E. J. Despard, a family-operated chemical company with an antiquated plant in a small town in southern Georgia, had moved into plastics and synthetic fibers after the second world war and now had manufacturing facilities all over the country as well as in Europe. Largely through Jose Despard’s efforts, the head office, as well as Research and Development, his own baby, had been transferred from Georgia to a new industrial park on undeveloped land between Miami and North Miami. The climate was better, the ocean was nearby, and there was a certain amount of extracurricular action if you knew how to go about locating it.

Despard drove east to the Expressway, picking it up at 103rd Street, and zoomed south toward Miami at a rate of speed that fitted the way he was feeling. He left the Expressway at the 54th Street exit. A block or so later, he stopped at an outside phone booth. Returning to his car, he pressed a button which brought the top up out of the boot. He seldom used the Thunderbird’s top, and it felt like a disguise.

He cruised north into Edison Center.

He felt absently for a stick of gum and chewed it down to manageable size. This was another effort at camouflage. The head of one of the oldest and finest families in Georgia naturally was seldom seen with gum in his mouth.

He turned left at Edison Park, and his heart gave a thump. A girl got up off a bench and slanted across the street toward him. He pulled up and waited. She gave a quick look around, yanked open the door and bolted inside.

She wasn’t quite young enough to be his granddaughter. She was wearing a black turtleneck, a short skirt and sandals.