"Himself," said Clayton shortly. "He could have hired a torpedo. He's got money enough. Not that killers come fabulously expensive."
Almost, Kintyre told him of last night. He stopped with the words at his teeth. After this hour's performance, it seemed too probable that Clayton would insist on telling the San Francisco authorities about Larkin, on the instant, and the consequences to Guido (and thereby to Guido's parents and Corinna) go hang.
As far as that goes, I suppose I've made myself an accessory after the fact or something.
They remained in a companionable silence until the coffee had arrived. It was refreshing to know an unfrantic businessman; but then, Clayton had acquired a lot of European traits.
The importer asked suddenly: "Have you seen Miss Towne?"
"Not today," said Kintyre, surprised.
"Were you planning to?"
"Why—yes. I thought I'd drop around this afternoon. She told me she didn't feel up to working for the rest of this week."
"It might be better if she did," said Clayton. "She'll sit at home and grieve, or go out and laugh more than she means. Drinking too much in either case."
"You seem to know her pretty well," said Kintyre. He felt a bit annoyed, he didn't know why.