“Be careful!” Clymer cried in a squeaking tone. There was a strange look on his face, a look combining shame, chagrin, hate, rage, and doubt. His vast body trembled and his skin went pasty white. But he held the pistol firmly leveled at Short’s chest and at last he got control. “Sorry to disappoint you, my friend,” he said in a high-pitched, strained croak, “but I’ll succeed in an area where your Keppelwise failed — in killing you.” He shot a quick look at Susan and motioned with his small black eyes. “Stand over there beside him, Miss Shaw. That’s it — fine. Well—” his eyes went back to Short — “why did you tell me you were going to Diego?”
Short grinned and puffed smoke. “Maybe I just got a boot out of pushing you round a little.” He glanced at the Mexican boy and the desk-clerk, adding, “You want me to talk in front of these stooges?”
“Certainly. Go ahead.”
“How much heroin’s stashed in the car?”
Clymer shrugged. “Two hundred thousand dollar’s worth — give or take a couple thousand.”
“Probably not the biggest shipment you’ve ever made.”
“No. But it’ll do for now. The market’s nervous.” Clymer gestured with the gun. “You realize, of course, that in answering these questions, I place you and Miss Shaw in a position of certain death.”
“Unless I could show you how foolish that would be.”
Clymer frowned and wet his pretty lips with his tongue. “What do you mean?”
“A couple more questions first.” Short shook his head. “Let’s take Miss Shaw off the hook.”
Clymer made a mock bow, carefully, so as not to disturb his pistol-aim. “As you wish,” he said, “since we are in no wise pressed for time.”
“John’s waiting for the car in Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“And the lay is this: he goes to a big city, plays long-haired composer in some Beat-joint long enough to find a likely girl, rushes her, hires some grifter to put a collar on backwards and perform a wedding with a fake license in a rented house near a church. He brings his ‘bride’ here after going through a little coin-tossing act up at the fork in the road. He signs only her name in the hotel-register, imitating her writing well enough to get by — after all, she’s barely used to writing the new name herself. Then he quietly packs up and vanishes. You and your cohorts start to convince the girl she’s nuts. Then she gets a tip to go down to Sonora and everybody steers her that way. Down there your agents is waiting and they build a dope-cache into her car, flattening a tire to delay her. She drives the stuff over the border — if she’s caught, well, you lose some dope at the wholesale price, but otherwise it’s no skin off your teeth. If she makes it — which she probably does, since nobody can pass a border-patrol like somebody who doesn’t know what they’re carrying — she hangs round here a few days and finally drives home, half convinced maybe that she is nuts. She transports your hop to Chicago or whatever the city is you’ve chosen. John’s there waiting to unload the stuff — when she’s not near the car, of course — turn it over to your jobber and collect the dough. Once again, if she’s caught on the way, you’re in the clear. It’s not bad at all — plenty of profit and no danger — plus the fact that lover-boy John gets a nice bonus of pretty women. Who is he, anyway?”
“My son,” Clymer replied. “And he has musical talent. When we retire far from this barbarous country, he will devote his time to creation and his work will rival Wagner. Not the decadent Wagner of Parsifal, but the glorious man-god of the Ring Tetralogy.”
“Could be,” Short grunted. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. Anyway, when you wire the police of the city you’re working, the answer is no marriage, no John McCrory — or whatever name he uses — and no Reverend Bush. By then the poor girl’s damn glad to get out of here.”
“Quite so,” Clymer smiled. “And now that you’ve shown your knowledge of the modus operandi, will you please explain how I can avoid killing you? And be assured of my safety, of course.”
Susan McCrory swayed. All through Short’s speech she’d been standing stiff and wide-eyed, hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Things are turning,” she moaned. “Help, I—”
Short caught her round the waist with one arm and started to move toward a couch at the end of the lobby. He’d long before put the suitcases down, but he still held the box of Coronas del Supremos in his freehand.
“Careful!” Clymer warned. “I’ll fire at the slightest provocation. Don’t be fooled by the size of this pistol; it carries five 9.5 mm. bullets.”
“I’m not fooled,” Short replied. “I just want to get her on that damned couch.”
“Go ahead, but move easy.”
Susan’s face was white and drawn, but she was still conscious. Short took her to the couch and eased her down into it. “Good girl,” he whispered. “Hang on — we haven’t much further to go.”
“But John—” she muttered. “It was all a trick. He—”
“I’m afraid so. It happens a lot — in different ways. Life’s not like the movies and television, kid — there’s no romantic happy endings. If you had any good times with John, you better just remember those and write off the rest to experience.”
The brusqueness of these words startled Susan into full awareness of the situation. Color flushed her face and she looked at Short with surprised eyes.
“I detest him now,” she said. “He’s loathsome.”
“All dope-traders are,” Short told her.
“What are you saying?” Clymer demanded. He moved nearer, brandishing his pistol.
Short looked round pleasantly. “I was just telling Miss Shaw that killing us multiplies your troubles instead of solving them. My agency knows we’re here and you yourself informed the Chicago police of Miss Shaw’s whereabouts — that’s a part of your scheme that backfired nicely. Even if you got away with killing us, it’d spell the end of your little empire.”
Pursing his shapely red lips, Clymer raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “A chance I’ll have to take, sir. Besides, there’s always Argentina — a veritable heaven-on-earth for a man of culture and substance.”
“And his entire retinue?” Short asked, glancing at the desk-clerk and the Mexican. “Or do they stay here as fall guys?”
Clymer giggled and his big belly shook. “That line won’t work, sir. My people are loyal. Now — it’s time to put an end to this.” He nodded at the Mexican. “Close the door and shut the blinds.”
“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” Short said. In his left hand was the cedarwood cigar-box; his right held the bit of red ribbon embedded in the gold seal. “I think a fine cigar is in order at the moment.”
“Don’t!” Clymer cried in high falsetto, his face becoming a pasty white blob. His fat finger trembled on the trigger of his ugly little gun.
“Go ahead — shoot,” Short laughed. “I’ll bet you a harp and a halo I explode this thing before I die.” He began walking toward Clymer, who took a step backward.