“Something to drink for our guest, Sarah. This is Mr.... ah—”
“Short. Oliver Short,” the detective said, standing up.
“My wife,” Clymer added. “Now, a gin and tonic for Mr. Short, please.”
The woman bobbed her head in reply to Short’s smile and scurried away without a word. “Be seated, sir,” Clymer insisted, taking a long, flat case from his inner breast pocket. He flicked it into halves and held it in a chubby palm before Short. “Cigarette? Those on the left are an Egyptian blend; on the right, Chesterfields. I alternate and find the combination delightfully complementary.”
Short took a Chesterfield. Clymer held out a lighter and asked, “You’re a silent, reserved type of man?”
“No. I talk a lot. Right now I’m wondering why the town of Jacinado would want to steal and make vanish a not wealthy, not famous, relatively unimportant beatnik composer.”
Clymer watched Short steadily and closely for a few seconds, then, all, at once, he slapped both hands down on his fat knees. “Ha, ha!” he wheezed, rocking forward and backward, “Ha, ha! Very good and very well put! Ha! Why indeed? Isn’t it ludicrous, sir?”
“But on the other hand,” Short continued, keeping his expression sober, “why would Susan McCrory make up a story that such a thing had happened? What’s in it for her?”
Before Clymer could reply, Mrs. Clymer reappeared bearing a tray with two tall glasses exactly like the one Clymer had at his elbow. She served both men and left without a word. Clymer picked up his glass and said:
“Well, here’s to mutual understanding.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Short agreed. He tasted his drink and nodded. “Good. Excellent. Now, Sheriff, how can you help me clear up my client’s troubles — no point beating round the bush; you know who I am and exactly why I’m here.”
Clymer put his glass beside its twin on the table and held out his pudgy hands, palms up. Baffled sincerity was in his eyes, the lines of his forehead, and in his smile. “I can’t help you, sir. How can I? As you yourself so aptly expressed it, the situation is absurd. There’s neither motivation for the hypothetical missing man’s existence or his disappearance. We must therefore conclude that the poor girl is sick. At least three persons saw her enter this town and the hotel entirely alone. There’s not a scrap of evidence — not a shoelace — to indicate the reality of Mr. John McCrory. What can I possibly do?”
“That lack of evidence is what bothers me,” Short said. “It works two ways — if the girl’s really deluding herself, it seems to me she would have all kinds of evidence handy — a man’s clothing, shaving-cream, personal papers, and that kind of thing.”
“I’m not a psychopathologist,” Clymer shrugged, “and know nothing of the variations of the schizophrenia syndrome.”
Short smiled. “I’d say you’re an unusual man for a small town sheriff.”
“Contrary to the popular notion—” Clymer glanced at his neatly trimmed, pink fingernails — “environment and circumstances do not make the man. But to return to Mrs. McCrory, I’ve had Doctor Haines over to see her and he’s convinced she’s suffering from delusions. However, she’s broken no law; I can’t order her out of the hotel or take her into custody. Outside of notifying the authorities in White County, where there’s a mental institution, my hands are tied.”
“Why haven’t you done that?”
“Conscience, sir. A matter of conscience.” Clymer’s head wagged forward on his big shoulders. “According to Haines, the girl could snap out of this thing as quickly as she snapped into it. Is it my place to institutionalize her and possibly stigmatize her life? Is such a decision my responsibility?”
“I guess not,” Short admitted. “Well, she can’t hang round here forever. What if she just drove back to Chicago to her parents? You’d be satisfied?”
Clymer exhaled a big sigh. “That I would, sir. I certainly would. I’d rather be faced with smoking out a gang of bandits than this sort of problem.”
“She could be dangerous in her delusions,” Short suggested. “She bought a gun down in Sonora.”
“Yes. A used 7.5 mm. Mauser automatic pistol.” Clymer smiled. “And a box of American .32 caliber cartridges, which, being—” Clymer paused and eyed the porch ceiling while he calculated swiftly — “0.6 mm. oversize will either jam or eventually ruin a fine weapon. I have the serial number of the pistol in on my desk. We get full reports on guns and jewelry bought below the border — nothing official, you understand; the merchants simply cooperate informally. As to her having the gun, well—” Clymer shrugged — “we have no local ordnance against firearms. Criminals carry them regardless of the law, and we see no sense in preventing honest citizens front protecting their lives and property. Outside of her delusion about a husband, the girl seems sensible and reasonable enough. So far, I’ve just let the matter of the gun ride.”
Short listened to all this with considerable interest while he sipped his drink. “You know German guns?” he asked.
“I’ve a fine collection of Lugers and Mausers.” Clymer nodded. “On another occasion I’d be pleased to have you examine it.”
“Years ago, when I was with the OSS, I picked up a few nice guns,” Short said. “Which reminds me, I spent some time in these parts. There used to be a hell of a big traffic in heroin and morphine.”
“There’s still some. However, the Border Patrol and the FBI men keep it pretty well down. But what does the OSS have to do with smuggling?”
Short looked surprised and vague, as if he’d been caught thinking of something else. “Smuggling? Oh, nothing. We were tracking enemy agents holed up in Mexico; the smuggling was just something I heard about. Heroin and morphine came to our attention because the Nazi bigwig we were after kept himself feeling like a superman with a skinful of dope. We traced him through his supplier.” Short laughed. “In the fatherland he had chemically pure demerol; here he took plain sugar-cut junk.”
“Circumstances change, sir,” Clymer said, staring fixedly at Short.
“Yeah, they do. But like you said, it’s the man who counts. Well—” Short rubbed his jaw with a thumb and forefinger — “as soon as I nail down some definite evidence that my client’s dreamed up this husband of hers, I’ll get her back to her parents. Anyhow, I’ll wire Chicago and my Frisco office.”
“Maybe I can save you some trouble. I wired the Chicago police Tuesday for a run-down on the girl and her supposed husband. I’m expecting a reply any hour. As far as your company’s concerned — what’s its name, sir — Metropolitan?”
“Cosmopolitan Detective Agency.”
“Yes. Well, if I sent the girl back with my deputy, it’d cost the County his salary plus considerable inconvenience to me. If you accompanied her on the drive, I think your fee could be guaranteed at this end.”
“That’s damned decent of you, Sheriff,” Short said.
Clymer waved a hand. “Not at all. These emergencies come up. You may depend on it, sir; your firm will lose nothing on the girl’s behalf. The truth is that although—” Clymer cleared his throat and his fat bulbs shook like bags of jelly — “I dislike and distrust sentimental speeches, I don’t mind admitting I’ve a certain fatherly affection for the girl. It’s a painful thing to see one so young and with so many natural advantages afflicted in such a way. It makes the heart ache and enlivens the skeptical elements of the mind. Indeed it does, sir. Were I not a devoutly religious man, the very senselessness of the girl’s mania might cause me to suspect the order and harmony of the Cosmos. But on that score, who are we to decide what transcendent motives may or may not lurk behind seemingly senseless — even cruel — phenomena?”