Sheriff Clymer told her there was nothing he could do unless she could explain the register and could produce some kind of evidence that John had existed. It was impossible for him to believe that everybody in the hotel was lying. Then Susan thought of the garage where John had taken the car the night before. Clymer agreed to question the mechanic. But when they got there, the mechanic, a middle-aged Mexican of serious mein whose speech was interspersed with all kinds of religious avowals involving various saints and the Holy Trinity, said quite plainly that Susan had brought the car and given instructions to check it over. This closed the matter as far as Clymer was concerned, except that later on in the evening he sent Doc Haines, the local bonesetter, over to the hotel to look at and talk with Susan.
For a couple days nothing happened. Susan refused to leave the Paloma without her husband, and since she’d paid her bill in advance nobody could object to that. She searched the town, questioned everyone she could, and drove miles and miles hunting for John — or his body — in the surrounding desert. All this was to no avail, except that in actually moving about and doing something, Susan found that her strength and courage rose to the situation. She became grimly determined. Then Monday morning, three days after John’s disappearance, she received a mysterious phone call. A woman’s voice told her to drive down to a certain address in Sonora, across the Mexican border, and she might find something she’d lost. Then the voice laughed softly and clicked into silence. Susan went at once. It was a drive of fifty miles and ended in a blind alley. Number 14 Balboa Avenue — the address she’d been given — turned out to be a tourist shop whose owners disclaimed all knowledge of Susan, her husband, or of any phone calls to San Jacinado. After that, Susan spent the remainder of the day in Sonora, reporting the matter to the local police, asking questions in unlikely places, and finally buying an automatic pistol in a pawn-shop. Then she drove back to San Jacinado. Martin Clymer looked skeptical, bored, and mildly sympathetic when she told him about the strange phone call.
On Thursday evening, in desperation, Susan suddenly thought of the Cosmopolitan Detective Agency, whose Chicago branch provided security for the bank where she worked as a cashier. She phoned San Francisco and spoke to the Chief of that branch, requesting the services of an operative immediately and giving the name of her bank-president uncle as reference that the required retainer would be paid. The following afternoon she — and Martin Clymer, doubtless informed of the phone call by the hotel clerk — awaited Short’s arrival by train.
3
After hearing all this, Oliver Short put a cigarette between his lips and lit it. He stared at a dry pool and fountain in the center of the Paloma courtyard. “Before we go in,” he said, “I’ve a couple questions.”
Susan put a hand on his arm and stared at him with wide anxious eyes. “You believe me, don’t you? You don’t think I’m crazy?”
“Is that what Doc Haines said?”
“Just about.”
Short rubbed his fat neck, squinted at the girl, and shook his head sideways. “I’ve heard of one or two women who imagined they had husbands. One of them — a case in Spokane — used to go out and buy clothes, shaving-cream, and special food for hers. She even answered ads in the help wanted columns for him. Laziness was his big trouble. But—” Short patted Susan’s hand — “none of these women looked anything like you. These gals had to imagine they had husbands. You get my point?
“Yes.” Susan flushed pink with the word.
“Anyway,” Short added, “I believe your story.”
A great deal of tension and fear drained from Susan’s face. “Thank you. After a week of everybody saying you’re crazy, just having somebody believe you is a relief. You can’t guess how much.”
“Sure I can. Now tell me what John looks like. I assume any pictures you had of him were taken along with his luggage?”
“Yes. Our wedding pictures. And I had a few snapshots from back in Chicago that are gone too.”
“I see. Well, describe John, please.”
Susan was silent a moment while she looked pensively at two stone turtles that formed the fountain. “Like I told you, he’s tall and thin and prematurely bald. He has a heavy, full brownish-black beard. His face is long, narrow, and strong; especially the jaw which you can see forming powerful ridges at his cheeks and ears. His neck is lean and corded. His eyes are large, deep-set, and burning-dark. They smoulder with unexpressed feeling. He’s sensitive and tense and sort of charged with vitality. He’s alive to things in a way that other men — most of them — aren’t. It’s hard to explain.”
“Was he in the service? Army? Navy?”
Susan looked blank. “I don’t know. The subject never came up. He’s not much interested in war, politics, and things like that. He’s an artist — a gentle person. His music is beautiful and important — one day he’ll be famous.”
Short nodded. “How does he dress?”
“Not too carefully, I’m afraid.” Susan smiled. “He likes old rumpled tweeds — worn, comfortable things. There’s nothing pretentious or middle-class about him; he’s spontaneous and happy — like a big boy. I think that’s because he loves his work. His whole life’s doing the thing he wants most to do — creating music.”
“Uh huh.” Short considered a moment. “What kind of an income does his music bring?”
Susan hesitated and looked from Short to the stone turtles. “Nothing yet,” she said. “You see, he doesn’t write popular music. It’s deep serious stuff — symphonies, string-quartets, tone-poems — that kind of thing. There’s no immediate market for it.”
Short studied Susan’s face in silence.
“You have to understand,” she added quickly. “It’s hard to explain John. He sounds weird to people who don’t understand. He’s not interested much in money or property—”
“You mean he’s a Beat?” Short asked. “And was scrounging along in some cellar or attic while he wrote music? And now you’re paying the bills?”
A defiant look came into Susan’s eyes. “We all live off the earth. In a sense, we’re all parasites. Those of us who are ethical try to give something back. Something truly worthwhile. John’s trying to give something tremendous. He works long hard hours without ever thinking ‘What am I going to get out of it?’ Why shouldn’t I share in his project? In fact—” Susan’s chin rose — “it’s a privilege.”
“All right,” Short said, smiling. “I’m not criticizing you or John. What does your banker-uncle think of this marriage?”
“He didn’t know until John and I left. I wrote him a letter. I don’t know what he thinks.”
Short digested these facts. He looked at the dry fountain and saw, lying on the bottom, two perfect little fish skeletons, bleached white as lime from the hot sun. Goldfish, probably.
“How long had you and John known each other?” he asked.
“Two months. We met at a concert and took to each other at once. If—” Susan paused and shook her head — “if you’re thinking John married me for money and then run out, you’re wrong. All I have is what I saved from my job. It’s true my uncle is well-to-do, but he has a large family of his own.”
“I wasn’t thinking that,” Short said. “But speaking of money; how much was John carrying?”
“About twenty-dollars. He hates to be bothered handling money and was glad to let me take charge of it. I have our traveler’s checks and my regular checkbook here in my purse.”
“What exactly is your financial situation?”