“Wouldn’t she approve?”

“Oh, I don’t know. She might be a little jealous.”

She giggled suddenly.

“What?” he said, smiling.

She shot him a glance. “I just had a way-out idea, I don’t know what you’d think. She’s mad! My girl friend, absotively, posolutely mad. And if I give her a small sniff of this perfume, she’ll purr like a cat. The next time we have a date, why don’t we ask her along?”

His face sobered. So did hers.

“Honey? It was just a thought that happened to cross my mind.”

Despard moistened his lips. He could feel his heart hammering unpleasantly.

“What’s she like?”

She settled into the embrace of the comfortable bucket seat. “Cute as a button. Everybody says so. Much cuter than me. But goodness, it’s entirely up to you.” She made a small movement. “Honey, I wouldn’t want you to get picked up for speeding, but could you please hurry?”

In the main parking lot in Crandon Park on Key Biscayne, Walter Langhorne waited in his Chrysler. He had parked carelessly, the front wheels blocking access to the next parking space. Seeing a red Volkswagen coming off the Bear Cut Bridge, he started his motor, maneuvered forward and back, and opened up the space.

Candida Morse turned in and parked. She was wearing her elegant pink suit. As she swung out of her low-slung car, her skirt rode up to give Langhorne a fast glimpse of the loveliest legs in Greater Miami.

Langhorne had an air which his colleague, Jose Despard, failed to achieve through trying too hard-he looked as though he lived on a private income. He was well aware that to begin with, Candida had sought him out solely because he was a chemical-company vice-president with an itchy foot, and she was a wheel in a well-known headhunting firm. They had both put themselves out to be agreeable. This had been easy to sustain.