“Who indeed?” Short muttered, draining his glass and getting to his feet. “Well, I guess that covers the situation. I’m going to talk seriously to Miss Shaw — Susan — at dinner and suggest we begin the drive back to Chicago tonight.” He held out his hand. “I want to thank you for your patience and help.”
“Not at all.” Clymer came up from the rocker, vast belly quivering, and pumped the offered hand warmly. “You’re dining at the Sierra Royal?”
“Where else?” Short grinned.
“Indeed. Well put — where else?” Clymer’s answering grin made a tiny pink crescent under his stubby nose. “If you’ll give me a half-hour to freshen up and dress, I’d be honored to be your host. Do you think you might convince the lady to accept my presence?”
“I think I can manage.”
“Fine. Shall we say a half-hour?”
Short agreed and left. Out on the main street he glanced back at the Paloma Hotel, then turned and walked in the opposite direction. A hundred yards or so, where the brick and cobble-stones petered out into plain hard-packed clay, he came to a low building that suggested a converted stable. A pair of red gasoline pumps were posted in front of it, and between them, in the driveway, a short, husky, greasy-brown man was working over a tire, banging with a pair of irons. He squinted up at Short.
“You Juan Colom?” Short asked.
The man didn’t speak. He shook his head “no” and pointed to the door of the building with one of the irons. Short nodded and went inside. Another short, husky, greasy man — this one not so brown — was busy talking into a wall telephone. He looked at Short and frowned. Short shook his head by way of greeting, sat on a high metal stool by the door, and lit a cigarette. While he smoked, he let his eyes travel over the smudged wood and cement walls, which were decorated with oil and gas advertisements, frayed spark-plug and ignition charts, and cut-out calendar cuties in varying degrees of undress. Over everything was a film of grease that made the reflected light dirty and saturated the air with a rancid smell.
The man at the phone turned his back toward Short, as if by that movement to insure the privacy of his conversation. For his part, the conversation consisted of little more than a series of “Yeahs”, pauses, and more “Yeahs”. Finally he hung up, turned to Short, and asked, “What can I do for you?”
Short studied the man’s face. Square, flat, framed in black hair, the mouth thin and cruel-looking, the jaw aggressive and surly, it was anything but pleasant. There was a three-inch scar, white-centered and purple-edged, lacing down the left cheek.
“Well?” the man asked. As he spoke his jaw formed a ridged line down from the ear on each side.
“I’ve a couple questions about Mrs. McCrory and her car.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re an American? You sound like New York.” Short tossed the question in an offhand way. The man didn’t answer. “It doesn’t matter,” Short added. “Only when the hotel-clerk tossed the name Juan Colom at me, I sort of expected a Mexican.”
“I’m not Mexican,” the man said. “But you’re Juan Colom?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. What was wrong with Mrs. McCrary’s car?”
Juan Colom tilted his head back and to one side, ran his eyes up and down Short’s half-seated figure, and smiled without a trace of humor. “Who’re you?” he asked.
Short stood up. “You know who I am. I just left your boss’s house. Just tell me a couple things and I’ll beat it. Call Clymer back for the okay if you want.”
Colom shrugged his shoulders and muscles rippled under his tight, sweatstained shirt. “The work on her car was just an ignition job. Couple plugs were fouled and the points needed setting.”
“And she brought you the car herself last Friday evening?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Then she came back for the car a couple days later — Monday morning?”
“Yeah.”
“But the car was supposed to be ready Saturday morning, wasn’t it?”
“It was ready,” Colom said. “She didn’t show up till Monday.”
“And you didn’t see her husband?”
“Are you kidding? Everybody in town knows she came alone. She’s nuts.”
“Yeah, I’m being forced to that conclusion,” Short said. “Did you actually see her drive into town?”
“No. I saw her when she came here with the car.”
“How was she dressed?”
Juan Colom blinked and shook his head sideways. “How do I know? You think I notice women’s clothes?”
“She had a dress on — you saw that, didn’t you?”
Colom looked disgusted. “Yeah, sure. You think she drove up naked? I guess she’s not that nuts or she wouldn’t be running loose.”
“Well, if you’re not color-blind, what color was the dress?”
Staring at one of his ignition-charts for a few seconds, Colom worked his jaw silently, pulling up his lips and grinding the edges of his front teeth. Then he said, “Sort of light blue.” He nodded. “Yeah, I remember now. It wasn’t a dress; it was a skirt and jacket. When she got out of the car I noticed she had a nice behind and the suit fit pretty damn tight around it.”
“Was she wearing a hat?”
“Yeah. A white hat — no, maybe not white — more like a light gray. She had a bag the same color.” Short grinned. “You remember pretty good for a guy who couldn’t remember at all. Maybe if you try harder you’ll remember a tall, thin, baldheaded guy with a beard.”
“I never saw anything like that.” Colom’s face was sullen. “Now, if that’s all, I got work to do.”
“Yeah, that’s all.” Short got up. “That car of hers in shape to reach Chicago?”
“It was when it left here. Why?”
“Because I want to get there,” Short answered. “See you later.” He left then and chuckled softly as the man working on the tire glared evilly at him.
5
Susan McCrory was waiting at a table in the Sierra Royal when Short arrived. Her blond hair was piled high, green-violet shadows accented her eyelids, and she wore a strapless, backless gown of hard-finished emerald green stuff that hugged her figure and hid nothing at all. Short turned his surprise into a smile and an apology for being late.
“Oh, I haven’t been here long,” Susan told him. “Just a minute or two. The waiter seemed to be expecting us and had everything ready.”
“Sheriff Clymer’s work,” Short replied. “He’s asked us to dinner. I hope you don’t mind; I accepted because it’s important to the job.”
A tinge of annoyance crossed Susan’s face. “That man.” Then she shrugged her smooth, nude shoulders. “Well, if it’ll help find John, I can stand it. Did you learn anything?”
“I learned one thing beyond all doubt — Clymer owns everything and everybody in this burg. He owns them body and soul.”
Susan smiled. Far more relaxed than she’d been earlier in the afternoon, her high-fashion get-up seemed to give her confidence. She tilted an eyebrow and said in mock reproval, “I don’t need a high-powered San Francisco detective to tell me that.”
“I’m not from Frisco,” Short smiled back. “I’m from the East — to the degree that I live anywhere. I was just wrapping up a job at the Frisco office when your call came. They were short-handed and I had an urge to see this country again, so I came down. And I’m glad I did.” Short looked appreciatively at Susan and added, “You’re the most beautiful client I’ve had in years.”
“Thank you, sir. And you’re the most handsome detective I’ve ever hired.”