Chapter 7
Morphine
WHEN I WENT into the smoke room, Carla Sard was talking with Don Rayne. Rayne was saying:
“Vennell’s a husky man for his age. If he put up a fight, the chances are the other fellow has marks. And if he regains consciousness, gives us a description—”
He heard me and stopped speaking. Carla was very pale, and she looked swell. Rayne frowned at me and said:
“Heard anything in the last ten minutes?”
I nodded. My lighter was dry and flameless, so I swiped a box of matches from one of the smoke-room tables. I offered cigarettes, and Carla said she was too nervous to smoke. She said it with a gesture, but I didn’t applaud because it didn’t strike me as being very clever. Don Rayne smiled at her and let his eyes show her he liked the idea.
I said: “A man named Crozier has
