twelve

in Southern California, and beyond the olive-green window shades it had been bright daylight.
“But I can’t . . . I really can’t imagine,” Dr. McAllen had just finished bumbling, his round face a study of controlled dismay on the other side of the desk, “whatever could have brought you to these . . . these extraordinary conclusions, young man.”
Barney had smiled reassuringly, leaning back in his chair. “Well, indirectly, sir, as the pictures indicate, we might say it was your interest in fishing. You see, I happened to notice you on Mallorca last month . . .”

By itself, the chance encounter on the island had seemed only moderately interesting. Barney was sitting behind the wheel of an ancient automobile, near a private home in which a business negotiation of some consequence was being conducted. The business ­under discussion happened to be Barney’s, but it would have been inexpedient for him to attend the meeting in person. Waiting for his associates to wind up the matter, he was passing time by studying an old man who was fishing from a small boat offshore, a hundred yards or so below the road. After a while the old fellow brought the boat in, appeared a few minutes later along the empty lane carrying his tackle and an apparently empty gunny sack, and trudged unheedingly past the automobile and its occupant. As he went by, Barney had a sudden sense of recognition. Then in a flash, his mind jumped back twelve years.
Dr. Oliver B. McAllen. Twelve years ago the name had been an important one in McAllen’s field; then it was not so much forgotten t