Another train went north. They came in sight of the highway, saw an automobile pass going north. And a little later another going south. And then another going north — and no more automobiles.
It was two-thirty in the morning when they reached the road, miles south of where they had left it. Briggs collapsed in the sand, under the lee of a mound where the wind did not reach him.
Automobile headlights appeared from the north, traveling fast. Savage stepped out in the road and waved his hands. And at the last minute had to jump back as the machine rushed past.
“Afraid of a hold-up,” he said, returning to Briggs.
Briggs was too weak to walk farther. Gray dawn was pushing over the eastern mountains before another machine appeared on the road. And this time it was an old truck traveling noisily and slowly toward El Paso.
The truck stopped. It was carrying a load of steers. Two tanned men wearing broad-brimmed sombreros were in the cab. They stared in amazement at Savage’s dirty, thorn-ripped face, his soiled suit, his undershirt exposed under the coat.
“We were held up,” Savage explained. “My partner’s shot in the leg. Have you passed any trailers to the north of here?”
“We only come from this side of Alamagordo,” replied one of the men. “Boy, yuh two are in a bad shape! Shore we’ll take yuh in town!”
They had to help Briggs into the cab. One of the men rode on the running board while Savage crowded on the seat beside Briggs. Before they rolled into El Paso Savage put on Briggs’ shirt.
“You won’t need it in the hospital, Briggs. I’ll have to be moving around fast before the stores are open.”
“I hate to run out on you at a time like this, chief,” said Briggs painfully.
“Can’t be helped. I think we may get a break out of this night yet.”
They took Briggs to a hospital. The truck left. A police car arrived a few minutes later, in answer to the telephoned report that a wounded man had been brought in.
Savage described the two trailers, the cars that pulled them, gave the license numbers of his car and trailer. He washed hastily and talked to the police while an interne patched up his face. The police telephoned headquarters, promised quick action on a broadcast report to halt the two cars. But one of them gave his opinion:
“They’ve had too much of a start. Those trailers will be ditched somewhere. Maybe the cars. There’s a thousand places north of here they can drop out of sight if they keep off the highways.”
Savage telephoned the Hotel del Monte. He was prepared for what he heard.
“Miss Sullivan checked out at five minutes to seven last night... No, she didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
The Tri-State Agency had a night telephone listed. A sleepy voice answered.
“This is Anthony Savage, on that case referred to you by the Apperson Agency in New Orleans. Where did Miss Sullivan go?”
“How should we know where she went, Mr. Savage?” the astonished voice replied. “This is Starbuck speaking. In the office, about five-thirty yesterday afternoon, you personally told me you’d handle this matter yourself. We were discharged from the case. And as you directed, we took our man off Miss Sullivan at once.”
“At that time I was over near Van Horn, Texas,” said Savage bruskly. “Someone impersonated me! Will you get down to your office at once?”
Chapter XXVI
Rita Walks into Danger
Starbuck was a chunky man with a short black mustache; he displayed signs of his hasty trip to the office. And Starbuck was almost incoherent at what had happened.
“How could I know, Mr. Savage? The man was well dressed, seemed to know exactly what he was doing, spoke of the trip he’d just made, and knew every detail about which we had been informed. We were expecting your arrival. It all fitted in.”
“I’d probably have been taken in the same way,” Savage granted. “I didn’t do any better myself. What did this man look like?”
Starbuck knit his brows.
“Different — not at all like you, Savage. He was somewhat younger, for one thing. More heavily tanned than you are. And he’d been working hard somewhere. When he shook hands, I noticed the callouses.”
Savage stared. “Callouses — heavy tan? Was he about twenty-six? Blond? Let’s see — some gold in one of his front teeth?”
“Er... yes... I think so. I remember the gold showing when he smiled. D’you know him?”
“I think I do,” Savage snapped. “And if it’s the same man, he has been working hard — as a gardener, an assistant gardener, to be correct. And I’ve had the feeling about him that I overlooked something that should have been followed up. He called himself Parker.”
“He was Savage when he was in here,” stated Starbuck glumly.
“Well, that’s water over the dam. What about Miss Sullivan?”
“She stayed around her room most of the time. Lunched with one of the hotel guests. A man. He registered as R. L. Chatham, Chicago.”
“Chatham? Chicago? What’ll break next in this case?” Savage exclaimed, recalling Chatham, that unobtrusive business associate of Larnigan’s in Florida. “Let’s have your telephone!”
Savage called the Del Monte again.
Mr. Chatham had registered from Chicago night before last. He had checked out at six the previous evening, without a forwarding address.
Savage was red-eyed, haggard behind the patches of tape on his ripped face. He scowled at the telephone for a moment.
“Ever hear of a Daniel Van Drake, alias Buck Clark, alias Big Tom Car-son?” he asked Starbuck.
Starbuck shook his head.
“Or John Black, alias Bob Hutton — or Rudolph Coston, alias Soapy Jones, alias Sam Jenkins?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Savage.”
“They’re both acquainted with a man down in Mexico called Limey.”
“Not Limey Drake?”
“Limey is the only name I know.”
“It must be Limey Drake,” said Starbuck positively. “He’s the only ‘Limey’ along the border here who would fit into a case like this.”
“A bad one, eh?”
“Worse,” said Starbuck. “Limey Drake is notorious along the border. His specialty is smuggling.”
“Dope?”
“Naturally. But other things — Chinamen, onions, butter, Swiss watch movements. There’s quite a profit in watch movements because of the high duty. They don’t carry identification marks and can’t be traced after they’re in the country. No one’s ever proved dope smuggling on Drake. But then he always has others do the work.”
“Daniel Van Drake,” said Savage, “did four years in Atlanta on a dope charge. But I can’t by any stretch of the imagination connect dope with this case.”
“I think,” Starbuck decided, “you want to talk to Jim Considine. Jim’s an Inspector of the Customs Border Patrol. An undercover man. Does a lot of his work down in Mexico. One of Jim’s pet hates is Limey Drake. He knows more about Drake and the men Drake uses than any living man. Jim’s in town. I’ll telephone him, and we’ll go over to his hotel.”
You had a sense of confidence from the first sight of Jim Considine. Slightly built, square-jawed, almost as dark as a Mexican, Considine was blond and blue-eyed. His eyes were dark blue, stabbing, rather cold, as such men’s eyes are apt to be. And his manner was quiet and intent.
Considine was in his undershirt when he admitted them to his hotel room. He stood by the window, sinewy fingers toying with a brown paper cigarette while Savage explained the case.
“Yes, I’ve seen this Sam Jenkins,” said Considine thoughtfully. “I saw him talking to Limey in a Torreon cantina a couple of years ago. He left as soon as Drake warned him I was in the place. Got out of town. But I’ve carried that broken nose in my mind. So he was wanted in San Francisco for murder? I wish I’d known it. Van Drake I don’t place. Limey’s dealt with a lot of men. It may even be a relative. Drake — Van Drake. Close, eh?”