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with the police to the door nor when he returned, opened the music cabinet, clattered forth a whisky bottle, poured himself a sturdy one. He finished it, looked across at her and stated, "Sometimes you don't have a lick of sense."
    "Con—" She wanted to tell him he was in danger of arrest; he was innocent but he was involved. He knew it but she wanted to emphasize it, to make him be careful. She only said, "You shouldn't mix gin and whisky so early in the morning."
    He didn't pay any attention to her remark. He sat down beside her and eyed her coolly, steadily. "You're young enough to stick to being seen and not heard."
    She shook her head, puzzled, trying not to be hurt that he was relegating her to being no more than a doll wife again, just as he had when they were married before. "What did I say wrong? What did I do?"
    He raised an eyebrow. "Why didn't you let me do the talking?" And then he stared at her as if something had just occurred to him. "My God, baby, you didn't think I came to Long Beach for my health, did you?"
    She didn't answer right away. Then she said, "I thought we came for our honeymoon."
    He waved an abstracted hand. "We'll take care of that later."
    She knew then, knew what she had been fighting to keep from knowing all through the sleepless hours of the early morning. Con was working with Barjon Garth. Con was getting into danger. Panic was in her voice. She couldn't quell it. Nor could she keep from asking stupidly. "Con, you didn't kill her?"
    "Kill her?" He came out of his fog on that. "Kill Shelley Huffaker? God, no." He put his arm around her. "Are you going nuts, baby?"
    Her cheek touched his sleeve. "I knew you didn't. But who did? Why was she killed?"
    "I don't know the answer to either of those. I'm going to find out." He took his arm away, went over, and poured another. "Don't tell me it's too early," he warned the look in her eyes. "I'm thirsty and nobody but a native son could stomach the fish juice that comes out of those taps." He swallowed, said, "I'm going to find out. Who and why."
    It was necessary that she speak now. The man who had introduced himself to her last night could have killed Shelley Huffaker in cold blood, deliberately and with less emotional reaction than he would scratch a horse at the paddock. She asked, "Do you know anything about a Major Pembrooke?"
    He turned on her quickly. "Who's been talking to you about him?"
    "I met him last night."
    He looked at her disbelieving, and then he repeated, "You met him last night? Where? How?"
    "He was at the Bamboo Bar."
    He was wracking his brains, unsuccessfully.
    She said, "The man with Kew at the far table."
    He was quick. "How did you know that was Pembrooke?"
    "He stopped to talk to me. After Kew left."
    Con sat down then too quietly. He didn't touch his glass. He said to himself with disappointment, almost anger, "I could have met him if I hadn't been so damn curious about that blonde." He doubled up his fist and thumped his forehead.
    She spoke with hushed insistence. "You don't want to meet him, Con. He's—" She searched for a word. "He's—ugly."
    Con looked at her under his scowl. "You think I've been inhabiting that bar to improve my mind? It's Pembrooke's favorite hangout."
    Difficult as it was, she kept her voice quiet, not frantic, "And who is Pembrooke?"
    He didn't answer. He was thumping again, muttering, "What a dope I was! Could have met him."
    She didn't hide the franticness now. "Con, why do you want to meet him? What have you to do with him? Who is he?
    He said, "Pembrooke is a British officer." He hesitated, "I can't tell you much, Griselda. It isn't permitted. But I want to meet him."
    That made it definite; he was working for Garth. There was sickness inside of her. "Kew can introduce you."
    "I don't want a planned meeting. It wouldn't—look right. Last night would have been perfect if I hadn't been playing the fool." He seemed to see her now. "You mustn't be involved in this. That's one thing I won't