iced that you walk with a very
slight limp. If you have a bad leg, I should think you would do better
to develop a more pronounced limp. Otherwise, you may appear to be
self-conscious about it."

* * * * *

Spencer opened his mouth to protest, but saw with amazement that it was
exactly this that Valencia was seeking. Pembroke was amused at his
companion's reaction but observed that Spencer still failed to see the
point.

"Also, there is a certain effeminateness in the way in which you speak,"
said Pembroke. "Try to be a little more direct, a little more brusque.
Speak in a monotone. It will make you more acceptable."

"Thank you so much," said the manager. "There is much food for thought
in what you have said, Mr. Pembroke. However, Mr. Spencer, your value
has failed to prove itself. You have only yourself to blame. Cooperation
is all we require of you."

Valencia left. Spencer ordered another martini. Neither he nor Pembroke
spoke for several minutes.

"Somebody's crazy around here," the fat man muttered after a few
moments. "Is it me, Frank?"

"No. You just don't belong here, in this particular place," said
Pembroke thoughtfully. "You're the wrong type. But they couldn't know
that ahead of time. The way they operate it's a pretty hit-or-miss
operation. But they don't care one bit about us, Spencer. Consider the
men who went down with the ship. That was just part of the game."

"What the hell are you sayin'?" asked Spencer in disbelief. "You figure
_they_ sunk the ship? Valencia and the waitress and the three babes? Ah,
come on."

"It's what you think that will determine what you do, Spencer. I suggest
you change your attitude; play along with them for a few days till the
picture becomes a little clearer to you. We'll talk about it again
then."

Pembroke rose and started out of the bar. A policeman entered and walked
directly to Spencer's table. Loitering at the juke box, Pembroke
overheard the conversation.

"You Spencer?"

"That's right," said the fat man sullenly.

"What don't you like about me? The _truth_, buddy."

"Ah, hell! Nothin' wrong with you at all, and nothin'll make me say
there is," said Spencer.

"You're the guy, all right. Too bad, Mac," said the cop.

Pembroke heard the shots as he strolled casually out into the brightness
of the hotel lobby. While he waited for the elevator, he saw them
carrying the body into the street. How many others, he wondere