Morecombre was in no hurry to leave. “See Anita this morning?” he asked, flicking ash on the floor.
“I have,” Quentin returned grimly. “That baby’s wearing a pair of very hot pants.”
“You’re right, but what else has she got to do? I’m sorry for that judy.”
Quentin slipped on his jacket. “The trouble with you,” he said dryly, “is that you’re always sorry for dames. Then, eventually, they get sorry for themselves.”
They crossed the corridor into Morecombre’s room. “Do you seriously think anything’s going to happen?” Morecombre asked, diving under his bed and dragging out a large suit-case. “I mean big enough to justify all this fuss and expense?”
Quentin sat on the bed and eyed the suit-case with interest. “I don’t know,” he said, “but when you get into a country as hot as this, packed with people who’ve been pushed around and treated as these people have been, it’s a safe bet that the lid will come off sometime. And when it comes off a lotta guys are going to be hurt.”
Morecombre opened the suitcase and sat back on his heels. “Looks good,” he said, examining a big array of brightly labelled tins. “What shall we have?”
A discreet knock sounded. Morecombre looked at Quentin with a grin. “Vulture number one,” he said, going across and opening the door.
The hotel manager was a short, rather pathetic-looking little Cuban. He bowed very stiffly at the waist. “I’ve come to present my apologies—” he began, looking at the tinned food with a sparkle in his eye.
“Forget it,” Morecombre said, stepping to one side. “Come on in and have a spot of something. You can take it off the bill.”