"I gotta find out who bumped Sagers an' why. I gotta try an' get next to somethin' solid about these phoney Bonds, because, right now, it looks as if nothin' makes sense."
"OK by me," he says. "An' I reckon you don't want me or the boys interferin' around at the Hacienda?"
"You're dead right," I say. "Say, is this place as lousy as they say?"
He shrugs.
"It's just one of them places," he says. "We've had plenty complaints from guys who've lost their dough there. Gamblin's illegal an' we put up a raid now an' then just to amuse the children, but what's the use of tryin' to stop people playin' faro or shootin' crap for big dough if they're built that way? Ten months ago some guy is found out on the desert away back of the Hacienda. He'd been clubbed till he looked like a map of Europe an' he was good an' dead. Plenty people said he'd been done at the Hacienda after they took him for his dough, an' I tried all I knew to get a case goin' but I couldn't make it, I couldn't prove a thing."
"OK, Chief," I say an' I shake hands. "Now I reckon I ain't comm' to see you any more. It's no good you an' me being seen around together. But if I want to contact you I'll call you. If you want me I'm at the Miranda House an' I'll be using the name of Frayme - Selby T. Frayme of Magdalena, Mexico."
I scram. I get the car an' drive over to the Miranda House an' check in. Then I go up to my room an' drink some coffee an' read the three letters again. But I still can't make any sense outa this thing.
One little thing is sorta stickin' around in my mind an' that is this. I would very much like to know who the guy was who sent me that anonymous letter sayin' I should find these three letters out here at Henrietta's dump. I wanta know who this guy was, an' I am goin' to guess once an' take a shade of odds that I am right. The only guy mixed up in this business who mighta known that I was stayin' on East 30th Street would be Langdon Burdell, Granworth Aymes' secretary, an' maybe I am goin' to talk cold turkey to this guy pretty soon.
But even if it was him, how did he know that the letters would be out here at the rancho? An' how did he know that Henrietta had taken 'em?
Another thing is that I have always found this ferretin' out business comes hard. Nothin' in this 'G' game is easy. An' I found them letters too darn easy. Maybe I was meant to find 'em.
I go to bed because, as I have told you before, I am a great believer in sleep. If the tough guys an' dames was to stay in bed more instead of rootin' around raisin' hell generally, 'G' men could take time out for eatin' cream puffs.
I am wonderin' what this dame Henrietta is like. They say she is one swell baby. Well, I hope they are right, because if I have gotta pinch a dame I would as soon pinch one who is easy to look at.
You're tellin' me!
CHAPTER 3
NEXT DAY I just stick around. In the afternoon I ease along to the telegraph office an' I send a code wire to the "G" Office in New York askin' them to let me have a list of the servants an' people employed by Granworth Aymes at the time of his suicide an' their locations right now, that is if they can find 'em out.
I have got a sorta hunch about this Aymes suicide. It looks to me like there is something screwy about it, an' if I can dig up anything that is goin' to help me along, then I reckon I am goin' to dig.
The main difference between the sorta things that you read about in detective fiction an' the things that happen in real life is that the real life things is always a dum sight more strange than the ones in the book. No writin' guy ever had the nerve to write a story that he knew was true-nobody woulda believed him; but in the books there is always a bunch of clues that the crook leaves lyin' about just like they was banana skins for the dick to slip up on.
Me - I always follow my nose an' just go right ahead. That's my system. I don't believe what anybody tells me on a case till I've checked on it, an' even then, like as not, I still don't believe 'em.
One snag is that the New York coroner who was responsible for the inquest says that Granworth Aymes committed suicide, and it ain't any business of mine to go gumshoein' around bustin' that verdict wide open unless it's got some direct bearin' on the counterfeit business. You gotta realise that I am a Federal Agent an' it is not my business to check up on police work or try an' prove that they are wrong - not unless I have got to.
At the same time I reckon that I will do some delvin' because it stands to reason that the counterfeitin' of these Dollar Bonds mighta been done in more than one way. First of all somebody might have pinched the original certificates an' substituted the counterfeit ones after they had been handed over to Henrietta Aymes. This coulda been done without Granworth knowin' anything about it, or else it coulda been arranged by him an' done with his knowledge, although where this woulda got him I don't know.
Then Henrietta mighta got the counterfeit stuff made after Aymes was dead, thinkin' that she had a better chance of passin' it than anybody else just because everybody knew that Aymes had given her the regular bonds. But even if this was so you woulda thought she wouldn't have been such a mug as to try an' push one over on a bank. Anybody will cash a Registered Dollar Bond if they've got the money, an' there was plenty of other places she coulda tried first
Supposin' that she is tryin' a fast one. Well, where are the original certificates an' who's got 'em?
I can't help thinkin' back of my head that there is some connection between the counterfeitin' business an' this schrnozzle that is goin' on between Henrietta an' Granworth over this woman just before he dies. It also looks very screwy that Henrietta was aimin' to go an' see him on the day that he bumped himself off; an' here is another littie thing that I cannot understand: - The New York police told me that at the inquest on Aymes, Burdell, his secretary, an' the other servants workin' in the Aymes' apartment all said that Mrs Aymes was away in Connecticut until after the suicide, when Burdell sent her a wire an' she came back pronto so's to be at the funeral.
Anyway, I reckon that I will take a look at this Henrietta as soon as I can, an' maybe she an' me can do a little talkin' an' see if we can get some of this business straightened out.
Sittin' on the veranda outside my bedroom window, drinkin' a mint julep, I get to thinkin' about Sagers. I am tryin' to find some reason why some guy shoulda bumped him off. Nobody could know that there was any connection between Sagers an' me, an' the act we put on at the Hacienda Altmira the night he got his was watertight. Nobody woulda suspected that he was reportin' to me while he was doin' that big makin' friends act.
So it looks to me like somebody out at the Hacienda thought that Sagers knew a durn sight more than he did, an' when he blew along an' said that he had come into this money an' was scrammin' they thought they'd better make a certainty of him an' give him the heat. Even so I reckon he was shot in a funny sorta way.
The way he was lyin' on those stairs looked to me that he was comm' down 'em when he was shot. There was a powder burn round one of the bullet holes where he was shot in the stomach an' that particular shot was fired at pretty close range-about four feet away I should think.
So I work it out this way: - Sagers was up in one of the rooms leading off the balcony that runs round the inside wall of the Hacienda. Somebody shot him in the guts an' Sagers, not havin' a gun on him, evidently thought he'd better blow before they ironed him some more. So he turns around, gets along the balcony an' starts runnin' down the stairs.