CHAPTER 2THE LITTLE STRAW MAN
THE three men had not exchanged a second glance, I was sure of that, but now the Hawk likewise lounged toward the rear of the café.
I sat and watched Sheila Feyne, though I did not know her name then. My glance strayed over toward the Ogre. He was drinking tequila in the approved Mexican fashion, with lemon and salt. I noticed he stood sidewise to the bar, and it struck me that he, too, was keeping an eye on Sheila Feyne.
Minutes crawled, five, ten, fifteen.
The girl was getting uneasy, getting tired of waiting. She had begun looking at her wrist-watch at frequent intervals. The color began to climb into her cheeks. Finally, she made up her mind. She signaled the waiter, opened her handbag, paid for the drinks—hers and Warren’s both. Then she rose to her f
