“Why haven’t you gone home?” Fenner said shortly.
Paula indicated the telephone. “She might have rung,” she said quietly.
Fenner sat down beside her wearily.
Paula said, “Dave, I’m sorry about—”
“Skip it,” Dave said, patting her hand. “You were right to blow off. Right now things are happenin’. Those two Cubans got hold of that girl, killed her and carved her up. I caught them cartin’ her away. They’re dead. I killed ’em both. Don’t interrupt. Let me tell you fast. The cops must be kept out of this. This is between me and whoever started it. Those cheap punks are only the dressin’. They ain’t the whole salad. Take a look at that.” He gave Paula the letter he’d found in Marian’s bag.
Paula read it through. Her face had gone a little pale, but otherwise she was calm. “Key West?” she said.
Fenner’s smile was mirthless. “That make you think?”