Jane pulled up her horse and turned it so she could face Johnny squarely. “That you’re going to explain,” she said hotly.
“Why,” said Johnny, “I thought maybe he’d been in Death Valley recently.”
“You think my husband killed Harry Bloss?”
“Did he?”
“Don’t answer my question with a question,” she cried. “I want you to tell me just how you think I fit into this? Because you do think that. You’ve somehow got the idea that my being on the highway yesterday morning had something to do with the death of Harry Bloss. But just how I can’t guess... since I was on the highway before you came from Death Valley.”
Johnny pantomimed putting a telephone to his mouth and ear. “Telephone. Long distance.”
For a moment she stared at him, then her right hand — the one holding the quirt came up. “You... you...” she began.
Johnny lunged forward to grab the quirt as it sizzled toward him. He forgot that he was on a horse. But the animal didn’t forget that it had an amateur rider on its back. As Johnny lurched suddenly, the animal shied away — kicking up its heels... and Johnny hit the hard-packed sand of the Nevada desert.
For a moment he lay flat on the ground, the breath knocked out of him. Then he groaned and began to pick himself up. The first thing he saw was his horse, a hundred feet away... galloping back toward El Casa Rancho. Then he turned slowly and saw Jane Langford sitting easily in her saddle, looking down at him. The anger was gone from her face.
Johnny grinned slowly. “Is that the way it happened?”
She laughed merrily. “An object lesson — if ever I saw one. And so well timed.”
“All right,” said Johnny. “I’ll believe you...”
“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I wasn’t really thrown. I dismounted — to pick a silly desert flower. And then I couldn’t catch my horse again. I don’t know why I said I was thrown. It seemed the simplest thing at the moment.” Then her face sobered. “But about Jim...”
“Yes?”
“I was married to him exactly two months. He told me he was a businessman. I found out... otherwise...” She bit her lower lip with her sharp, white teeth. “He’s a gambler... and worse...”
“What’s worse than a gambler?”
“A crooked gambler.”
“Where? Here, in Las Vegas...?”
She shook her head. “Chicago.”
He nodded. “Chatsworth’s from Chicago... and Halton.”
“Oh, damn you,” she exclaimed impatiently. “There you go again. Would you believe me if I told you that I never met either Mr. Chatsworth or Charles Halton until I came out here? There’re three million people in Chicago. Or maybe four. I don’t know them all.”
Johnny chuckled. “Okay, okay. But since we’ve gone this far, tell me a little more about your — about Jim Langford... just what kind of gambling does he go in for?”
“Horses, mostly. There was an investigation about a race at one of the tracks and... well, some men came around and asked me questions. I faced Jim with it and he tried to laugh it off... that’s when I walked out on him. And I didn’t see him again until yesterday...”
“How long ago did you walk out?”
“Almost a year ago.”
“And you didn’t decide to come out to Las Vegas until now?”
“There was a little matter of money,” said Jane Langford. “Jim Langford never gave me a dollar; I came here on my own money and I’m not asking for alimony — in case you’re interested.”
“And Chatsworth?”
She frowned angrily. “Why do you keep harping on Chatsworth? Why not Charles Halton?”
“Halton’s a squirt,” Johnny retorted. “When he gets through with that silly system of his, he won’t have enough carfare to get home. But Chatsworth... well, he’s rich, so he’s real competition.”
“Competition?”
“For me.”
She stared at him. “I never know when you’re kidding or not.”
“Smile when you say that! What’s wrong with me?”
“What’s right about you? You said you were a book agent...”
“Salesman — not agent...”
“What’s the difference?”
“Plenty. One year I made seventy-five thousand dollars. I was in love and ambitious.”
“And what happened?”
“She married somebody else... and I bought a horse.”
Jane laughed. “Maybe the girl made a mistake.”
“I tried to tell her that and she told her husband and he came around to see me. He had a gun, so I left town.” Johnny sighed. “She’s probably fat by now.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sam Cragg was no longer in the room when Johnny returned from his combination morning ride and walk. But Johnny found him in the grill room, having a breakfast of ham and eggs, waffles and sausages and a rasher of bacon.
“I’ve been lookin’ all over for you,” Sam cried, as Johnny came up. “Where’ve you been?”
Johnny started to seat himself, winced and lowered himself gently onto the padded bench. “Riding. I like a good canter in the morning before breakfast.”
Sam looked sharply at Johnny. “With the Langford dame?”
“With Jane Langford.”
Sam looked around surreptitiously, then reached into his pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper. “The bellboy woke me up; he slipped me this.”
Johnny unfolded the paper. A number and name was written on it: 1428 Bonneville. He looked inquiringly at Sam.
“Langford’s hideout,” Sam whispered.
Johnny folded the piece of paper and put it into his pocket. Then the waitress came up and he gave his order.
“Got anything special planned for today?” Sam asked, his eyes on his plate.
“Why?”
“Oh, no reason, but if you’re not going to do anything, I thought I’d take a swim. They got a swell pool out in front.” He suddenly grinned. “The redhead gave me a buzz. I’d like to see her in a swimming suit.”
“Well, go ahead and look at her, Sam. I think I’ll run uptown.”
Sam looked at him suspiciously. “You going to see Mulligan?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Sam glanced toward the door of the grill room and almost choked on his coffee. “Holy cats!” he exclaimed.
Johnny turned and saw Molly, the redhead, wearing a polka dot handkerchief and polka dot loincloth. He whistled.
“So long, Sam!”
Sam got up and headed for the redhead.
Johnny finished his breakfast, then going into the lobby, picked up the local phone directory. He turned to the classified section in the rear, ran down the classifications until he came to the D’s. Then he nodded and closed the book.
Ten minutes later he parked his car before a stucco cottage on one of the side streets off Fremont and going to the door, pressed the buzzer.
A little man in a dirty flannel bathrobe opened the door.
“Walter Cobb?” Johnny asked.
“That’s what it says on my mailbox,” the little man retorted.
“Can I come in?”
“Depends on what you want.”
“Business.”
Cobb threw the door wide. “Then welcome to the Cobb domicile. Although I wouldda been in my office in another hour or so.”
“I didn’t want to wait that long.”
Cobb led Johnny into a tiny living room that was littered with newspapers. A huge woman in a soiled wrapper was clearing dishes from a table in a dining recess off the living room.
“The ball and chain,” said Cobb. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Fletcher.”
“My dear, this is Mr. Fletcher.”