Homer Crawford stared at her, unbelievingly. The woman couldn't
possibly be an emissary from Isobel or from one of his own companions.
This situation demanded the utmost secrecy, they hadn't had time to
screen any outsiders as to trustworthiness.
She turned. It was Isobel. She chuckled softly, "You should see your
face."
His eyes went to her figure.
"Done with mirrors," Isobel said. "Or, at least, with pillows."
Homer didn't waste time. "Where are the others? They should be here by
now."
"We figured that the fewer of us seen on the streets, the better. So
they're waiting for you. Since I was the most easily disguised, the
least suspicious looking, I was elected to come get you."
"Waiting where?"
She licked the side of her mouth, a disconcerting characteristic of
hers, and looked at him archly. "Those pals of yours have quite a bit
on the ball on their own. They decided that there was a fairly good
chance that Sven Zetterberg wasn't exactly going to fall into your
arms, so they took preliminary measures. Kenny Ballalou rented a small
house, here in the native quarter. We've all rendezvoused there. See,
you aren't the only one on the ball."
Homer frowned at her, for the moment being in no mood for humor. "What
was the idea of sitting here for the past five minutes without even
speaking? You must have recognized me, knowing what to look for."
She nodded. "I ... I wasn't sure, Homer, but I had the darnedest
feeling I was being followed."
His glance was sharp now. First at her, then a quick darting around
the vicinity. "Woman's intuition," he snapped, "or something
substantial?"