Susan read. When she finished her eyes were deeply troubled and she nibbled at her lip nervously. Short took the wire and read:
SHERIFF MARTIN CLYMER COMMA SAN JACINADO COLON NO RECORD OF MCCRORY DASH SHAW MARRIAGE JUNE TWELFTH FAYETTEVILLE OR ANY LOCATION COOK COUNTY STOP NO SUCH RECORD PAST YEAR STOP SUSAN SHAW EMPLOYED AT MERCHANTS TRUST BANK AND HOME ADDRESS AS STATED STOP UNCLE THOMAS SHAW BANK PRESIDENT AS STATED STOP NO RECORD ANY JOHN MCCRORY MUSICIAN STOP EXTENSIVE INVESTIGATION INDICATE NAME UNKNOWN TO CHICAGO MUSIC SOCIETY COMMA HIBBARD MUSIC SCHOOL AND STATE COLLEGE STOP MAN IS UNKNOWN TO MUSICIANS LOCAL UNION COMMA NEWSPAPER CRITICS AND ASCAP STOP NO REVEREND JAMES BUSH IN FAYETTEVILLE FOSTER STREET OR OTHERWISE STOP LIEUTENANT HAROLD GEROME BUREAU OF IDENTIFICATION COMMA CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT STOP REQUEST ACKNOWLEDGEMENT THIS TELEGRAM AND DEVELOPMENT IF ANY STOP REFER TO FILE WX 3 DASH 2977 STOP
When he finished, Short handed the telegram back to Clymer and said, “Kind of puts the lid on things, doesn’t it? I know Harold Gerome; he’s nobody’s fool and his word’s beyond question.”
Clymer nodded and looked at Susan. “You see, my dear girl, even if someone had some reason to steal your husband — which nobody has — they could hardly influence a disinterested Chicago police lieutenant two thousand miles away. And even if you could bribe him, you could hardly get him to put obvious lies into the official record — that McCrory, Bush, and your marriage-record do not exist, if they really do. You understand my point, dear girl?”
Tears swelled in Susan’s eyes. “Unless I’m really completely insane, I can’t explain this, Mr. Short. It’s just impossible. Unless when you’re insane you don’t know it and everything seems real and normal. John does exist. We were married. He came here with me. I just can’t be crazy — it’s all too real.”
Sighing sympathetically, Clymer reached forth to pat Susan’s hand, but she withdrew it quickly. She kept her eyes on Short and added, in a pleading tone, “There must be some explanation.”
“Try not to worry about it,” Short said. “Now after such a fine dinner, I hate to run off; but in view of the telegram I think we’d best get back to the hotel and pack. That is—” he smiled — “you’ll pack I haven’t even unpacked.”
“And we’re really leaving?” Susan looked rueful.
“Certainly”. Short’s face was bland, composed, and relaxed. “I’m sure if we hung around here the next six months, we’d never find any John McCrory.”
6
After parking the car in front of the Paloma Hotel, Short knocked on Susan’s door and found her ready with suitcases packed. Unhappiness was written all over her face. “I don’t want to leave without John.”
“John isn’t here.” Short replied, picking up two large suitcases.
“You’re sure?”
“It’s an educated guess. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, he went back to Chicago that first night. He got up while you were asleep, quietly got his stuff together, made the bed, and left.”
“You’re saying he deserted me?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But why? I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. Nobody but John would have thought of a crumpled razor-blade wrapper behind that nightstand. Anybody kidnapping a full-bearded man wouldn’t dream of moving furniture to find blade-wrappers. Of course, John knew it was there and took it.”
Susan shuddered. “But why?”
Short nodded toward the door. “I think we’ll know everything in a few minutes. We’re going to jam in that monkey-wrench. Now keep your chin up.”
When they arrived at the desk in the lobby, Short was not surprised to see Clymer on hand. Still in formal dress, he carried a small, but tastefully selected, corsage and he approached Susan with a beaming smile. “A little farewell gift,” he said, offering the flowers, “which inadequately conveys my fond wishes.”
Susan hesitated, then accepted the present. “Thank you,” she said, but held it rather stiffly and away from her body, much as if it contained a poisonous asp. Clymer then handed Short a slim cedarwood box, saying, “Fifty Coronas del Supremos, if I may presume on our brief acquaintance, sir. Despite conditions, I still manage to have them shipped from Havana. A small token of regard, sir.”
Short accepted the box and looked at its gold-embossed wax-seal and tuft of silk ribbon. He smiled, shook hands with Clymer, and said, “For a Southwestern smalltown sheriff, sir, you’re a man of the most delicate taste. If I recall, Herman Goering served these same vintage cigars at his dionysian orgies. A fellow agent of mine found some at a certain address in Berlin — a palace of pleasure — and being a curious and clever fellow, he worked three hours extracting a time-released wobbler with a kit of defusing tools contained in a case no larger than a pack of cigarettes. The man had ice-water for blood. Every now and then he stopped the work to snap 35 mm. pictures and report to me over a walkie-talkie. But he wasn’t clever enough for the Nazis. Extracting the first wobbler primed a second wobbler by slipping out a thin insulator. My friend picked the box up and — boom!” Still smiling, Short looked down at the cigar-box ruefully.
Clymer laughed and slapped Short’s back. “By Gad, sir! I’ll wager you’ve a round of adventures you could relate, if you wanted to!”
“Yes, I guess I could.” Short put the cigars under his arm. “Well, we’re checked out, the car’s waiting; so I guess this is it.” Picking up the suitcases, he began walking toward the door. The Mexican boy followed with the remaining luggage.
“I envy you Chicago,” Clymer said, waving a fat hand at chest level, “for you’ll have the opportunity of dining at the New Munich. Second to none in the world, sir. Give my best regards to Karl Hoffman, if you do. He brews his own weissbier; you must try it.”
Short smiled and shook his head. “Afraid I can’t — not immediately, anyway. I’ve changed our plan. We’re driving over to San Diego instead of Chicago. Mrs. McCrory has an aunt there with whom she’ll spend a month or two recuperating.”
An ugly shadow crossed Clymer’s face. “San Diego? You said you were driving to Chicago — to return Miss Shaw to her parents.”
“She can go home later by plane. As for the car, I’ve a couple friends over in Diego — FBI boys. They’ll get a kick out of looking it over.”
Clymer dropped his right arm and snapped his hand forward. An inlaid silver pistol appeared in it, supplied from a spring-released sleeve holster. The gun was tiny, but it possessed a large, wicked-looking bore — a modern, efficient derringer. “I think,” Clymer said, “that you and the lady will be going nowhere.” He glanced quickly to his side and said to the Mexican boy in rapid Spanish, “Ramon, get his gun. Approach him from the left side. Quickly!”
A look of disappointment and disgust crossed Short’s face. “A rod,” he said in a tone that was practically a sneer. “So all your finesse boils down to that — a rod. That’s the kind of answer I’d expect from your punk at the garage, not you.”
Ramon passed a hand into Short’s coat, frowned, then patted his hip pockets. He shook his head. “He has no gun, Senor Clymer.”
Moving very casually, Short hung a cigarette on his lip and lit it with his Zippo. “It’s packed in my bag,” he said, shrugging. “The truth is, I thought I was in the big leagues. I tracked Otto von Keppelwise halfway round the world and played chess with him over white wine, caviar, and cigarettes of laudanum and Latakia while we plotted each other’s death.” Short paused and grunted. “For a moment I thought you were of that caliber. Keppelwise was responsible for the death of a hundred-thousand men, yet he loathed the sight of a pistol. The man was an artist.” Short pointed his cigarette at Clymer and continued, “In your position, Keppelwise would have reasoned that if I was really going to Diego and the FBI, I wouldn’t say it — I’d just go, pretending to head for Chicago. Then, knowing — as you do — that I’m wise to the lay, he’d have six counterplots going in his mind to suck me into the deal in a way that would use me and destroy me. But—” Short sighed — “there’s a big difference between a top-level Nazi and a small-town, tin-horn punk play-actor. A rod? — phooey!”