"Yes, sir. I am wearing it."
"It is supposed to be an improved model. I would like your comments, later. Just peel off the foil as usual. DO you feel that you are making progress?"
"The preparations are well in hand, sir. I would say she's willing to try anything that'll make life tough for me. All she needs is the chance."
"Let us hope she gets it," Mac said. "I hate to ask a man to offer himself as bait, but-"
"Sure," I said. "Good-bye, sir."
I hung up and stood there for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. A car drove up and a bell rang somewhere on the premises as it crossed a rubber hose lying across the driveway. The filling-station man, in the lighted office, drained his coffee cup and came out. Hs name was lettered over the door: A.H. (Hank) Wegmann. I assumed it was his name. No one but the owner or manager of the place would put in such long hours.
I opened the door of the booth, paused to let him go by and headed across the lot in the direction of the tourist court a couple of blocks away. He went out to the car by the pumps. It was an Army jeep from some nearby missile outfit, I noticed, with a young enlisted man at the wheel. The idea must have been taking shape in my mind as I walked, but I was almost out of range of the lights before it suddenly graduated from a kind of subconscious nagging to a conscious brain-wave.
It hit me so hard that I almost stopped and looked back to check what I'd seen, but that would have been strictly amateur procedure, and I'd done enough blundering already that day-as Mac had not been slow to point out. I kept walking until the place was out of sight behind me. Then I stopped under a street light and searched myself for something I vaguely remembered shoving into a pocket.
After a little, I found it-the flimsy receipt for the gasoline I had charged that morning. I smoothed out the paper, and there it was again, what had struck me back there: WEGMANN'S ONE-STOP SERVICE, CARRIZOZO, NEW MEXICO. I stood there looking at it, while cataclysmic changes occurred in what I like-though it seems without much justification-to refer to as my brain.
Wegmann, I thought, Wegmann. All day we'd been looking for an Indian tent, and here was Mr. Wegmann. Wigwam-Wegmann. It could have been a coincidence. It could also have been a coincidence that of all the filling stations in town, Gail Hendricks had carefully guided us to this one. She had said, it looked cleaner than the others, and she wanted a nice, clean rest room.
It could be, but I didn't believe it for a minute.
XVII
Reaching the motel, I paused outside the door briefly, wondering what kind of a scene she'd prepared for me inside. I'd taunted her and sent her away, remember, claiming to have no further use for her. I didn't think she was about to let herself be dismissed in such a cavalier fashion, so it was her move.
I had no more doubts. The only question was whether I was merely dealing with a mortally offended lady pursuing a private revenge, or whether she had other, darker motives. I didn't really think she had, but of course I couldn't rule it out entirely. In any case, it was obvious that I had misjudged her in that El Paso hotel room. Forced to surrender the film capsule under threat of being stripped naked, she'd still managed to hold out on me.
She hadn't been nearly as scared as she'd seemed. Questioned about her sister's dying words, she'd come up with the perfect answer. Wigwam, she'd said, The Wigwam in Carrizozo.
It left her protected. If I already knew about Mr. Wegmann's service station and confronted her with the knowledge, she could claim to have made an honest mistake- the names were that close. If I didn't… well, at least she'd given no more help to the disgusting bully who'd wrecked her dress and threatened to smash her face in. And she could have the satisfaction of imagining me combing Carrizozo for days, searching for a native shelter that didn't exist.
She couldn't have anticipated that she'd be present to watch, although maybe she'd even hoped for that. In any case, given the opportunity to come along-forced to come along, even-she'd made the most of it. I couldn't help grinning wryly as I recalled the way we'd marched around slushy streets for endless hours this afternoon, while she, outwardly cooperative and sympathetic, undoubtedly laughed herself quite sick inside… I turned the knob and went in to see what she'd figured out for me next.
She'd left one small light on, so I'd get the full impact as I came in. That was a flaw, objectively speaking- darkness would have been more suitable to the tragic impression she was trying to convey-and I thought the pathetic, moist, crumpled handkerchief in her trailing hand was overdoing it a little, but on the whole it was a very creditable stage setting. It established the proper mood instantly.
Her fur-lined coat lay on the floor where she'd discarded it, supposedly, as she stumbled forward and flung herself face down on the big bed in tears-too upset by my cruelty, it would appear, to even remove the little plastic boots she'd been wearing over her shoes. A nice touch of verisimilitude was that the boots were muddy.
She gave me plenty of time to appreciate the scene. Then there was an audible gasp as she realized, officially, that she was no longer alone in the room. A moment later she was sitting up, prettily startled and embarrassed.
"Oh! I didn't hear… I must have fallen asleep." I looked at her for a moment, feeling rather sorry for her. She was pretty good, but she was still an amateur. Sooner or later, she'd get into things she couldn't handle. It wasn't a game, but she didn't know it yet.
I said, "Why, you've been crying! What's the matter, glamor girl. Can't you bear to part from me?"
She stared at me, wide-eyed and jumped to her feet. "Why, you arrogant, insufferable beast-"
She choked and turned away, putting the damp handkerchief to her face. I produced a larger one of my own, fortunately clean. I stepped up and reached around to give it to her from behind.
"Here," I said. "Try a dry one. Wipe and blow."
She hesitated then snatched the cloth without looking around. We stood like that for a little. Then, with a small, tired sigh, she turned and came quite naturally into my arms.
I heard her voice, muffled: "Why do you have to be such a monster? Why couldn't… Why can't I ever fall for a man who's… nice. Just a little nice, just a little kind and gentle. I declare, that don't seem like too much to ask."
"Gail," I said. "Gail, I-"
Then, in the direct and clumsy way of the suddenly passionate male, I kissed her thoroughly and reached for the zipper of her skirt. She caught my wrist, but she was smiling now.
"All right," she breathed. "All right, but let's do it properly this time."
"Properly," I said, kissing her again. "It's a hard thing to do, properly, but for you I'll try. I'll be proper as hell."
"Please, darling!" she said, laughing and trying to escape. "I mean, I don't care much for this impromptu sex. Let me take a shower and make myself pretty. I won't be long."
She wasn't, and much later, with darkness in the room, I felt her move beside me in a tentative way. I made no response, breathing evenly. She barely disturbed the bed as she slipped out of it. Apparently the sweater and skirt she'd removed in the bathroom wouldn't do for the next bit, or maybe simple fastidiousness wouldn't let her put them back on after wearing them so long; anyway, she paid a visit to the closet and paused by her suitcase, before she went in there. I heard the muffled click as the door closed behind her. I waited.
For a woman of her looks and background, she was a fast dresser. She was out again in less than five minutes. I was prepared to keep up my impersonation of a man pounding his ear until she was safely gone, but I'd underestimated her again. Instead of sneaking out, she came straight to the bed.