“Nice racket,” he said, grinning and nodding at three or four other unopened bottles beside the one he’d discarded. “All profit.” Then his face became serious. “You’re Susan McCrory?” he asked, as his eyes swept down from the woman’s crown of golden hair to her trim ankles and neat white sandals.
She removed the sun-glasses and blinked. “Yes. You’re the man from the Cosmopolitan Agency?”
“Yes. I’m Oliver Short. I caught the first morning train from Frisco. You told the Chief on the phone that it was a matter of life or death—” Short glanced over his shoulder and saw that the fat man was staring at them intently — “anything to do with the heavy boy down there?”
“Yes.” Susan McCrory’s blue eyes narrowed. “His name’s Clymer. Martin Clymer. He’s the sheriff, the magistrate, the mayor, and everything else in San Jacinado. He owns the Paloma Hotel, the Sierra Royal Restaurant, the San Jacinado Garage and Auto Sales Company, and just about everything and everybody around here. The people obey him like trained dogs.”
“He sounds important.” Short hung a Kent on his lip after Susan refused one. He flipped open his Zippo lighter and sucked on the flame. “He’s giving you trouble?”
Susan’s lip trembled and for a moment Short thought she was going to cry. “Take it easy,” he advised. “He’s not going to do anything right now. You can be sure of that.” Short looked round and took in the flat yellow sand that stretched from the station platform in all directions, then said, “Shall we go wherever we’re staying and you can tell me on the way?”
“All right. But go off the platform on this end. I don’t want to talk to him — not till I tell you the story.” Short nodded. “We’re walking? I don’t see any car.”
“It’s not far. Less than a half-mile. The town’s behind that rise over there. From here it’s hidden, but you’ll see it in a minute.”
Short nodded again and guided Susan’s elbow as they stepped from the low platform to a rutlike path of hard yellow clay. “We’re staying at his hotel?”
“There’s no other,” Susan answered simply. After a few steps, she added, “It’s empty except for me. They say it’s off-season for tourists. There were some old ladies and a minister there Monday and Tuesday, but they checked out.”
Short looked at the girl — in terms of his fifty years he could only consider her a girl, although she was perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four — and he decided if she wasn’t so frightened and worried looking, she’d be a real beauty. Her complexion was soft and white, and there was no trace of habitual squint about her eyes — sure indications she was not a native of San Jacinado or its environs. By her dialect, Short set her origin as the north middle-west.
“Are you armed?” she asked suddenly, before Short got round to commenting on the empty hotel.
“Yes.” Short smiled with the word.
“That’s good. I am too. When I got the anonymous phone call to go down to Sonora — that’s in Old Mexico — I bought a gun while I was there.” Susan patted her handbag. “I have it right here. Loaded.”
Tugging at the corners of his mouth to hide the smile, Short said, “Maybe you’d better tell me the whole thing from the beginning.”
Susan nodded and began talking, slowly at first, then as the matter came to a head, much more rapidly. Short listened, said “yes” many times, and twice glanced back over his shoulder. Martin Clymer, the fat boss of San Jacinado, was not to be seen.
2
By the time they stood in the adobe walled courtyard of the Paloma Hotel, what Short knew about Susan McCrory and her troubles added up to the following:
A week before — which made it a Friday — Susan McCrory and her newlywed husband of a month had arrived in San Jacinado. They’d been driving to Old Mexico and had stopped for dinner and a night’s rest in what had impressed them as being a pleasant, quaint little bordertown. Susan’s husband, John McCrory, a tall, thin, heavily bearded, prematurely bald man of thirty, had been enjoying the best of spirits. They’d wined and dined well at the Sierra Royal Restaurant, then, after John left instructions at the San Jacinado Garage to have the car checked, they retired to their room at the Paloma.
In the morning when Susan awoke, the first thing she noticed was that the twin bed John had occupied was empty. It was also neatly made up. Surprised that John had risen so early and that he’d troubled to make the bed, Susan had puzzled the matter for several minutes before getting up herself and dressing. She finally concluded that John had either gone to see about the car, anxious that it be ready for an early start, or had decided to do a little sight-seeing on his own. Also, she remembered that John had once or twice shown traces of restlessness and insomnia during the early morning hours. He was a music composer by profession and often worked the night through, going to bed at dawn.
When she came down to the hotel lobby, Susan asked the desk-clerk if her husband had left a message. The clerk gave her a blank look and wanted to know what she was talking about. Although exasperated at the man’s stupidity, Susan patiently explained that her husband, John McCrory, had come down from their room earlier and she wanted to know what message he’d left for her concerning his whereabouts. To this the clerk had replied that Mrs. McCrory had no husband in the hotel to his knowledge. While looking her straight in the eye he said she’d checked into the Paloma alone. For a moment this answer staggered Susan, then she decided the clerk was either drunk or insane — or a little of both. She told him in no uncertain terms to stop talking damn nonsense and tell her when and where her husband had gone. The clerk shrugged, called a Mexican boy who worked as a bellhop and porter, and an old woman chambermaid, and both of these persons solemnly confirmed that Susan McCrory had come into the hotel alone. Hearing this, Susan lost control and screamed. She rushed upstairs, intending to get some of John’s things, clothing and whatnot, to prove he existed and had been there. But not an item of luggage, clothing, or personal property was to be found. Even the paper wrapper from the new razor-blade he’d used the night before was gone — John didn’t shave, but he had a troublesome callous on his right foot and he’d spent a half-hour or so soaking and trimming it. Also gone was John’s attache-case which contained hundreds of pages of musical scores — all his current work-in-progress. This was too much for Susan and she fainted.
Upon regaining consciousness she decided the events of the early morning had been a dream. But the made-up bed was still there and John’s luggage was nowhere about. With a great effort, Susan got control of herself then and once more went down to the clerk. She quietly told him that unless he admitted the truth — that she had had a husband in the hotel — and unless he gave some explanation of his whereabouts, she would go directly to the police. The “police” turned out to be Martin Clymer. On the screened-in porch of his home next to his general store, he listened to Susan’s story with great interest and concern. Then he accompanied her back to the hotel and questioned everybody — desk-clerk, bellhop, and chambermaid. Their stories were consistent down to the minutest detail — Susan McCrory had checked into the Paloma alone. Sheriff Clymer asked to see the hotel register. When it was produced it showed opposite Room 3 the single signed name, Mrs. Susan McCrory, and following that the address, 22 Pike Street, Chicago, Ill. Clymer then asked Susan for her driver’s license. The address on it tallied with the one in the register and the signatures were identical. It was a bad moment for Susan and she came near to fainting again.