"'Course he was dead. They was tryin' to get somethin' out of him.
Somethin' about a cable. He jumped one of the guards, and they
blackjacked him. Hit 'im too hard, I guess. Guard sure got hell for
that, too. Me, I'm lucky. They don't ask me no questions."
"What are you in for?" Morgan asked.
"Don't know. They never told me. I don't ask for fear they'll
remember. They might start askin' questions."
Morgan considered. This could be a plant, but he didn't think so. The
voice was too authentic, and there would be no purpose in his
information. That meant that Jack Latrobe really was dead. They had
killed him. An ice cold hardness surged along his nerves.
* * * * *
The door at the far end of the corridor clanged, and a brace of heavy
footsteps clomped along the floor. Two men came abreast of the
steel-barred door and stopped.
One of them, a well-dressed, husky-looking man in his middle forties,
said: "O.K., Morgan. How did you do it?"
"I put on blue lipstick and kissed my elbows--both of 'em. Going
widdershins, of course."
"What are you talking about?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The guy in your hotel suite. You killed him. You cut off both feet,
one hand, and his head. How'd you do it?"