Scott O’Hara

Five-Star Fugitive

Chapter One

Bordertown Harpy

The tall girl was restless. She had dark eyes with a hard flickering light in them, like black opals. Her mouth was wide and soft and sullen. It was ten o’clock at night in Baker, Texas. Her third-floor room in the Sage House had the hot breathlessness of the bakery she had once worked in, back when she was fourteen and had looked eighteen.

Five days in this hole. And it could be five more.

A half-block away a barn dance was in progress. She could hear the tiny whine of the music, the resounding stomping of boots. Somebody yelled shrilly, “Eeee-yah-hooo!”

“Damn silly cowhands,” she muttered. She threw the movie magazine away, sat up and tapped a cigarette on a long thumbnail the color of blood. As she lighted it a heavy strand of hair swung forward. The hair was the color of wheat, so expensively and expertly dyed that it looked natural. As she sucked the smoke into her lungs, she threw the strand of hair back with a quick movement of her head.

She looked with distaste at the room. Brown and green grass rug. Wicker furniture. Metal bed painted a liverish green. The mattress sagged toward the middle from all directions. Her two suitcases were on stands by the far wall, the lids open. A stocking dangled out of one, almost to the floor.

“You’re letting it get you, kid,” she said softly.

In her bare feet she padded over to the biggest suitcase, took the last pint out from under the rumpled clothes. She broke her fingernail on the plastic covering and cursed bitterly. She tossed the covering into the tin wastebasket by the bureau, poured three inches of the rye into the heavy tumbler which stood on the bureau.

She stood in front of the bureau staring down into the glass, hating the loneliness, the fear, the tension. The heavy rope of hair swung forward again. She stood in an ugly way, feet spread, shoulders slumped forward.

“How, kid,” she whispered. She tossed off the tepid liquor, gagged slightly on it, poured some more in the glass and left it on the bureau top.

She went into the bathroom. The big old tub stood on feet cast to resemble claws. She put the plug in and started the water running. The pipes were so clogged that the water came out in a thin stream. She went back to get her glass, and went to the front window. Starlight glinted off the Rio Grande. Across the way she could see the lights of small, dirty, turbulent Piedras Chicas.

A faint night breeze swayed the dusty curtains and cooled her. She looked hard at the distant lights as though trying to see down into the streets, to see the man who would bring the package across the river.

While the tub was filling with tepid water, she sprawled on the bed, finished the second drink, yawned and closed her eyes.

A flabby moon-faced middle-aged man came quietly down the hall. He wore a sports shirt loudly decorated with rodeo scenes. He listened outside her door, then slipped a paper-thin strip of tool steel out of his trouser pocket. He slid it along the jam, his small pink mouth pursed in concentration.

When it touched the latch, he pressed down hard, pulling slightly toward himself. There was a thin grating sound. He turned the knob slowly and pulled the door open a crack. He looked in, then looked up and down the hall.

He stepped lightly into the room and shut the door silently behind him. He drifted, soundless as smoke, across the room, stopped, looked at her cautiously.

For a long time he studied her. He wore an expression seen on the face of any person who intends to perform a difficult act with practised confidence. He slipped his shirt off and threw it behind him. Rubbery muscles moved underneath the flaccid white skin. In two quick steps he reached her. She heaved up as his stubby white thumbs dug into the pressure points at the base of her throat. Her eyes rolled back into her head so that only two narrow slits of white showed.

Shaymen watched her for a moment and then began an expert search of the room. He slit the linings of the two suitcases, wrenched the high heels from five pair of shoes, looked under the rugs, in the backs of the two pictures. He found it in a leg of the metal bed. The roller wheel had been pulled out of the leg and what he wanted had been shoved up inside the hollow metal, the roller wheel replaced.

He slipped off the rubber band and the oil cloth. The tightly rolled bills expanded. Shaymen riffled the corners with his thumb. Hundreds, five hundreds and thousands. He frowned. He didn’t like the thousands. They called for a fencing operation and a discount. The recent activities of the Bureau of Internal Revenue had made the discount a big one.

He tucked the roll into his pocket, put the shirt back on, looked at the girl. There was a swift sensation of regret in his mind, gone almost as soon as it arrived. He left the room after making certain that the hallway was empty. On his way down the stairs he nibbled the thin coating of glass cement from his finger tips. It had an acid taste. He spat out the hard flakes with small soft explosive sounds. It was always better than gloves. Didn’t arouse suspicion. Didn’t smother the cleverness of the hands.

In the lobby he bought a pack of cigarettes from the girl who was just closing the counter for the night. He smiled inside himself as he saw her staring at the shirt. It was so flamboyant that no one looked beyond it to the negative face.

Out on the sidewalk which still gave off the remembered heat of the sun, he took a deep drag on his cigarette and walked west. The tourist court was a quarter mile beyond the city limits. Travelers sat out in the lawn chairs escaping the heat. They talked and laughed softly. Shaymen accepted the invitation to sit with them and have a cold beer. He was sleepy. He yawned a great deal.

Lane Sanson supported himself precariously against the bar in one of the cheaper cantinas of Piedras Chicas. A wandering mariachi with guitar was singing in a hard nasal voice. His income depended on his nuisance value. A peso would keep that nerve-twanging voice at a safe distance.

Lane Sanson cupped his big hand around the small glass of mescal on the bar in front of him. The solution of all eternal mysteries was on the tip of his mind, ready to be jolted off with this drink, or the next, or the next.

An absent smile touched his big, hard-lipped mouth and he thought, “You better start finding some answers quick, Sanson. A lot of good answers.”

That was the trouble with the world. No answers. All questions. How did Sandy put it that night she left for good? “Lane, you’ve spent six years feeling sorry for yourself. Frankly, you’ve turned into a bore.” Her bright eyes had crackled with angry flame.

“So?” he had said, as insolently as he could manage.

“Good-by, Lane.” Just like that. Clunk. Gone.

Oh, that Lane Sanson, he’s going places. Yessiree. That’s what they said, isn’t it? A hell of a good reporter, that Sanson. You’ve read his book? Battalion Front, it was called. Remember the reviews. “This one has guts.” “A war book with integrity.” The magazine serial rights brought in forty thousand and the book club edition added fifty to that and the movies had donated a neat sixty-two five.

If the agent hadn’t been on the ball, taxes would have creamed him. But the movie deal spread the take over five years and the book and magazine take were prorated backward over the previous three tax years.

One day you’re a member of the working press. A day later you’re a cocktail party lion.

And Lane Sanson, the man of the hour, spends the next five years breaking Sandy’s heart. This was the last year of income from the book. Where did it go, that integrity they yaked about? Diluted over a thousand bar tops, spread in sweet-talk to half-a-hundred women.

Sooner or later you hit bottom. The inevitable bottom. Three weeks ago he got the papers in Mexico City. He signed them. Good-by, Sandy. There was a party that night. What a party! It lasted four days.

When the hangover was gone he had written the letters. Ten of them. Eight had answered and of the eight, seven had said, “So sorry, pal.” The eighth had said, “Come on up for a try. Leg man. Guild rates.”

He had driven out of Mexico City in the convertible that was beginning to be a shambling relic of the big money year. Six hundred miles of Mexican sun with the top down had put a false look of health on top of the pale dissipation green of the two years in Mexico City — two years with nothing to show for it but fifty pages of manuscript so foul that on that last cool night he’d used it to get the fire burning in the apartment out Chapultepec way.

Yes, he had driven right up to the border full of false courage and when he had seen the bridge across the Rio Grande, the bottom had fallen out. On this side of the bridge a man could drift along. Over on that side he had to produce. And Lane Sanson was grievously afraid that, at thirty-four, his producing days were over for keeps.

One bridge to cross, and he couldn’t make it. He’d parked the car, wolfed enchildas for a base, and embarked on a mescal project.

So far he had arrived at one great truth. Up to the age of twenty-eight everything he had done had turned out right. And then the gods had switched the dice. How long can a man go on alienating his friends, forgetting his skills, fouling up his marriage.

The loss of Sandy was a pain that rattled around in his heart. Sandy of the gamin smile, the eyes that could go solemn on you. Sunday mornings with Sandy, Sandy whom he had struck, hearing her emit a low soft note of pain that stung his drunken heart because it was the same soft sound that she made when ecstasy was too much to bear silently.

He doubled his fist and struck the edge of the bar. Damn a man who rolls endlessly down a bottomless slope and cannot save himself.

An Indio girl moved close beside him. She had a flat broad brown face, obsidianblack expressionless eyes and a wide, mechanical, inviting smile.

“Por favor, buy Felicia a dreenk, señor,” she wheedled.

She wore a cheap cotton dress, pale blue plaid, too small for her, and pulled to a dangerous tightness. Her feet were bare and broad.

“Your ancestors were kings,” he said, his words slurred. “They had a great civilization.”

“Just wan leetle dreenk for Felicia?”

“They sacrificed young girls to the sun god, Felicia. At dawn from the top of mighty pyramids.”

“Here the tequila ees good. I like.”

He pushed two pesos across the bar top. The bartender filled a small glass for Felicia. “Muchas gracias,” she said.

“Salud,” said Sanson. He touched her glass with his glass of mescal and they drank.

“Wan more now?” Felicia said.

“No more now, darling.”

There was a thin flare of contempt far back in the depths of the shining eyes. “You buy Felicia more, Felicia make you happy.”

“That is the terrible goal of mankind. To be happy. I wonder if it is a good thing. This pursuit of happiness. What do you think, Felicia?”

“No unnerstand.” Her shining black hair had been frizzed into a cheap permanent.

“Happiness?” he said, “I no unnerstand either.”

“Wat your name? How called you?”

“Lane.”

She repeated it twice. He bought her another tequila. It disappeared like magic. Her eyes had a brighter glow.

“I luff Lane. Lane luff Felicia. Good?”

“That, my dear, is the ultimate simplification.”

“No big words. Too much big word. No unnerstand. We go now?”

“Where do we go?”

“Other cantina. How you say? Mas barrato.”

“Cheaper.”

“Ah, si! Cheepair!”

He shoved the change from the bar top into his pocket. It no longer mattered what he did or why, where he went or for what. He staggered heavily when he got away from the support of the bar. She grabbed him with a strength quite astonishing and steadied him. A group of Mexicans looked at him and chortled. Sanson was perfectly certain that disaster lay ahead. With luck, all they would do was roll him for what cash he had. Somehow, it didn’t matter.

The cantina lights revolved sickeningly and he struck the side of his face against the door jamb. She pulled him erect and steered him out into the furnace air of the night. She held his arm clasped against her and he felt the roil and writhe of her muscles under the taut brown hide as she struggled with him, trying to steer him down the sidewalk.

“Not far. Not long way,” she panted.

They came to the dark mouth of a narrow fetid alley, full of the stink of decay. She looked behind them and then shoved him hard into the alley. He stumbled and fell heavily on one elbow and his hip. He smiled almost casually. It was coming a lot sooner than he expected. If his luck was good, his throat would be slit. That was something Lane Sanson had thought of doing for himself, standing, looking into his own bathroom mirror.

He was yanked to his feet and slammed against the adobe wall, hard. Felicia stood out on the sidewalk looking in the other direction. He could make out the wavering figures of two men.

“Where is it?” a man demanded in whispering, metallic English.

“Hip pocket,” Lane said.

“Hands high.” He obeyed. His wallet was taken out of his hip pocket. A pencil flashlight flicked on, pointed at the sheaf of bills. Suddenly the wallet was slapped hard against his mouth. He felt the blood run between his teeth.

“This is just money. Where is the package?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sanson said with drunken dignity.

“You are the one. We know you are the one. No one else has come. Please don’t try to play games.”

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” Sanson said querulously.

There was a sudden pin-prick pain against his belly. The light flicked on again, just long enough for him to see the six-inch length of steel gleam.

“Now you stop talking foolish, my friend, or I swear I’ll spill your blood around your shoes.”

“I would consider that a great favor,” Sanson said huskily.

Then the two men talked to each other in rattling Spanish so fast that Sanson could only catch a word here and there.

“You talk,” the man said. The knife pain was stronger, deeper. Sanson involuntarily sucked his stomach away from the point of the blade.

The anger was a long time in coming, but suddenly it throbbed behind his eyes. “I haven’t the faintest damn idea what you want. I’m a newspaperman on my way to Houston. I don’t know anything about any package. Now take that knife out of me or I’ll feed it to you.”

“Big talk. Big talk,” the man muttered, but he seemed a little less positive. Again they talked together. The wallet was shoved back into the side pocket of Sanson’s jacket. His car keys were taken out. He caught the words “auto” and “azul”. So they had watched him long enough to know that his car was the blue one parked in the zocolo.

“And there isn’t any package in,” Sanson started. He heard the faint swish and the adobe wall behind him seemed to explode and drive the side of his head off into the hot night sky. There was no sensation of falling. Just an explosive boiling blackness...

Chapter Two

Murder-Magnet

It was an odd dream. She dreamed she had fallen out of bed onto the cool floor and in such a way that her head was cramped back at an awkward position against the baseboard. It made her neck hurt.

She moaned as she awakened, opened her stunned eyes. Then memory flooded back. She sat up with a great gasp. She was dizzy and her neck throbbed with pain. She could remember dozing off, then hard hands that gouged at her, the knowledge of death...

Diana knew that a long time had passed. Some of the heat had faded. She climbed stiffly to her feet, stood for a moment, her hands braced against the wall, breathing deeply. She pushed herself away, nauseated with weakness.

It took all her strength to lift the bottom corner of the bed and pull out the caster. She poked a finger up the hollow metal leg and sobbed aloud as she felt the emptiness. She looked at her wristwatch. Three in the morning. Five hours had passed. The town was still. All she could hear was a truck droning in the distance. She looked at the ruined shoes, the slashed suitcases, the pictures crooked on the walls.

She shivered. Again she stretched out across the bed and picked up the room phone. The sleepy desk clerk intimated by the tone of his voice that this was a hell of a time to make a long distance phone call.

She lit a cigarette, waited for the phone to ring. It took twenty minutes.

There was no sleep in his voice. The name of the town from which the call was coming had alerted him. She sensed his anger at this violation of the rules he had made.

“George, honey? This is Diana. I just got lonesome and had to call you up.”

“That’s interesting.”

“I had hard luck today, George. You know I planned on buying you a present down here. Well, I put the money in a special place and darn if somebody didn’t steal it. Now what am I going to do?”

There was a long silence. “Maybe you were careless,” he said.

“No, George. I was real careful. It was just one of those things, I guess.”

“Any idea who took it?”

“Not the slightest.”

Again there was a long silence. He laughed harshly. “I’d hate to think, kid, that you just decided to spend the money on yourself and give up buying me a present.”

Her hand tightened on the phone. “Gee, George, I’m not dumb enough to make you mad at me.”

“I hope not. Having a good time?”

“As good as I can have away from you, George. Do you still want a present?”

“It would be nice.”

“You know, George, wouldn’t it be funny if you told somebody that I had the money with me to buy you a present and it turned out they decided to steal it?”

“Very funny, kid. Look, I’m glad you called. A friend of mine will be down that way tomorrow late or the next day. I’ve told him to look you up.”

“Who, George?”

“Christy.”

“Please, George. No!”

“He’s a nice guy, kid. I know you don’t like him, but he’s a nice guy. Show him a good time for me.” The line clicked as he hung up.

Diana walked the floor for an hour. She walked with her fists clenched and tears in the corners of her eyes. If she packed and ran, it would indicate to George that she had crossed him. George had a special way of dealing with such persons.

If she stayed — it meant Christy. George’s tone had indicated clearly that he was angry enough with her to throw her to Christy. Christy, with his queer twisted mind. She remembered how she and George had laughed about Christy.

George had kidded her, she thought, when he said, “If you ever make me mad, kid, I’ll hand you over to Christy.”

Now, suddenly, horribly, she knew that he hadn’t been joking. She realized what a fool she had been to think that because she had lasted longer with George than any previous girl, it was for keeps. With all her heart she wished she were back at Club Tempo, doing the five a night, whispering lyrics into the mike, swaying with the beat of Kits Nooden’s Midnight Five.

She turned out the lights and smothered her weeping with the pillow. Maybe George had spoken out of anger. Maybe he’d regret it, change his mind, call her back.

“George,” she called softly into the night. “Please, George.” For a long time she had felt that she was hard enough to bounce back from any blow. But now she felt like a frightened child, alone in the crawling dark.

Lane Sanson opened his eyes. The right eye felt clotted and stuck together. He raised trembling fingers and touched it, found that it was swollen shut, the skin around it taut and painful. It was daylight, and he looked at an adobe brick wall inches from his face. He felt extraordinarily weak, far too weak for it to be the result of a garden-type hangover. He sensed that he was indoors. When he moved he felt and heard a rustle underneath him.

There was an evil taste in his mouth. He listened, attempting to identify an odd sound. A drip and slosh of water and then silence. Then another drip and slosh of water. It came from behind him. With enormous effort he rolled over. He was in some sort of small shed effect with a sloping roof. He could see the blue sky through holes in the roof.

A large, sturdy girl stood by a pail made of a five-gallon gasoline tin and an improvised wire handle, scrubbing clothes. He stared at her with alarm. Her back was to him. In one corner was a wooden crate of clothes. In the other corner he could see, under a flat piece of metal, the red glow of coals atop a stove improvised of cinder blocks and bricks. The sun came through the roof holes and made golden coins on the packed dirt of the floor. The light gave her skin coppery glints.

He started to think that this was certainly one part of Mexico City that he had not seen before — and then he remembered that this was Piedras Chicas, the border town. He vaguely remembered a girl in a cantina, two men in an alley and a great explosion against his head. He dug down into the disjointed memories and came up with a name.

“Felicia,” he said in a half whisper.

She turned sharply. “Bueno!” she said, “momentito.” She dried her hands, came and sat beside him, cross-legged. Leaning forward, she put her hand on his forehead. “Ai!” she said. “Hot!”

He coughed, said in Spanish, “If you speak slowly, chica, I can understand. How do I come to be in this place?”

“Truly, it is like this. I was in the zocolo. Two strangers came to me and asked if I would wish to earn twenty pesos. They promised you would not be hurt. They wished me to bring you outside to the alley and hand you over to them. They talked to you and then they hit you a great blow and came out of the alley. They gave me ten pesos and said it was enough — and I spit on their feet. It appeared you were dead from the great blow and I knew that there would be much trouble.

“But I put my ear on your chest in the darkness and heard the poom, poom of your heart. You are truly heavy, Lane. But I am very strong because I worked in the fields. I dragged you through the alleys to this place, my casita. It is a question of pride, as they promised you would not be hurt. This, it is my fault and something I must do. There is a great wound in the side of your head, Lane. But I have prodded it with my fingers and I do not feel any looseness of the bone, so I think it is not broken.

“I washed it and poured in much of the dark red thing which is for bad wounds so that they do not rot. On it I have put clean cloth. This morning at dawn I lit a candle for you at the Iglesia and said many small prayers. Now I shall buy food for us. See?”

She reached under the edge of the serape on which he lay and pulled out his wallet. “Nothing is gone, Lane. I am not a thief. May I take pesos for food?”

“Of course!”

She took a five-peso note and put the wallet back under him. He tried to sit up and a great wave of weakness struck him. He sagged back and the flushed feeling went away. His teeth began to chatter violently.

She brought an ancient torn blanket and covered him. He tried to grin at her.

“Pobrecito!” she said. “Pobre gringo!”

The great shudders began to diminish in violence. He felt as though he were a pendulum swinging more and more slowly, as it sunk with each swing further down into a restful darkness.

When next he awakened, there was a flickering light of one candle in the shack. He craned his neck and stared over at her. She sat near the stove fashioning tortillas from masa, her hands slapping rhythmically. She smiled, and he saw the glint of her eyes and teeth in the candlelight.

“Tortillas con polio. You hongry?”

“And thirsty. Take some more money and get me cold beer. Two bottles.”

She took the money and left. He staggered weakly across the floor and then back to his bed. His head throbbed so violently that he thought it would break open.

The icy beer made him a little tight. He wolfed down the food until she gasped in amazement. He wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned over at her. “How many years do you have, Felicia?”

“Eighteen, I think.”

“Where’s your family?”

Her mouth puckered up. “Mi padre, he drowned in the river trying to cross to the Estados Unidos. Mi madre, she dies of the choking trouble in the lungs, here.”

At last his hunger was satisfied. He lay back. Sleep rolled toward him like a dark wave.

“Lane?”

“Yes, chica.”

“I forgot to say. Today a man was killed in the Calle Cinco de Mayo. Stabbed to the heart. It was one of the two men who talked with you in the alley and struck the great blow.”

“Who killed him?”

“That is not known. It is said that a tall gringo, tall like you, did that thing,” she replied.

“Yes?”

“Also I heard in the market that the tall gringo is hiding somewhere in Piedras Chicas. It might be that those two thought you were he.”

“That makes sense.”

“What did they want of you?” the girl asked.

“They thought I had a package of some kind.”

“Then it would appear, Lane, that the other gringo must have the package,” she said.

“You are smart.”

“No, it is a part of living here. This is a town of much violence, much smuggling. One learns how these things happen. It gives me to think,” Felicia insisted.

“How so?”

“You came up from the south. It is said the other gringo did the same. So it is a matter of importance for him to get the package across the river, no? He hides. It is thought he has killed a man.

“Those who seek him and the package now know that they were mistaken in approaching you. Thus you could take the package across with perfect safety and possibly much profit, no? They would not think you had it.”

“Now wait a minute! I don’t want anything to do with the police any more than you do.” Lane added, “I’m no smuggler.”

“We do not know if it is a police matter, estupido! Sleep, Lane. Felicia must think...”

Chapter Three

A Daughter of Many Kings

He awoke at dawn as Felicia came in with the stranger, whose size shrunk the shack. He could not stand erect in it. He was wary. Lane found he was much stronger as he sat up.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The man sat on his heels and offered a cigarette. Lane took two and handed one to Felicia. The stranger lit all three gravely. “You,” he said, “were the little man in the middle.”

“If this busted head was supposed to be for you, where were you?”

“I wasn’t in a cantina swilling up the local poison, that’s for sure. You got a smart little girl here, friend.”

“How long do we keep on fencing?”

“I had a little trouble yesterday. It cramps my style, Lane. That your last name?”

“First name.”

“Okay, play cute. It’s contagious. Yesterday they towed your car into the courtyard of the police station. Somebody did a good job of going through it. What they left, the kids stole. But I think it still runs.”

“That’s nice.”

“They’re about to report you missing. They got the name by a cross check on the motor vehicle entry permission. I think they’ll probably wait until noon.”

“You get around, don’t you?”

“Friends keep me informed, Lane. I’ve got some instructions for you. Go and get your car this morning. Get it out of that courtyard. Are your papers in order?”

“They are, but if you think I’m going to—”

“Please shut up, Lane. Get your car and drive it to a little garage at the end of Cinco de Mayo. There’s a big red-and-yellow sign in front which says, „Mechanico“. Tell them you want it checked over. Leave it there while you have lunch. Then get it and drive it across into Baker, Texas. Put it in the parking lot behind the Sage House. Register in the Sage House. Is that clear?”

“Damn you, I have no intention of—”

“You run off at the mouth, Lane. You ought to take lessons from this little girl you got. She’s got a head on her. She could tell you what will happen if you don’t play.”

Lane looked quickly at Felicia.

“Don’t bother,” the stranger said. “We’ve been talking too fast for her to catch on. I’ll give it to you straight. If you don’t play ball, some friends of mine are going to give the most careful description of you to the police you ever heard. And they’re going to tell just how you shived that citizen yesterday. You won’t get any help from the American Consul on a deal like that. You’ll rot in the prison in Monterrey for twenty years. Beans and tortillas, friend.”

The big man smiled broadly. He was close to forty. He had a big long face, small colorless eyes and hulking shoulders. He was well dressed.

“That’s a bluff,” Lane Sanson said loudly.

“Ssssh!” Felicia said.

“Try me,” the big man said. His tone removed the last suspicion Lane had.

“Why are you picking on me?”

“Laddy, you’re still the man in the middle. Park your car behind the Sage House and leave it there. Take a look at it the following morning. That’ll be tomorrow morning. If everything has gone well, laddy, there’ll be a little present for you behind the sun visor on the driver’s side. Then you’re your own man. But if there’s no present there, you’ll go and see a girl named Diana Saybree — at least she’ll be registered that way in the Sage House. Now memorize what you’re going to say to her.”

“Look, I—”

“Friend, you’re in. If you don’t play on the other side of the river, there’re friends over there too. This is what you say to Diana: ‘Charlie says you might like to buy my car. He recommends it. You can send him a payment through the other channel. No payment, no more favors’.”

He repeated it until Lane was able to say it tonelessly after him.

The big man took a fifty-dollar bill, folded it lengthwise and laid it on the floor beside Lane’s hand. “That’ll cover expenses. Now go over to the police barracks as soon as they open. It’s nearly six. You’ve got three hours.”

As the stranger ducked for the low doorway, he said, “Just follow orders and chances are, by tomorrow afternoon, you can be on your way wherever you’re going with a little dough to boot.”

He was gone. Sanson’s head was aching again. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “He is not a nice man, no?” Felicia said.

“He is not a nice man, yes,” answered Lane, “It is a bad thing that you should bring him here.”

“That shows what you know.” Her eyes flashed. “It was all planned by them for you to be taken by the police for the murder yesterday. Children saw you sleeping here yesterday. In the market a thing is soon known all over town. But for me you would be in prison for murder.”

“I am truly sorry, chica.”

Her anger left and her smile was warm. “It is nothing.”

He pushed the bill toward her. “Here. This is yours.”

“No, it is much. It is more than four hundred pesos. You see, I know the value of dollars. What could I do with it? If I try to change it, the police will have me. Better you should give me some of your pesos if you wish to make a gift to me.”

He handed her his pesos. She took them without looking up into his face. She seemed suddenly shy.

“Muchas gracias, Felicia.”

“It is nothing, señor.”

He touched her cheek, slipped his hand under her chin and lifted her face until he could look into the deep wild gleam of the black eyes.

“Truly a daughter of many great kings,” he whispered.

She took his hand and kissed it. “Go with the Lord, Señor Lane.”

After lunch he walked back to the garage where he had left the car. The small man with large pimples charged him ten pesos for the work on the car.

To get to the bridge he had to circle the zocolo with its bandstand in the center, with the paths and rows of iron benches. Curio shops, churches and public buildings faced the square. As he turned the corner to head along the fourth and last side, he saw two uniformed policemen armed with rifles standing on the walk. A crowd had gathered but they stayed well back from the policemen, staring avidly at the crumpled form on the walk. Others came running up to join the crowd.

As Sanson drove slowly by, he saw the body of the stranger who had come to Felicia’s shack. His cheek rested in a spreading pool of blood. Blue flies buzzed in a cloud around his face. The skull was subtly distorted by the impact of slugs against the brain tissue. Sanson set his jaw, clamped his hands on the wheel and resisted the impulse to tramp hard on the gas.

At the Mexican end of the bridge he surrendered the tourist card, which he had renewed three times during the two years in Mexico. He signed it in the presence of the guard and was waved on. In the middle of the bridge he paid the fifty centavo toll.

At the American end, a brisk man in kahki stepped forward and said, “American citizen? Where are you coming from? Please bring your luggage inside for customs inspection.”

Lane made himself grin. “I wish I could. I did too much celebrating the other night. Somebody broke into my car and took everything. The only thing they left was the car itself.”

The man stared at him. “Have an accident?”

“Fell and hit my head.”

“Have you got proof of citizenship?”

Lane dug out his birth certificate. “This do?”

“Fine. Now open up the trunk, please.” The man shone a flashlight around inside the trunk, then climbed into the car and looked down into the well, where the top folded.

He turned around. “I have the idea I ought to know that name. Lane Sanson.”

“There was a book, six years ago. Battalion Front.”

The customs man grinned. “Hell, yes! I read that thing five times. I was a dough, an old infantry paddlefoot, so it meant something to me.” He backed out of the car. “You haven’t written something since that I missed, have you?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, that’s all the red tape, Mr. Sanson. Good luck to you.”

“Thanks.”

He drove down into the main street of Baker. Directly ahead, on the right, he saw the Sage House, a three-story frame building painted a blinding white. The entrance was dark green. He parked in front and went in. People stared at him. He was conscious of his heavy beard, the badly rumpled suit.

“I’d like a room, please,” he said.

The clerk looked at him with obvious distaste. “I’ll have to see if there are any vacancies.”

Sanson slipped the traveler checks out of the inside pocket of his wallet. “While you’re looking, tell your cashier I want some of these cashed. If you have a room, I want a barber sent up in thirty minutes. And I’ll want a portable typewriter, and my car put in your parking lot in the rear. I have no baggage. It was stolen over in Piedras Chicas. So, I’ll pay you in advance.”

Under the impact of the flow of imperious demands, the clerk’s dubious look faded away. “As a matter of fact, I notice that we do have a quite pleasant room on the second-floor front. It’ll come to...”

“I’ll take it. Send the boy up to open it up and wait for me while I cash my traveler checks.”

“Number 202, Mr. — ah — Sanson,” the clerk said, reading his signature as he wrote it. “If you’ll leave your keys here—”

“They’re in the car.”

“I’ll have a typewriter sent up, sir.”

“With a twenty-weight bond, black record carbon and glazed second sheets.”

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said, thoroughly quelled.

Once in the room. Lane threw his jacket on the bed. He stripped off his trousers and emptied the pockets onto the bureau top. He said to the boy, “Go over to the desk and write this down.” The bellhop shrugged and sat down. “Waist 32, inseam 33. That’s for the slacks. Now for the shirts. 16 collar, 34 sleeve. Go buy me two pair of slacks, gabardine if you can get them. Pale gray or natural. And two sport shirts, plain white, short sleeves.

“Take my suit along and leave it to be cleaned. Fastest possible service. I want a doctor as soon as he can get up here and, exactly one hour from now, a good barber to give me a shave and haircut. Oh, yes. Get some underwear shorts and some dark socks, plain colors, three pair, blue or green, size twelve. This ought to cover it.”

The bellhop scribbled some more. “Three pair shorts?”

“That’ll do it. Any questions?”

“You give me a fifty. How high you want to go on the pants and shirts?”

“Fifteen for the slacks, three and a half for the shirts. With what you have left over, get some fair rye. Bring up ice and soda.”

“This town is dry, sir.”

“It doesn’t have to be the best rye.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The doctor arrived when the bathtub was almost ready. He inspected the cut, sighed, rebandaged it. “If you’d called me when it happened I could have put clamps in it and it wouldn’t have left much of a scar. Five dollars please.”

When he finished washing, the barber had spread newspapers and put a straight chair near the windows. Just as he finished, the bellhop arrived, laden with packages. Lane checked the purchases and tipped the boy. Ten minutes later, as he was dressing, the typewriter arrived, ice and soda following soon afterward. Lane sent the boy back for cigarettes.

When the door was shut and he was alone, Lane Sanson unwrapped the paper, rolled a sheet into the machine. He made a drink and set it near him. He lit a cigarette.

Across the top of the first sheet he typed:

A DAUGHTER OF MANY KINGS

He sat for a long time, sipping the drink. When the glass was empty, he began to work. The words came, and they were the right words. After six years — the right words. He forgot time and place and fear.

Chapter Four

Kill-Boy’s Double-Cross

The C-47 run by the feeder line to Baker was a tired old plane. Inside, it had the smell and the flavor commonly associated with old smoking cars on marginal railroads. It had sagged and blundered its way through storm and hail, freezing cold and blistering heat. It had fishtailed into a thousand inferior runways. The original motors were five changes back. The air-frame was like the uppers of a pair of shoes resoled once too often.

The bored pilot cut the corners off the standard approach pattern and slipped into the Baker strip. The tires leaped and squealed on the cracked concrete and he cursed it for being a weary recalcitrant old lady as he yanked it around and taxied it over to the cinderblock terminal building. Attendants came trotting across the baked cement. The little line prided itself on a ninety-second turnaround. The poop sheet said two off and one on at Baker.

The pilot squatted on his haunches under the wing, a cigarette squeezed between his yellowed fingers. The co-pilot had gone into the building for the initialing of the manifest

The pilot looked at the two passengers who got off. One of them was easy. Local cattleman, right from the cream-colored Stetson down to the hand-sewn boots. The other one was harder to figure. The pilot decided he wasn’t the sort you’d want to strike up any casual conversations with. Brute shoulders on him. Stocky, bowed legs. Long arms. Damned if he wasn’t built like one of them apes.

But it wasn’t an ape’s face. Rimless glasses and that half-bald head. Some crack-pot probably. The zaney little blue eyes beamed around at the world and the mouth was wide and wet-lipped, set in the kind of smile that made you think of the time the high school psychology class went over to the state farm and got a look at the real funny ones.

Only, the pilot decided, you wouldn’t want to laugh at this one. He wasn’t dressed right for the climate in that heavy, dark, wool suit, but you wouldn’t want to laugh at him.

The two suitcases were off-loaded and the new passenger was put aboard. The pilot flipped away his cigarette and went aboard. The steps were wheeled away. The hot motors caught immediately and he goosed it a few times. He trundled old Bertha down to the end of the runway. He glanced back. The funny-looking stranger was just getting into a cab. He looked like a big dark beetle, or like a hole in the sunlight...

Inside the cab, Christy leaned back. The trip from New York had been like walking across a dark room toward one of those little tinfoil wrapped chocolate buds on the far side of the room. You wanted it and you knew it was there and you were thinking about it so you didn’t see anything in the room or think of anything except feeling it between your fingers and picking it up and peeling off the tinfoil and putting it in your mouth.

And Christy was never without chocolate buds in his side pocket. He took one out, but already the climate had gotten to it. It pulped a little between his fingers. He got a look on his face like a child about to cry. All the others were soft too. He dropped them out the window of the cab. His hands were very large, hairless and very white. The network of veins under the skin had a blue-purple tint.

He thought of Diana and he thought of George. He threw his head back and laughed. It was a high, gasping, whinnying sound. George was done. You could see that coming for a long time. So, when it looked right, you gave him a push.

And the push just happened to shake Diana loose, right into his hands — after looking at her so long, and taking her lip, and seeing that contempt in her eyes.

Without realizing it, he had grasped the handle on the inside of the cab door. When he remembered how she had looked at him, his jaw clamped shut and he gave an almost effortless twist of his big wrist. The screws tore out of the metal and the handle came out in his hand.

The driver gave a quick look back. “Hey, what the hell!”

“It was loose.”

The driver met his glance in the rear vision mirror. “Brother, that thing was on there solid and it’ll cost me at least three bucks to get it fixed.”

Christy hunched forward. He put his hand casually on the driver’s shoulder. He smiled wetly. “I said, friend, it was loose.”

“Watch whacha doin’!” the driver said shrilly.

“It was loose.”

“Okay, okay. It was loose. Leggo! Are you nuts?”

Christy leaned back and laughed again. The gutless human race. Always ready to start something and always fast to back down. The best would be George. He had decided to save that until last. Maybe at the last minute George would find out why everything was going wrong lately. It was good to think of that last minute. He knew how he’d do it.

Knock George out and take him down to the boat and wire a couple of cinderblocks to his ankles. Take the boat out and sit and eat chocolates until George came around. Then say, nice and easy, that it was time George joined a lot of his old buddies. Hoist him over the side.

Hold him there with his face above water and the cinderblocks pulling hard on his legs and listen to George talk and beg and promise and scream and slobber. Watch his eyes go mad. Hold him there until there wasn’t any man left, just a struggling animal. Hold him and think of him and then spit in his face and let go.

It would be night and the white face would be yanked down out of sight as though something from underneath had grabbed it. Maybe bubbles would come up like with the others. Then George would be down there, doing a dance in the river current, dancing right along in the chorus with all the guys who’d tried to cut a piece of the big pie and had run into Christy instead.

The cab pulled up in front of the Sage House. Christy paid him the buck and a half rate, tipped him a solemn dime, and carried his bag inside.

“You got a reservation for me,” he said. “A. Christy.”

“Yes, Mr. Christy.”

He had hurried all the way and now he wanted to go slow. Nice and slow. “There’s a friend of mine here, I think. Miss Saybree. Is she in?”

“I believe she’s in her room. Three-eighteen, sir. Shall I phone her?” the clerk asked.

“Skip it. I’ll surprise her.” Nice and slow and easy. The running was over. The girl was smart. She knew what was coming, but she hadn’t tried to run out on it.

He barely noticed the room they gave him. When he was alone, he stretched until the great shoulders popped and crackled. This was a hell of a long way from the carny, the garish midway, the thronging marks paying their two bits to see the Mighty Christy drive spikes with his fists, bend crowbars across his shoulders, twist horseshoes until they broke in his hands.

George had seen him in the carny and seen his possibilities and had jumped in with smart expensive lawyers when there was that trouble about the girl. Temporary insanity they called it, and cleared him, and from then on he’d done everything George said, up until a month ago.

He sat on the bed, wishing he had some chocolate, and thinking about Diana. When you want something bad enough and long enough, you get it.

When the thickness in his throat and the flame behind his eyes was too much to bear, he left the room and went up the stairs to the third floor, passing a second-floor room where a typewriter rattled busily. He rattled his fingernails on the door panel of three-eighteen.

“Who is it?”

“An old pal, sweetness.”

She opened the door. He grinned at her. He’d almost forgotten what a very classy dish she was. She was pale and she spoke without moving her lips.

“Come on in, Christy.” She walked away from him. She walked as though she were on eggs and if she stepped too hard they’d break.

He shut the door. She had gone to sit in a straight chair. She sat with her ankles and her knees together, her hands folded in her lap. Like a new girl at school.

Christy smiled placidly at her. “George is sore,” he said.

“I didn’t want to do this in the first place,” she snapped.

“George figured nobody would be looking for you. Anyway, he wanted you out of town.”

“Why?” she asked, white-lipped.

“You’ve moved. You aren’t living there any more. He had your stuff packed up and put in storage. You can get the claim check from him.”

“Is... is anyone—”

“You ever meet old Bill Duneen? The horse player? He died of a stroke last year. Now George and Bill were great pals. George feels a sort of obligation to look out for Bill’s daughter. Cute kid. Nineteen, I’d say. You could call her a kind of protégé. Did I get the right word?”

It surprised him that she smiled. “If that’s the case, then I can get out of here. If you don’t mind, I have to pack now.”

Christy picked his teeth with a blunt thumbnail. “Sweetness, it ain’t quite that easy. George said to me, he said, ‘Christy, you and Diana are two of the best friends I got. I’d be real hurt if you two didn’t team up.’ ”

“He said no such thing!”

“Sweetness, I’d take it bad if you tried to run out. If you ran out, I’d have to go up to that jerk town you come from and see how those kid sisters of yours look. What’s the name of it? Oneonta.”

“You... you dirty—”

“Ah, ah, ah! No bad words, sweetness. George just happened to mention to me where you come from. He wants us to get along.” He smiled placidly and watched the spirit slowly drain out of her. Her mouth went lax and she lowered her head.

“How come,” he said, “you let some guy take the roll?”

Her head snapped up and her eyes narrowed. “How would you know it was some guy? Why not two or three, or even a woman?”

He knew he’d said the wrong thing. It confused him. When he was confused he acquired a dull ache at the crown of his head. It made him angry.

“George told me he thought it was a guy.”

“George never guessed at anything.”

The idea was growing in her mind. He shrugged. “Maybe friend George knows.”

She smiled at him and he didn’t like her smile. “Christy, it wouldn’t be possible that you’re crossing up George? I never thought of that before. He trusts you. Maybe he’s wrong.”

“Come here, sweetness.”

The color drained out of her face. She didn’t move.

“Come here or I’ll come and get you.”

She stood up as though she were eighty years old. She came to him, one slow step after another.

“Closer, sweetness.”

“There’s something wrong in your head,” she whispered. “Something wrong and dirty and twisted and—”

He moved like a cat. He snatched her right wrist in his left hand and pulled her forward down into the smashing, open-handed blow against her jaw. He hit angrily and watched her go backward, her face going blank as she fell. She landed on her left side and rolled over twice, ending up on her face, one arm cramped under her. The fall had torn one shoe off.

Christy sat, breathing hard, waiting for the mist to clear away from his eyes. Then he began to wonder if he’d hit too hard. He watched her narrowly and sighed as he saw the lift of her breathing. He got up, took the key off the bureau and carefully locked her door behind him as he left.

The blue Texas dusk was settling over the land. A lurid and impossible sunset flamed in the west. Christy walked slowly down the main street to the nearest drugstore, warm satisfaction filling him. He bought some chocolates, looked up the tourist court number and shut himself in the phone booth.

He asked for Mr. Brown and the woman said she’d get him to the phone. In a few minutes he heard Shaymen say cautiously, “Brown speaking.”

“Drop the guard, junior. This is that man.”

“You just get in?”

“I’ve been talking to the pigeon. You did good.”

“Thanks.”

“You got it to turn over?”

Shaymen hesitated. “If I feel like it.”

Christy’s throat began to swell. “Look, Shaymen. I steered you into this. You know your fee. Let’s not get coy.”

“Right now I’m in the driver’s seat. If I wanted to cross you all the way, I wouldn’t even be here. And the phone is no place to talk about it.”

“Drive in and pick me up then. In front of the theater.”

“Right away.”

It was almost dark by the time Shaymen pulled up in front of the theater. The door swung open. Christy climbed in and sat back with a sigh. “Just drive out of town aways and park, Shaymen.”

They did not speak again until Shaymen had pulled off the road. He offered Christy a cigarette, used the dash lighter.

Christy chuckled. “I know you can’t cross me on the amount, Shaymen. She had George’s twenty-eight thousand bucks. And I got the second twenty-eight thousand.”

“I don’t like those thousand dollar bills.”

“I’ll handle those. I know a guy. Now why the coy act?”

Shaymen lifted his cigarette slowly to his lips. “You tipped me a week in advance where she’d be staying so I could lift the roll. You tell me a little. But not enough. I’m not a hired man — I told you that before. You want me working, I’ve got to be on the inside. Call it a partnership.”

“You’re a greedy guy, aren’t you? It worked the way I figured. George sent me down with cash to replace what you took off Diana. The purchase has to go through because he needs the merchandise. Even paying double for it, he makes a small profit once the stuff is cut. Four kilograms. That’s a little over a hundred and forty ounces. The retailers have to make their end, you know, but even so George clears fifty-six thousand bucks at least. Plus two times twenty-eight thousand is a hundred and twelve thousand bucks.”

Shaymen started. “Are you going to try to grab the stuff without paying what you brought down?”

“Right. Those boys from across the line are supposed to be rough, but the Mexican government is cracking down on them. George has been busy lining up a new source. I got all the dope on that. So if this source is going to dry up anyway, all we got to do is freeze them out and grab the stuff without paying.”

“How about George? Won’t they let him know they didn’t get paid?”

Christy laughed his high whinnying laugh. “You kill me, Shaymen. This isn’t hit and run. They may try to tell George, but maybe he won’t be around to listen.” Shaymen whistled. “The works, eh?” Christy slapped his shoulder. “You and me are in, kid. We start in with capital of a hundred and twelve thousand, with a brand new source of stuff, with the retailers in line and with George out of the way. Now give me that dough.”

“It’s in a safe place,” Shaymen said. “Let’s just leave it there, huh?”

“I don’t like your attitude, Shaymen.”

Shaymen flipped his cigarette out the window. “I don’t care what you like and what you don’t like. So far we both got twenty-eight thousand apiece. If what you say is right, I think we’ll have fifty-six thousand apiece. That makes a partnership, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve been taking orders too long,” Christy said. “From now on I’m giving orders.”

“If that’s the way you want it, Christy, you can kiss that twenty-eight thousand good-by.”

Christy reached over and clamped his left hand on Shaymen’s closed right fist. He slowly closed his hand. Shaymen made one futile, feeble effort to slam his left fist toward Christy’s face but pain brought it to a faltering stop.

Christy eased off on the pressure and said, “Where’s the money?”

“Damn you, Christy! In my suitcase.” His tone was angry and sullen.

Christy re-applied the pressure. Again Shaymen screamed, falling forward across the wheel, half-fainting, his weight against the horn ring. Christy pushed him back and blare of the horn ceased.

“Tell me where,” he demanded softly.

Shaymen was panting as though he had run a long distance. “All right... all right. I’ll... tell you... it’s buried under... third flagstone from the front door of... the tourist court... put it there at night...”

“You tried to lie to me, Shaymen. You tried to be a partner.”

Now the mist was thick in Christy’s eyes. He ground down with all his strength. Shaymen made a damp bleating sound and slumped over against the door.

The mist receded. Christy took a chocolate out of his pocket, picked off the tinfoil and put it in his mouth. He sucked at it.

When his mind was made up, he pulled the dying Shaymen into the passenger’s seat, went around and got behind the wheel. He drove back to Baker and then over toward the river to the Mexican settlement. He found a sagging warehouse without lights, and turned out the car lights as he drove behind it.

He stood outside the car for a long time, listening. Shaymen’s breath whistled once and stopped. Again Christy listened. He turned Shaymen’s pockets inside out, emptied the wallet, threw it aside. He smudged his hands around the wheel and over the door handles.

Death of one Mr. Brown — commercial traveler.

Back in the hotel dining room Christy ate a large steak. He went to his room and napped until eleven. At half-past twelve, moving through the darkness like a shadow, he pulled up the flagstone, found the roll of bills in oilcloth under the packed dirt, dropped the stone back and melted off into the shadows. He was in the hotel a little after one.

He paused at the foot of the stairs leading up to the third floor. The damn fool nearby was still typing furiously. Christy felt a thick tiredness inside himself. He turned to his own room, lay heavy in the darkness, the last chocolate melting on his tongue as he fell asleep.

Chapter Five

Lorelei and the Newshawk

At seven o’clock Lane Sanson went down to the parking lot behind the hotel. He looked behind the sun visor on his side of the car. Nothing. He walked into the lobby and inquired at the desk for Miss Saybree’s room number.

This was something to do quickly, to get out of the way. He had been up at six to read the manuscript. There were crudities in it, he knew. But there were also places in it that had the deep tone of a great bell.

In it was something of the flavor of Mexico, the preoccupation with death, the sun and the dust and the ancient faces. The patience and the hopelessness. He wanted Sandy to read it. He wanted to watch her face while she read it because it was not only confession and acknowledgement, it was hope and promise.

But Sandy was forever gone. And everything he read, saw, did, touched, heard for the rest of his life would be but half an experience because it was unshared by the only one who had ever counted and would ever count.

Sandy was so much on the surface of his mind that when the tall girl with the blonde hair opened the room door and stared at him with an odd mixture of surprise and relief, he couldn’t think for a moment who she was and why he stood there.

It was not easier to remember while looking at her. There was a deep illness of the soul in her black eyes. But in the wide soft mouth, faintly sullen, there was a hard, demanding savagery that made the impact of her as frank as a quick word said in the moving darkness.

“I have a message for you.”

“Come in,” she said. She pushed the door shut behind him. He knew at once that it was a singer’s voice.

He smiled. “I know this sounds silly. Maybe it won’t sound as silly to you.”

“What is it?”

“Charlie says you might like to buy my car. He recommends it. You can send him a payment through the other channel. No payment, no more favors.”

“Sit down, please,” she said.

He sat in the wicker chair. She went over and stood by the windows, her back to him. “Where is your car?” she asked without turning.

“Behind the hotel. In the lot. I got it last night. I was supposed to look at it this morning. If there was a present for me behind the visor, I was to go on my way. But there wasn’t. So I suppose that whatever Charlie is selling you is still in the car someplace.”

“You don’t know what he’s selling me?”

“I don’t think I want to know.”

“Then you’re smart.”

“I didn’t expect anybody like you on the other end of this deal.”

She spun around. He noticed for the first time that the left side of her mouth was swollen. Tears squeezed out of her eyes. “Shut up! Please shut up! I’m trying to think.”

“Pardon me,” he said indignantly. He added, “By the way, Charlie is very dead.”

“What!”

“Oh yes. And from the protective attitude of the police guarding his body, I rather imagine they shot him down. That was yesterday, early in the afternoon. Got him in the back of the head from all appearances.”

The quick look of interest faded from her face. She stared at him. “You don’t owe me a thing. Not a damn thing, do you?”

“Not that I can think of at the moment. Why?”

“Skip it. You don’t want in on this. You look decent. You know what that means? A mark. That’s Christy’s word for people like you.” Her tone hinted of hysteria.

“A babe in the wood?” he asked gently.

“Exactly.” She looked hard at him for a long moment and then came toward him. Her face had a frozen look and she walked in a way that showed off the lines of the long, lovely body. She stopped inches from the arm of the wicker chair. She said with calculated throatiness, “But if you could help me...”

He looked her up and down very closely, very coldly. “Darling, if you’re in trouble — I’ll try to help. Just because marks are like that.”

She sat down, her face in her hands. He realized that she was crying silently. He went over and put his arm around her.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I’m a recruit. Attired in my shining armor, I’m riding to the rescue.”

She laughed through her tears. “You fool!”

“Spill it.”

The door swung open. Lane looked up and saw a remarkably unappealing man. He had a body like an ape, rimless glasses and a white, oddly distorted face. The girl looked up at him and Lane felt the sudden rigidity of great fear in her.

The stranger planted his feet. “Friend of yours, Diana?” he asked mildly.

“That’s right.”

“How’d he get in?”

“I phoned the desk last night when I got hungry. They brought up another key.”

Lane kept his arm around the girl’s shoulders. It was petty defiance. The stranger acted a bit uncertain.

The stranger jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door. “Out,” he said.

The girl spoke quickly. “Oh, Christy can get away with little gestures like that.” She laughed nervously. “He used to be a strong man in a circus, you know. He’s never gotten over it. Once he gets his hands on you, brother, you’re all through.”

Lane got the impression that the girl was warning him and yet trying to tell him something. He stood up and said mildly, “Well then, it looks like I better shove off. By the way, Diana. That little matter we were just talking about. I haven’t changed my mind. But I ought to know if your friend here is it.”

“What the hell is this?” Christy demanded.

“He’s it,” Diana said quickly, “but I’ve changed my mind. Please don’t.”

Lane hesitated. Diana stood up, too. Christy pushed between them and shoved Diana away from him so brutally that she staggered and nearly fell. She looked with white face, tearing, meaningful eyes, at Lane.

“Now get out, mister. Real fast,” Christy said.

Lane smiled broadly and said, “Let me get my cigarettes, if you don’t mind.” He had seen cigarettes on the bureau. He stepped quickly around Christy and went to the bureau. His back was to Christy. Instead of picking up the cigarettes, he picked up the heavy glass tumbler. He glanced in the mirror and saw that Christy was looking at the girl.

He spun with the tumbler in his hand, his right arm coming up and over. He threw it at the side of Christy’s head. It hit with a solid and sickening thud. The tumbler fell to the rug, bounced and rolled away. Christy stood, his eyes filled with an inward bemused expression. Lane reached him in two steps. Christy was shaking his head slowly.

Lane hit him in the jaw with all his strength. Christy rocked but he didn’t go down. He reached his hands slowly toward Lane. As Lane moved to the side to avoid them, he saw the girl standing off to the side, her hands clenched.

He hit Christy again and again. The only sound in the room was the thick, dead impact of bone on flesh. The little blue eyes were glazed and the glasses were jolted off so that they hung by one bow from the left ear. The big hands worked and there was something almost like a smile on Christy’s face. He could no longer lift his arms.

Lane swung, and the glasses bounced away and broke on the floor. A vast pain ran up his right arm from his knuckles. He had the horrifying feeling that Christy was slowly recovering from the blow from the tumbler. Lane grunted with the effort as he swung. Christy’s mouth was losing shape.

Suddenly he dropped to his knees, one hand on the bed to hold himself erect. Lane, knowing that he was too arm-weary to punch the man again, swung the side of his shoe up against the point of Christy’s chin. The big head tilted back sharply. He was poised for a moment in that position. Then, with a sigh, he went over onto his side, tugging the spread from the bed in his left hand so that it fell across his short stocky legs.

Lane stood, trembling with weakness. “Good Lord!” he gasped. “I was beginning... to think... he couldn’t be knocked... out.”

The girl was walking toward Christy with short steps. He called her, and she turned into his arms, laughing and crying and trembling from head to foot.

He slapped her twice. Bright color appeared in her cheeks and the sounds stopped as though a switch had been pulled.

“We’ll have to tie him. With something strong, I imagine. Coat hangers ought to do it. The wire kind.”

She brought a handful of hangers. Lane rolled the man onto his face and wired the wrists together behind him, and then the ankles. He used three hangers on the wrists and three on the ankles, twisting the ends of each tight. Then he soaked a hand towel, jammed most of it into Christy’s mouth, and tied it in place with one of Diana’s nylons.

Only then did they sit down, utterly exhausted from the physical and emotional strain. As Lane sat in the stupor that comes after violent action, Diana went and knelt beside Christy. Numbly he watched her take a fat sheaf of large bills from an inside pocket. From another pocket she took a tight roll of bills wrapped in oilcloth and fastened with a rubber band. She sat very still with a curious expression on her face.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m busy adding two and two.”

“From here that looks like a lot of money.”

“It is.”

“Is that the money to pay for whatever is hidden in my car?”

“Yes.”

“Would it be too much trouble to brief me? Or would you rather not?”

She smiled at him. “Maybe some day I’ll be able to tell you how much I owe you.” She laughed. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Sanson. Lane Sanson.”

“I’ve got a phone call to make, Lane. I don’t want you to hear what I say.”

“That’s blunt enough.” He stood up. “I’ll wait outside.”

“Wait until I get my party. It may take some time.”

It had happened so quickly, so finally, leaving the big man grotesquely on the floor, that Sanson had a strong sense of unreality, a feeling that his violence had no relationship to actuality — indeed, that this had not happened. Now that it had happened, he knew at once that it was a commitment he did not care to make.

Once an act is performed there is no handy way to sidestep the immutable flow of events that stem from that act. With this act, a strong flow of events had been initiated. He did not know where they would carry him. But he did know, and there was fright in his realization, that through his act he had ceased to function in any way as a free agent. Thus he would be carried along with the events, a reluctant passenger.

He heard the murmur of Diana’s voice as she placed the phone call and it seemed to come from a great distance.

She hung the phone up and turned to smile almost shyly at him. She was one of those women about whom hung an indescribable muskiness, not something which could be scented, but rather felt.

“Sorry?” she asked.

“I don’t know how to answer that. I am and I’m not. I never did anything like this before. Lord, I could have killed him with that glass!”

“I would have been glad!”

“That’s nice. You could have sent cookies to my cell.”

She came to him and put her palms flat against his cheeks. When she kissed him, her lips had a faint sting, like candle wax that drops on the back of a hand.

“Thank you again, Lane,” she said.

He smiled very wryly. “Oh, it was nothing, really.” She stood so close to him that he could see the dark roots of her hair where it was growing out.

She turned away. “You’re a strange one, Lane Sanson.”

“Do you know chess?”

“No.”

“There’s something called a forcing mate. Your opponent makes a series of moves and you only have one possible response to each move. After the series of moves, you’re cooked. The first move was when a little gal came up to me in a bar in Piedras Chicas. Nothing I’ve done since then has been on my own.”

She looked at Christy. “Baby’s awake.”

The small blue eyes were open. He looked up at the two of them without expression. Diana sat on her heels in front of Christy’s face. She bounced the oilskin package up and down in her hand and her voice had a hard teasing note.

“This is going to make George happy, isn’t it?”

Christy didn’t answer. He was curiously immobile. Lane suddenly realized that the man was straining against the twisted wire. He bent over the wrists. The hands looked bloodless. As he watched, the wire cut into the flesh of the left wrist and the blood began to flow. The wire was taut, but it did not slip.

Diana laughed. The phone rang. She motioned to Lane and he went outside, closing the door.

Patton and Ricardo were on duty. It was a small basement room near the boilers, furnished with a chair, a table, a cot, one lamp, a phone, a washstand and a jumble of recording equipment. Ricardo snored on the couch.

Patton smiled tightly, lowered a cutting arm onto a fresh record, went over and shook Ricardo awake.

“This one you should hear, I hope, Rick,” Patton said.

Ricardo sat up groggily. He shook himself awake. Patton stood up and turned up the volume on the amplifier.

“Live like a coupla moles for half your life and—” Ricardo began.

“Shh!” Patton said.

“Here is your party,” the operator said.

“George! This is Diana.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to—”

“Shut up, George, please!”

“Aren’t you getting a little bold, Sis?”

“I’ve got your present, George.”

“By heaven, you should have it! I gave Christy the money.”

“Christy, my love, happens to be tied up at the moment. With wire. Know what he had in his pocket? That little item that was stolen from me. Now I’ve got enough to buy it twice. Doesn’t that make you think, George?”

There was a long silence. The record revolved under the cutting arm, recording the hum on the phone wire.

“Kid,” George said, “maybe I jumped a little too fast. Maybe I got sore a little too easy.”

“Wouldn’t you say it was a little late for that? I would.”

“Kid, who clobbered Christy? That’s a good trick.”

“A new friend. You see, George, I need new friends. Seems like I can’t depend on the old ones.”

“Couldn’t we skip a little misunderstanding?”

“No, George. And speaking of little misunderstandings, the salesman met with a small, unimportant fatal accident.”

“It was expected. There’s a new deal lined up.”

“I don’t think I like you any more, George. I don’t think I like you handing me over to Christy.”

“Kid, did he say that? He was lying to you. Believe me. I wouldn’t think of a thing like that.”

“I’ve got a present for you, George, but maybe I’ll give it to somebody else.”

“Now hold on!”

“Squirm, George. Squirm nice.”

“Diana, don’t play games with me.”

“How’s your new protégé?”

“Kid, look! Here’s an angle. Give me the present and keep the double fee for yourself. It’s a nice wad.”

She laughed. “You know what, George? I kept myself from thinking about what a foul stinking business this is — just on account of you. And now I wish you were dead, George. Do you hear me? So maybe nobody will get the present.”

“Hello!... Hello!... Diana!” He rattled the hook. “Diana!” There was a sharp click as the phone was hung up.

Patton lifted the cutting arm off the record, picked it tenderly from the spindle and kissed it. “I love you, I love you,” he said.

Ricardo had already picked up the direct line. He made his report.

“Yes sir. That’s what the Saybree girl said. I can’t help what Tomkinton reported. He must have missed the transfer. That’s right, sir. She’s got it. Well, if she hadn’t gone out, she has to be calling from the hotel, doesn’t she? So that’s where Christy is.” Ricardo listened for a long time, unconsciously nodding as though his superior were talking to him face to face. “Right away, sir,” he said and hung up.

“Something new?” Patton asked.

“Tomkinton sent Clavna over this morning, down there in Texas, to look at some guy that got it during the night. Turns out it was an old friend of ours. Shaymen. Traveling under the name of Brown. Now that other phone call makes sense. The call when the girl reported the dough had been lifted. Christy must have sent Shaymen on ahead. He lifted the dough and then Christy must have killed him, since the body looks like Christy’s handiwork.

“We got word from our friends south of the border that they cleaned up the whole mob down there, but couldn’t find any sign of the last shipment. They got it across somehow. They’re going to flash Tomkinton and Clavna to pick up the little tea party down there. I got to take the record over. A car’s on the way to grab Georgie.”

Patton grinned. “End of the road, Boy, I’m going to rent me a cellar apartment. I won’t feel at home living above ground.”

“After the pinch, Pat, and after we report, would you be morally or ethically opposed to an evening of fermented juices, women and some nostalgic cantos?”

“I’m your boy.”

Ricardo opened the door. “I just happen to know a nice cellar bar...”

He dodged out as Patton snapped his cigarette at him.

As the door closed, Patton heard the warning dial tone. He shrugged and slipped a record on the spindle, put the cutting arm back in place. Odds were against any last-minute information, but you couldn’t be sure.

“Yes?”

“Al? This is George. I got to make a quick trip. Think you can hold the fort?”

“Maybe nobody’s told you, George, but without any merchandise there won’t be any fort to hold.”

“That’s all set. And you’ve got too much mouth over the phone, Al. Now get me a plane reservation to Houston and... hold on a minute. Somebody at the door. Hey, get the door for me, Delicious. I’m on the phone. And look, Al, I want to be sure to get down there no later than...”

Patton grinned and whispered, “Son, you ain’t goin’ noplace nohow.”

There was a mumble of voices and then he heard George say, his voice pitched high, “But there’s some mistake!” There was a click on the line.

“George!” Al said sharply. “Hey, George! What happened? George!”

A heavy voice came faintly over the line. “You can hang up now, Al. George’ll be busy for a long, long time.”

There was the clatter of the phone dropping from Al’s hand, several hoarse grunts, a scuffling sound, a padded blow and a moan. The phone was quietly replaced on the cradle.

Patton grinned with delight. He made a quick movement and changed the equipment over so that he could use the hand mike to record. He cut it right into the same record following that last conversation.

“And thus, friends, we bring to a close this concluding episode of our exciting drama entitled ‘The Snow Birds’ or, ‘Georgie Porgie goes to Atlanta’. This thrilling series has come to you through the courtesy of the Narcotics Division. Run, do not walk, to your nearest recruiting station and some day soon maybe you, too, can live in a cellar.”

It was all right. If the office didn’t think it funny, they could erase it from the record. Only one thing left to do now. Grab Christy and the gal. The retailers were being picked up in droves by now. Too bad about the gal. Nice husky voice. A looker, too.

But that’s what happens to little girls who run with the wrong crowd. A couple of years of that starchy prison food and nobody’d bother to look twice at her on the street.

The phone rang and Patton quickly grabbed it.

“Yes, I’ll unhook and pack up the stuff. About an hour and a half. Yes, I got one more. Just George calling Al and asking him to get him a plane ticket. The pinch came right in the middle of the conversation. Thanks a lot. Good-by.”

He hung up and, whistling softly, began to unhook the apparatus.

Chapter Six

No Place to Run

Surprised, Lane Sanson looked at Diana. She held his hand with both of hers. “I can’t stay here! And I can’t tell you why now, but I can’t have the police take him. I have to go with you. Please.”

He looked at her. Christy had stopped struggling against the wire. He followed them with his eyes.

“I’ll pay you, Lane. I’ll pay you well.”

“That’s nice, but it isn’t important. If there’s something you have to run from, can’t you do your own running? I’m up to my neck in this, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like out. I’ve got a job to do. I’m scared of the job, afraid I can’t handle it.”

“Please,” she said.

“No, thanks. I’m afraid to even think of what it is that was hidden in my car. I want it out of there. And then I want to say good-by.”

Her face changed. “Okay. But you can do a little bit, can’t you?” He nodded. “Then wait here while I pack. I don’t want to be left alone with him. I’ll come down to your room while you pack. We’ll both check out. We can leave separately so nobody will think of us as being together. I can pack what I need into one bag and leave the other here. I’ll tell you the rest where he can’t hear us. It won’t be much for you to do.”

“I’ll go along with you that far, Diana.”

She took fresh clothes into the other room and changed quickly. She seemed to grow more nervous as she packed. She neither spoke to nor looked at Christy as they left the room. Lane told her his room number, went on ahead and unlocked the door, leaving it ajar. She came in behind him as he started to pack.

“Look, my suit isn’t back from the cleaners yet.”

“I’ll pay you for one twice as good.”

He shrugged. He put the new manuscript in the bottom of the replacement suitcase he had purchased, when he had gone down to eat the evening before. She stood near the door. It was open a few inches.

“Where do you want me to...”

“Sssh!” she said. He looked at her in surprise. She stared tensely out at the hallway. He came quietly up behind her. Three men were just heading up to the third floor. One of them wore a Ranger uniform.

“What is it?” he asked in a low tone.

“We’ve got to get out of here!”

“Now look, honey. Let’s just say you have to get out of here. I think I’d welcome a nice warm friendly cop at this point.”

She turned on him. Her face had gone feline. “You would, eh? Listen, friend. They’ll grab me and you and your car. They know where you came from. And there’s no power in the world that’ll keep you from doing time for it.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“No? Lane, there’s a hundred forty ounces of heroin in your car. Refined diacetyl-morphine worth a quarter of a million dollars in the retail market, and you brought it in from Mexico. Do you still want to play innocent?”

“But you could explain how I happened to...”

“Either I get help from you right now, or what I’ll tell them about you will be something you won’t want to hear.”

“That’s a filthy trick!”

“Do you help me?”

“Just until I can get that damn stuff out of my car.”

“Come on, then.” She ran ahead of him down the corridor. She yanked open a broom closet and shoved her suitcase inside. She slammed the door. The back window was open. The outside fire escape reached down to the yard behind the hotel.

Diana looked out cautiously. “Okay. Come on.” She went down first. He followed her. A kitchen helper stood out by the garbage cans, a cigarette between his fingers, his mouth open in surprise.

“Which one?” she said.

“Over there. The blue car.”

They both ran to it. He threw his bag into the back seat, slid behind the wheel. She jumped in beside him and slammed the door. He fumbled with the key, got the motor started and stalled it.

“Come on! Come on!” she said.

The back tires skidded and threw gravel. He drove down the alley beside the hotel. Evidently the kitchen helper had run in to the desk. The clerk came along the sidewalk and jumped into the alley mouth, waving his arms, his face red and angry, blocking the way.

Lane lifted his foot from the gas. Diana reached her foot over and trod down on his. The car leaped forward. The clerk made a frantic dive for his life. Lane got a quick glance at the man rolling over and over on the sidewalk as they shot out into traffic. He wrenched the wheel hard to avoid a big truck. The tires screamed, horns blew and people shouted angrily at him.

The mid-morning sun beat hotly down on the town.

“Now slow and easy,” Diana said.

“Oh, fine,” he said bitterly.

“Head east out of town. Step it up once you’re outside the city limits.”

“Yessir, boss.”

He stepped it up to seventy. The two-lane concrete rushed at them and was whipped under the wheels.

“Can’t you make it faster?”

“Take a look at the heat guage, boss. The radiator needs flushing. Any faster and I burn up the motor.”

They sped through country full of reddish stone, cactus and sparse dry grass. Far ahead the road disappeared into a shimmer of heat waves.

After a full hour in which neither of them spoke, Lane saw a side road far ahead. It led over to a grove of live oaks that were livid green in the sun-baked expanse. It was a dirt road and he could only hope that the live oaks did not screen a house.

He stepped hard on the brakes, corrected a tendency to skid, and shot down the dirt road, the car bouncing high.

“What are you doing?” she shouted.

“Shut up, angel. There’s been a shift of authority. You’ve been deposed.”

She tried to grab the wheel. He slapped her hand away. The road turned sharply to the left once it reached the grove. A dry creek bed ran through the grove. There was no house. He pulled the car under the biggest tree and cut off the motor.

“What kind of a bright idea is this?”

“Please shut up.” He took the keys out of the switch and put them in his pocket. The world seemed silent after the roar of the motor. In the distance a mourning dove cried softly. On the highway three hundred yards away, a car sped by with an odd whistling drone, fading off into the distance.

He unlocked the back end and took out a screwdriver and an adjustable wrench.

“Would you know where they hide stuff on a car?”

Diana didn’t answer him. He shrugged, released the hood catch and shoved the hood up. The wave of motor heat struck him. He stared at the motor for a time. He didn’t know the characteristics of the drug, but he imagined it was a crystalline substance. Motor heat wouldn’t do it much good, probably. It was probably somewhere in the body of the car.

He told her to get out of the car. She didn’t move, didn’t look at him. He took her wrist and pulled her out. She walked woodenly over to a patch of grass under one of the trees and sat down, her back to him.

Lane began to sweat from exertion as he yanked the seats out. He examined them carefully and could see no evidence that they had been tampered with. He lay on his back and peered up under the dash.

It took him an hour to find the answer. The simplicity of it made him angry. They had merely removed the inside panel from the left-hand door. The long sausage-like package wrapped in pale yellow oilskin was against the bottom of the door below the window mechanism.

He took it out and held it in his hands, trying to guess its weight. Close to ten pounds. Nine, probably. He remembered the figure for the number of grains in a pound. Seven thousand sixteen. Nine pounds would be about sixty-three thousand grains. That would be about four dollars a grain retail to the addict, if the girl hadn’t lied about its value.

He put the package aside and replaced the panel. Then he put the seats back in. He tossed the package in onto the front seat, went over to Diana and offered her a cigarette. She took it silently, and he lit hers and his own. He sat down near her.

“Now I’ll tell you why this was a damn fool stunt,” he said.

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“In the first place it’s easy to recognize the car. Look over at the plates.”

She looked. “Why, they’re out-of-date!”

“Sure they are. It doesn’t make any difference in Mexico. I was going to buy Texas plates. That makes the car stand out like a sore thumb. How far could we get? Do you think the hotel hasn’t given the cops that license? I wrote it on the register when I checked in. Now here’s the second pitch. In this area you’re either on the main roads or you’re a dead duck. The secondary roads just aren’t there. It makes it awfully easy to block off a whole area. If we’d kept going, we wouldn’t have gotten out. Radio goes a lot faster than my blue wagon.”

“What can we do?” she asked hopelessly.

“I’ve been giving that a lot of thought. And I forgot about a witness across the border who can clear me. I was all kinds of a damn fool to let you stampede me into running. Running is always the worst thing you can do. I know. I’ve done too much running in the past. This is my first experience running from the law, though.”

“Do you expect me to go back there?”

“How can I say that? Lady, I don’t even know what your problems are. All I know about you is that you were in trouble, that in a weak moment I helped you out, that you’re mixed up in what I think is the most vicious business in the world, and that when the squeeze came you dropped your Lorelei role and switched to blackmail. That covers the information. The only other thing I know about you is that you’re probably the most provocative-looking item I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“You say such sweet things,”

“I’m going to wait for dark and then I’m going back to Baker. You can do what you feel like doing. Come with me, stay here, hitch-hike or drop dead. I want to get all the way back into town and into the hotel before being stopped. That’s the only way I’m going to clear myself of running out on a hotel bill. Then I’m turning that package over to the law and telling them everything I know.”

“No, Lane. No, please.”

He pushed her hand away. “No more of that, sugar. It doesn’t work any more.”

She grew as solemn as a child. “But I have to get to New York with that package. While you were driving, I was planning on what I would do, too. You see, it won’t do any good for me to be picked up and for that package to be taken. It won’t stop anything or cure anything. There’s a man in New York. I want to go to him. And I want to make a phone call so that after I take the package to him, they’ll come for him and find it there. He laughs about them. They’ve been trying to get him for years. But he’s clever.”

“Then,” said Lane, “Little Lord Fauntleroy told the fairy princess that he believed every last word that dripped from her dainty lips.”

“It’s the truth!”

He lay back and locked his hands behind his head. He squinted up at the blue sky through the live oak leaves. “Darling,” he said lazily, “I wouldn’t believe you if you were on your deathbed and I was your only child.”

She called him a name. He turned and grinned at her. “Now you’re in character again.”

Tears filled her eyes and overflowed down her cheeks. She said in a small voice, “I’ll tell you a story. I suppose it happens a lot. I wouldn’t know. It isn’t a pretty story and it has the corniest possible beginning. It started five years ago in one of those little up-state New York towns, the ones with the elms and the white houses. When I say corny, Lane, I really mean it. I sang in the church choir.”

He turned up onto one elbow. “Oh, come now!” But he looked at her face and saw that it was true.

“You know how it is,” she said, “You’re full of wanting and wanting and yet you don’t really know exactly what it is you want or how to go about getting it. Everything seems dull and you keep imagining yourself as a movie actress or a famous newspaper girl or something. Everybody say you’re pretty. I was a brunette then. And you think of the kind of a man you want to marry, and all of them in the town that aren’t married, they seem so young and dumb. Nothing to them.

“So a band came to town to play for a big dance. I went with a boy and there was a fellow in the band. He played a trumpet. Wherever I was on the floor I could feel him watching me. In his eyes it was like we shared some kind of secret we couldn’t talk about. It made me crazy to find out what the secret was. Oh, he wasn’t good-looking. He was nearly bald and he wasn’t tall, but there was something about him.

“When the band left I followed them, on a coach. It was like that. They let me sing with them and they didn’t pay much because I was green and I had a lot to learn. When we were in New York, the regular girl singer who had been sick came back to work. I couldn’t go home then. The trumpet player went with another band and they went out to the coast and I didn’t have enough money to follow them. I guess he didn’t want me to anyway.

“You learn a lot when you have to learn fast. And the biggest thing I learned was that my voice was really no good. No good at all. That’s a hard thing to learn, Lane. Then George came along. He was the sort of man I’d dreamed about back in the small town. Tall and dark, with a nice crooked smile. He could order wines and he drove a big car and everybody gave him a table as soon as he went into a place. When it was too late, I found out what kind of a business he was in. By then I couldn’t leave him. And just the other day I found out that there isn’t any goodness in him. Nothing but cruelty. Now I want to hurt him.”

“This George,” Lane asked, “he sent you down here to pick up that package? Why?”

“He’s been a little worried for a long time. He was afraid that one of the regular people might be trapped by the law. He thought they might not think of me as to be trusted for a thing like this. All I want to do is frame George. I don’t care what happens after that.”

Lane Sanson shut his eyes against the sun-glare. He could hear the soft metronome of her weeping.

“There’s a better way,” he said, “We’ll both go back and you tell those people what you want to do. Let them rig it for you. If they want the goods on this George character, they’ll play ball with you.”

“They won’t trust me,” she said in a small voice.

“That’s a chance you have to take.”

“I’m frightened, Lane.”

“In what way?”

“Prison. I dream of it sometimes. All gray walls and it’s always raining and gray cotton and big bells ringing. Do this, do that. Years and years, Lane.”

She flung herself toward him, her head under his chin. The sobs shook her and her tears scalded his throat. He put his arm around her and tried to comfort her.

When at last the tempo of the sobs decreased, until they were only great shuddering breaths that came at long intervals, he said, “So we’ll go back as soon as it’s dark?”

Her voice was muffled. “Anything you say, Lane.”

“To keep you amused,” he said bitterly, “I shall now tell you a long story of a promising young citizen named Lane Sanson who, as far as all reports go, apparently dropped dead several years ago. It is a long amusing story about a book and a blonde wife and a problem involving integrity.”

“Tell me,” she whispered.

Chapter Seven

Ambush

When Tomkinton, Clavna and the Ranger named Vance came into the third-floor room, all Christy could do was look at them with his small, alert, blue eyes. Tomkinton came quickly back from the bathroom. He checked the top drawers of the bureau. He whistled softly.

“Bad, bad news, Clav. The bird has flown.”

Clavna cursed with great feeling. “Oh, that’s fine! That’s great! We can probably get jobs as ribbon clerks. You had to be the one to say we didn’t have to cover the whole joint because there was no reason for her to run.”

“Don’t try to pass the buck to me,” Tomkinton said hotly.

“No need to get in a fuss,” Vance said. “This is a tough town to run away from. I’ll put the lid on.” He picked up the room phone.

As he picked it up, there was a loud scream of rubber in front of the hotel. Tomkinton ran to the window. A blue convertible, several years old, rocked down through traffic. He squinted but the license was already too far away for him to read.

“Go down to the lobby and see what you can find out about the car, Clav,” he directed.

Vance, on the phone, was saying, “You already got the description. The Saybree woman. Yeah. Give them the word at the bridge and tell Hall that I think it’s hot enough to radio up the line for the usual road blocks. That leaves the airport and the bus station.”

He hung up and grinned at Tomkinton. He was a lean man with a saddle-leather face and the Ranger uniform sat well on his shoulders. “Least we got us a murderer — if you boys got the right dope on this guy on the floor. He is the one you called Christy, isn’t he?”

“That’s him,” Tomkinton said. Tomkinton was a young, round-faced man with the look of an affable bank teller. He walked over to Christy. He said softly, “Killing Shaymen was a mistake, friend. A bad mistake. Not up to your usual style.”

He took out his knife and cut the nylon. He yanked the towel from Christy’s mouth. Christy coughed and moistened his lips with his tongue.

“My wrists are killing me,” he muttered.

“Where did the girl go?”

“I don’t know. She left with a guy. Tall fella with a little bandage on his head. I never saw him before. The two of them busted me with a glass when I wasn’t looking. How about these wrists?”

Clavna trotted through the open door. “Hey, she left with a guy named Lane Sanson. He had a room on the second floor. They went down the fire escape and took off in a blue convertible. Here’s the license number. I wrote it down.”

Vance took the slip of paper and picked up the phone again. As he waited he said, “This’ll make it easier.”

Tomkinton frowned. “Lane Sanson. Lane Sanson. I’ve heard that name before. Wait a minute. Newspaper guy. War correspondent. Hey, he wrote a book! I saw the movie.”

Vance was talking softly over the phone. Clavna grinned. “A newspaper screwball. Boy, that’s all we need. What the hell do you think he thought he was doing, to leave here with the Saybree woman?”

“Maybe chivalry isn’t dead,” Tomkinton said.

“He’ll get chivalried all right,” Clavna said, his thin dark face alight with wry amusement. “He’ll get a belly-full.”

“Especially if they have the junk with them,” Tomkinton said.

Vance hung up. “All over but the shouting,” he said. “That car’ll be grabbed within two hours unless it sprouts wings. Already they got a report on it heading east.”

“How about taking this wire off me?” Christy whined.

Tomkinton knelt by him and untwisted the wire around his ankles first. Christy sighed and worked his thick legs. Finally the wrists were free. Christy got onto his hands and knees, then lumbered up onto his feet. He massaged his big white hands, inspected the wire cuts on his wrists.

“You guys are confusing me, talking about Shaymen,” he said. “I know the guy. I saw him in New York maybe three weeks ago. If somebody bumped him, it wasn’t me.”

“You killed him last night,” Tomkinton said.

“Nuts! Last night I was here, in Texas. How can I kill a guy in New York?”

“You killed him here.”

Christy looked at Tomkinton with blank amazement. “Here? Shaymen here? Well, I’ll be damned! What do you suppose he was doing here? Spying on me or something?”

“What did you come here for, Christy?” Clavna asked. “As if we didn’t know.”

“Well, boys, it’s like this. Miss Saybree run out on the boss. He was worried about her. He found out she was here. So he sent me down to talk her into coming back. He couldn’t get away himself. You know how it is.”

“He won’t be getting away for some time,” Clavna said.

Christy was motionless for long seconds. “What do you mean by that?” he asked in a low voice.

“You should keep up on these things, Christy,” Tomkinton said, smiling cheerfully. “The whole crew has been picked up. George, Al, Denny, Myron, Looba, Stace. Every one of them. And this isn’t just one of those suspicion deals. This is the works. Right down the line. They haven’t got a million to one chance of squeaking out. And neither have you. We’ll let the state of Texas take care of you for the murder, though. That’ll be the simplest, cleanest way.”

“I don’t know anything about no murder,” Christy said.

“Not even,” Tomkinton said, “with Clavna here tailing you. He saw you get picked up in front of a movie house in a car and noted down the license number. Vance told us it was Shaymen’s car, found this morning with his body beside it?”

Vance jingled the cuffs. He walked over to Christy. “Hold ’em out,” he said mildly.

Christy numbly stuck his big hands out. Vance started to snap the open cuffs down on the thick wrists. Christy’s hands flicked wide apart, then clamped down onto Vance’s wrists. The white wet-lipped face had gone completely mad. He flung Vance like an awkward doll directly at Clavna. The flying body smashed Clavna against the wall and, as they slid down in a heap, Christy reached Tomkinton in one bearlike bound.

Tomkinton was trying to scuttle backward and snatch the Police Positive from its awkward place in his right hip pocket at the same time. As he yanked it free, tearing the pocket, Christy’s right fist clubbed against the side of his head like an oak knot. The blow that knocked Tomkinton cleanly through the open bathroom door and sent him sliding across the tile to stop against the tub, fractured consciousness the way a piece of string is broken.

Vance, prone across the legs of the unconscious Clavna, was groggily shifting his revolver to his left hand, having found that there was no life in the right one. He fired once as he saw the heavy shoe swinging toward his eyes, swinging in slow motion, blotting out all the light in the world.

The slug tore through the top of Christy’s right shoulder, just above the collarbone. As an after-echo of the shot, he heard it smack into the wall behind him. A warmth and wetness ran down his chest and his back under the dark wool suitcoat. It drove him back a half step. His right arm still functioned. He snatched up the revolver from beside Vance’s hand and stuffed it inside his belt. He had never carried or used a gun. It always made him feel weak and sick to even look at one.

He opened the door, went quickly out into the hall and shut it. He was halfway down to the second floor when he heard steps along the second floor to the stairway, running steps.

Christy turned and stared up at the third floor. As the steps came up behind him, he said excitedly, “I heard a shot up there!”

The Ranger ran by him without a word. Christy turned and went down to the second floor, then down the next flight. He slowed his step as he reached the lobby. He walked out the front door onto the sidewalk. A state car was parked near the entrance. It was empty and the door was open.

Christy walked steadily down toward the bridge. The mid-morning sun was hot on the back of his neck. He could feel his shirt sticking to him.

He made himself smile and nod at the U.S. officials. “Just going over for a coupla hours,” he called.

The man waved him on. He paid the pedestrian toll to the Mexican guard in the middle of the bridge. The sun was a hot weight behind him, pushing him along. He touched his shirt pocket and felt the crispness of the bills he had taken from Shaymen’s billfold. Not much, but maybe it would be enough.

The guards at the Mexican end were checking cars as he walked by. They paid no attention to him. Barefooted women sat on the sidewalk, their backs against the wall, little piles of fruit and eggs in front of them. Christy felt weakness. The blood soaked the right side of his waistline.

A half block from the public square on the opposite side from the bridge he saw the sign. He climbed the dark stairway. There was one man in the waiting room. The nurse was a cute little thing in starched white. She spoke to him in rapid Spanish.

Christy sighed and took the revolver out. The waiting patient’s eyes widened and he crossed himself. The nurse gave a little cry of fear. He motioned them both toward the other door. The nurse opened it and backed in. The man slipped around her. The doctor looked up from the boy, whose infected leg he was treating, with sharp annoyance. His eyes narrowed as he saw the gun but the annoyance remained on his slim olive face.

“What do you want?” the doctor snapped.

“I’m shot. I want help.”

“Put the gun away.”

“Nuts. Tell the kid and the man and your nurse to go over into that corner and face the wall and keep their mouths shut. Hurry it up.”

The doctor spoke to the three. They meekly did as they were told. Christy put the gun in his left hand, shrugged his right arm out of the coat. He unbuttoned his shirt, pulled the cloth away from the wound and got his right arm out of the sleeve. Then he transferred the gun to his right hand and got his left arm out of the coat and shirt. He dropped them to the floor. The doctor watched him calmly.

Christy said, “Now fix me up, Doc. That’s a pretty little nurse. You try anything funny with me and I shoot her right in the small of the back.”

“You are a stupid man, señor. I can work easier if you sit down. There.”

“Is it bad?”

“No. It tore the muscle very little. Hit no bone. Hold still.”

Antiseptic burned through the wound. Christy sucked in his breath sharply. The doctor applied folded bandages to the entrance wound and the exit wound and bound them tightly in place with gauze, wrapping it over the shoulder, under the armpit and around the great chest. He anchored the bandages more securely in place with wide strips of adhesive.

“Done,” the doctor said.

“Now have the girl wash out my shirt in that sink over there and wring it as dry as she can get it.” He took the money from the shirt pocket and threw it toward the girl. She did as she was directed. The doctor spoke to the boy and he came timidly over. The doctor began to finish his work on the infected leg, while the boy watched the gun with wide eyes.

Christy put the damp white shirt on, and then the coat. The doctor looked up. “That will be twenty American dollars, señor.”

Christy laughed. “You make good jokes.”

The doctor turned white around the mouth. “This is my profession and I get paid for my profession, señor. Pay me or I shall go to that window and call to the police.” The dark eyes looked at Christy with contempt, without fear.

“Are you completely nuts?”

The doctor turned his back on the gun and walked steadily to the window.

“All right, all right,” Christy shouted. He threw two tens on the floor. The doctor spoke to the nurse. She picked them up and handed them to him.

“Do you want a receipt, señor?” the doctor asked mildly, amusement in his eyes.

“No,” Christy said thickly. He hurried out. In the waiting room he turned and called back, “None of you leave here for a half hour.”

The doctor and the nurse turned and stared at him as though he were already forgotten. The nurse handed the doctor a roll of adhesive tape and he once again bent over the infected leg.

Halfway down the stairway Christy stopped and tried to plan the next move. It would be wise to wait until nightfall. In some bar he could find a tourist. The tourist would have a car. A car would get him to Vera Cruz or Tampico. Somehow he would get on a ship. He wondered if he’d killed the Ranger. The man had slumped with his head at a funny angle.

Soon they’d check up and find he’d crossed the bridge. They’d be looking for him. The Piedras Chicas police would be looking. They’d have his description. He turned down another side street. It was empty. He found a barred wooden door set into a cement wall. He got his thick fingers around the edge of it, braced his feet and wrenched it open, hearing the squeal as the nails tore free. He went inside and pushed the door shut.

He was in a quiet garden patio. He stood and listened. He fitted the nails back into the holes, wrapped a handkerchief around his knuckles and drove them in. Again he listened. A small fountain tinkled in the middle of the patio. Christy crawled back into a place where the shrubbery was dense. He lay down with his back against the wall.

The torn shoulder throbbed. After an hour had passed, a stocky blonde woman with a ravaged face came out to the flagstones near the fountain. Christy watched her from the shadows. She spread a blanket, returned a few minutes later with a tall bottle and a tiny glass, and lay face down under the brute sun.

Chapter Eight

Snowbirds’ Social

It was blue dusk when Lane Sanson awoke. He sat up with a start, feeling for the car keys in his pocket as he turned, feeling the keys at the same instant as he saw the car, as he saw Diana sleeping in the back. He exhaled slowly. There was a tang of burning cedar scrub in the air and he heard the distant tank-tankle of goat bells.

Sleep had ironed out the torment in her face. It was almost the face of a child. She lay on her left side, facing him, both hands with the palms together under her cheek. A thick rope of the blonde hair lay forward across her throat. He lit a cigarette and watched her in the gathering darkness as he smoked, thinking that few things in the world are more beautiful than the line of a sleeping woman.

His watch had stopped at four. The car clock would still be operating. Soon it would be time to turn back to town. He wondered if he had made a mistake by not insisting that they turn back as soon as she had agreed that it was the thing to do. But if they had been picked up on the road, it might have appeared that they were doubling back, still in flight. Darkness would give them a good chance to reach the hotel without being stopped.

He wondered if Diana could go free by giving evidence. He hoped so.

She began to make small crying sounds in her sleep. Her shoulder twitched. He butted his cigarette against his shoe-sole. She awoke with a start and a frightened cry.

“Oh, Lane!” she said. “I was frightened. I was running and running and the ground was going by under my feet, carrying me backwards no matter how hard I ran and Christy was standing and grinning and waiting for me.”

“We’ve got to go, kitten.”

She stood up and smoothed her dress down with the palms of her hands. “Gee, I’m messy,” she said.

“Still think I’m wrong to take you back?” He stood beside her.

She smiled up into his face. “You gave me a chance to make that decision. I watched you while you slept. There was the car and I knew the keys were in your pocket. There was even a rock. See it over there? As big as a baseball. If I hadn’t decided you were right, you’d have a terrible headache by now, Lane.”

“A little trusting of me to go to sleep, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe that’s why I couldn’t hit you.”

“Well, get in the car. Let’s get this over with.”

He turned the lights on and backed the car around, drove slowly down to the highway. She said, “While you were asleep, a plane was cruising around. I think maybe it was looking for us.”

“We’re important people.”

“Aren’t we though! Oh, Lane. This is so silly. I feel excited, as though I were going to my first dance or something. Why is that?”

“Relief. You don’t know how terribly afraid and guilty you’ve felt ever since you found out what you were mixed up in. Now the decision is made and you aren’t afraid any more.”

“Is it that simple?”

“Why not?”

“Maybe part of it is you, Lane.”

He glanced over at her. “How do you mean?”

She looked straight ahead at the road. “Maybe I love you.”

“I don’t think you should. I mean it’s something that I can’t return.”

“Sandy?”

“I guess so. One-woman man.”

“I thought that might be the way it is. I don’t care.” She moved over close to him. Her shoulder touched his arm. “We’ll pretend we’re driving to a dance or something, shall we?”

“They’re having a good band. And a multi-colored tent for refreshments.”

“There won’t be too many of those square dances, will there?”

“We’ll sit those out, kitten.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. She sang the rest of the way into Baker. Old songs. The good ones. Her voice was husky and true. He had the feeling that she was singing not to him but to the past and that this was, for her, a sort of farewell.

Then there were the lights of Baker ahead, the neon on the tourist courts, the cars flanked outside the drive-ins, the floodlights on the bridge. As soon as they were in the town she moved away from him, sat huddled and silent.

He parked a hundred feet beyond the hotel entrance. The space was short and it took him a long time to work the car in next to the curb.

“You stay right here,” he said. “Let me handle it.”

He had by habit taken the keys from the ignition. He saw her looking at him. Beyond her he could see through the open door of a drugstore. It all looked so completely sane and ordinary that for the passing of several seconds he had the feeling that all this was a masquerade of some sort, that there was no truth in what Diana had told him, that it was a cleverly planned fantasy and any moment now a group of friends from the old days would leap from the shadows, laughing, confessing, explaining.

He threw the keys over into her lap, got out and chunked the door shut. He walked with long strides to the hotel entrance and, with his head high, he went in, wearing what he fervently hoped was a confident and optimistic smile.

At dusk the chunky blonde woman stood up and stretched. During the long afternoon she had repeatedly filled the small glass and drank it. Christy was tortured with thirst. And there was a new fear in him. The shoulder now felt hot and swollen and the pulsing was worse. He had felt the heat creep up from the base of his neck, flushing his right cheek, extending the throb to the heavy jaw bone and his right ear.

It was hard to remember just where he was, and why he was hiding. He would remember perfectly — and then there would be a funny aching twist in his head, and he would be back in the carny days. He’d missed the afternoon performances. Big Mike would be sore. He had to get out of here and get back to the lot.

He lay and he could hear his heart beating. A heavy frightening beat. Thrum, thrum, thrum. Then there would be a subtle change of rhythm. Ta-thum, ta-thum, ta-thum.

His mind dipped and sped back to here and now. The carny was years ago. Why had George sent him here? No, it wasn’t George. The cops had George. Unless that guy was bluffing, they had him good. Nailed. Along with the rest of the mob.

That Diana had been the cause of this. He created her image in his mind, the sneering mouth and the contemptuous eyes. Figured she was too good for Christy. He’d show her. He’d do a good job of showing her. He grinned as he remembered how she’d fallen when he’d hit her. He’d waited a long, long time for Diana. Patient waiting. And there she was, just thirty feet away. The great ropey fibrous muscles tightened and his breath came short and fast.

Then Diana turned and he saw that it was the other woman, the one who had laid under the whip of the afternoon sun.

He held his breath as she started directly toward him. She walked uncertainly. She had filled the empty bottle in the fountain and she paused to pick flowers and shove them clumsily into the neck of the bottle. She talked to herself.

Christy tried to make himself smaller. Now she stood close to him, so close that he could have reached out under the bush and touched her foot.

When she gasped and jumped back, Christy lunged up, through the brush, clamped his hand on her throat and pulled her back down to the dark place where he had been hiding. She fell like a fat sawdust doll.

He whispered, “When I let go your throat, I don’t want no screaming.”

He took his hand away. Even in the dusk and the shadows he could see that her throat had a funny, smashed look. Her face was slowly darkening, the eyes protruding, the swelling tongue growing between the lips.

One hand slapped the ground weakly and her heels hammered the dark damp soil at the base of a bush. She lay still. It took him quite a while to realize that she was dead. Something funny had happened to her throat.

“Diana!” he said. He shook her. “Diana!”

But it wasn’t Diana, of course. He rolled his big head from side to side like a wounded bear. He crouched over her until it was full night.

Then he crawled on his hands and knees to the fountain. He lay on his face, put his mouth into the water and drank deeply, as an animal will drink. Then he stood up. His right shoulder was a great pulsating fire. The fingers of his right hand felt swollen and stiff.

“Infection,” he said aloud. He frowned and tried to puzzle it out. Then, like a blow across the mouth, came the vision of the supperating leg of the boy the doctor had been working on.

“Didn’t wash his damn hands,” Christy mumbled. “Didn’t wash his dirty damn hands. Did it on purpose.”

He went to the gate and broke it open again. As he pulled it shut behind him, he had another one of those moments when he couldn’t remember what city this was, what year it was, where he was supposed to go. He leaned against the wall with the warm breeze against his face. He shuddered.

He remembered that he had to get a car. He went toward the zocolo in a lurching, ungainly walk. The zocolo was brightly lighted. He pulled back into the shadows as he saw the policeman standing sixty feet away.

A small boy tugged at his pant leg. “Geeve me money, meester. Geeve me money, meester.”

Christy slapped at him and missed. The child danced off into the darkness, screaming at him in Spanish. The policeman turned and looked toward the mouth of the dark street.

Christy turned and went back down the street, running heavily, the breath whistling in his throat, his mouth open and straining for air. The child danced along behind him, chanting, “Geeve money, geeve money meester, geeve money.”

After two blocks the street was no longer paved. He could see the flame flicker inside the open shacks of the poor. Other children had joined the first one. They followed him, making a game of it, making a song of it. Then there was no street and dogs snapped at his heels. He tripped, fell, rolled among the filth and excited yammerings of chickens. People watched him from the doorways.

The group of dogs and children grew. This was as much fun as a fiesta. Look at the big burro! Down he goes again! Now up again and running. Come on, amigos! Faster! Geeve money, Joe. Hey, Joe! Geeve money. Ai, he’s down again. He runs for the rio.

Each breath that Christy took was a sob. His side was one vast pain and his legs were leaden. Suddenly there was a steep pitch of bank. He saw the evil shine of the water and, too late, he tried to stop. He rolled heavily, helplessly down the bank. He rolled into the water. It was inches deep.

He stood up, dripping, and saw the line of screaming pointing children at the crest of the bank, outlined against the last thin light of the night sky. Dogs leaned over the edge of the bank and barked bravely, boldly.

The shock of the water had cleared his head. Christy looked down-river and saw the lighted bridge. He turned and plodded out into the river. The yells of the children grew more faint. The water came up to his knees. Walking became more difficult. Then it was midway up his thighs. The river seemed impossibly wide. It reached his waist and for the first time he felt the gentle tug of the current.

Ahead, suspended in the air, a blue neon sign high over the town clicked on, brilliant against the blackness. The Sage House.

With his eyes fixed on the sign, he moved steadily forward.

Tomkinton sat grimly behind the desk of the hotel manager. Lane Sanson sat in a chair planted squarely in front of the wide desk. A Ranger stood stolidly behind Lane’s chair.

“Look,” said Lane, “I just want to...”

“Please shut up,” Tomkinton said emotionlessly. “You’ve told your story. We’ve made arangements to have your ‘character’ witness brought over, if they can find her. In the meantime there’s nothing you can say.”

“You can’t treat me like a criminal.”

Tomkinton smiled without humor. “We’re not, so far. We’re treating you like what you are. A fool. You’re one of those people who think they can apply their own set of special moral standards to the world. Yesterday night a man was killed in this town. This morning a Ranger was killed and my co-worker was badly injured. We’re in no mood to play patty-cake with the likes of you, Sanson. You’re just a damn dilettante with so little sense you got mixed up in this mess.”

“Where’s Miss Saybree?”

“She’s under guard. You can’t see her. We have plans for her.”

“She came in of her own free will, remember.”

“That’s something for the court to take into consideration, Sanson. We’re going to clear you if we can, just so we can get you out of the way. And if we can’t clear you, we’re going to see that you pay the maximum penalty the law allows. So don’t waste your breath and my patience trying to tell us our business.”

“I only...”

“For heaven sake, shut up, can’t you?”

Sanson looked down at his knuckles. He flushed. What this Tomkinton person said was unfortunately true. He had been the worst sort of fool. The Ranger behind Sanson stirred restlessly.

The door burst open and Felicia was pushed in. Her face was at once sullen and angry. She turned and tried to spit at the kakhi-clad Mexican official who had pushed her. He slapped her effortlessly and turned her around so that she faced Tomkinton.

She saw Lane at once. She ran to him, her eyes dancing. “Lane! I see again. I think never.”

“Get her away from him, Stan,” Tomkinton said to the Ranger. “You handle it.”

The Ranger pulled Felicia away gently. He questioned her in Spanish so fluent that Lane couldn’t follow it. She nodded energetically and answered in kind, pointing first to Lane and then to herself. He could almost follow what she was saying by her gestures. As she spoke she turned often to smile at him.

At last the Ranger held up both hands to stop the flow. He turned to Tomkinton. “It checks out. He got busted in the head because some of the boys over there working on the case mistook him for Charlie Denton and got over enthusiastic. This babe took care of him. Denton killed one of their plainclothes cops with a knife, visited this girl’s shack and made certain Sanson understood that unless he brought his car across the bridge, he could be framed for the killing of the cop.

“The girl says Sanson had to leave his car at a certain garage. Just about the time Sanson was leaving to cross the bridge they got Charlie, as we know. I can see how this fella wouldn’t want to take a chance on trying to cross Denton.”

Felicia gave out another long spate of Spanish. The Ranger nodded.

“She says that neither she nor Sanson knew what was in the package the men wanted. She says that Sanson is a good and honest man, but not very bright.” He grinned.

“Have her sit down over there and keep her mouth shut,” Tomkinton said. “It looks, Sanson, as though you might turn out to be lucky after all. Now get the Saybree woman down here and we’ll check her end of it again. Then you can take statements from Sanson and we can let him go.”

Lane turned and smiled back over his shoulder at Felicia. “Muchas gracias,” he said.

“Shut up, mister,” the Ranger said mildly.

Chapter Nine

Hamstrung!

Heat had gone from Christy. Now he had a chill so intense that he had to keep his jaw tightly shut to keep his teeth from chattering. When he had swum the narrow channel in the river, the cool water had felt good against the fire in his shoulder. But now he had the idea that it had done little good.

He moved through narrow stinking alleys, guided always by the blue letters in the sky which said The Sage House. The gun had been lost in the river, or else while he was running from the children. He couldn’t remember.

The river had washed away much of the filth, but his clothes still had a fetid odor. The swelling had spread down to his hand. It was visibly larger than the left hand, and of a darker shade.

He waited in doorways to avoid being seen. He was finding it hard to remember why he had to get to the hotel. It was all tangled in his mind. The girl was there, with the money. Shaymen had let him down. Then it seemed like he’d killed the girl back there near a fountain. It made his head hurt to try to straighten it all out. The only thing he was absolutely certain of was the great need to get to the hotel. He decided several times that when he reached the hotel he would remember why it was important.

And he wondered if he would ever be warm again.

It took time and planning to cross the main street. He had to go four blocks from the hotel and then wait a long time before he knew it was safe. Once he sat down in a doorway and, before he knew it, his eyes had closed. He awakened when he fell out of the doorway, his cheek against cinders.

Again there was the network of alleys and small streets. At last he came out into an open place which he recognized as the parking lot behind the hotel. He could not risk the alley entrance to the parking lot. Too much danger of a car coming in or going out, fixing him in its lights. The other wall of the hotel was separated from the wall of a store by a space so narrow that he had to turn his shoulders to get into it. He sidestepped along.

Soon there was a lighted window above his head. He jumped up and grabbed the sill and with effortless strength pulled his heavy body up to where he could look in. It was the dining room. He clung there, looking at the people at the tables. He knew none of them. He wanted to remember why he had come back here. Puzzled, he dropped back, continued his slow movement.

The next window was dark. The next window was lighted. It was a bit higher than the last one. He missed the sill the first jump.

On the second jump his fingers locked on the sill. He wondered vaguely why his right shoulder was so sore. He chinned himself on the sill and looked in.

It was a small room. An office. He saw her at once. Diana. Now he knew that she wasn’t dead. But her face had a funny dead look about it. The window was open from the top but he couldn’t hear what she was saying to the young round-faced man behind the desk because of the funny roaring sound in his ears.

And that man sitting beside her. Now it was becoming more clear. Diana and that man. He remembered the man throwing something at him. A great blow against his head. There was a Ranger, a Mexican girl and a Mexican official of some kind in the room. Christy gave them one quick glance. He wasn’t interested in them.

He dropped back to the ground to give himself time to think. George stood beside him, smiling the funny crooked smile.

“What the hell are you doing here, George?” he whispered.

George’s voice came from far away. It had a hollow sound. “I thought you might forget what I told you to do, Christy. I hear you’ve been crossing me up.”

“I wouldn’t do a thing like that, George. Honest!”

“You got to get in there and kill both of them, Christy. Diana and that friend of hers. You can do that.”

“There’re a couple of cops in there, George,” he complained.

“Remember, Christy, how strong you are? You can do it. If you don’t do it, I’ll know for sure you’re crossing me, Christy.”

“I’ll try, George. I’ll sure try. You know me.”

He glanced down the narrow space between the buildings to see if he was unobserved. When he looked back, George was gone. He blinked a few times and decided that George didn’t want to hang around. Besides, it was hard to see since he’d lost his glasses. He wondered where he’d left them.

Too bad about the gun. He could hang up there on the sill and pot both of them. Now he had to do it another way. He moved to the side of the window and put his back against the store wall, his feet against the hotel wall. He began to hitch his way up. It was slow work. Finally he was on a level with the window. Then, maintaining the pressure, he hitched sideways until at last his feet, spread wide, were on the sill.

He straightened his legs and his shoulders slid up the store wall. He flattened his hands against the wall and shoved himself toward the window as hard as he could, ducking his head below the upper sill, hitting the center bar of the sash, carrying screen, sash, glass and all forward with him into the room, landing lightly on the balls of his feet, pawing at the Ranger with what looked like a foolishly light blow. Yet it dropped the man over into the corner beside the desk.

As Diana jumped up, he grabbed her with one big arm. With his raised foot he shoved hard against the front of the desk. The desk slammed Tomkinton brutally against the wall.

Grinning and laughing aloud, Christy held the kicking, struggling girl in one arm. His left hand caught Sanson by the throat as Sanson tried to come up out of the chair where he had been frozen with shock.

Then, as he laughed and yelled for George to come and look to see what he was doing, there was a pain like flame that seared across the backs of his legs just above the knees. The strength went out of his legs and he fell heavily. He saw Diana roll free and scramble over to where Sanson stood, turning in his arms to look back at Christy on the floor.

Christy leaned his head back and looked up into the broad-boned smiling face of the Mexican girl. Her dark eyes glittered like the onyx that had once been carved into knives for the use of the priests of the sun god. She showed her even white teeth as she smiled down at him, the red-bladed knife gleamed in her hand.

From an enormous distance he heard the Ranger saying in a dazed voice, “By Jupiter, she hamstrung him! She came up behind him crouched as though she were going to cut the grass, and she hamstrung him!”

The wave of darkness hung above him, a silent dark crest, and then it fell forward onto him, spinning him down into darkness.

The letters had come to Lane’s desk in the newsroom in Houston. The first two weeks had been difficult, but now he knew that he’d be able to hold his own. The first big story he had brought them, the eye-witness account on all that trouble down at Baker had helped. They’d slapped a byline on it, too.

The first one was from his agent.

Dear Lane,

It is nice to have you rise from the dead and have you say in your letter that you’re going to keep on working. From this last mss, I’d say you need a lot of work. A DAUGHTER OF MANY KINGS has its moments, but it suffers from a lack of discipline and plan. Work from your carbon and see if you can send me a tighter version. And shorter. This novella form is an awkward length for that sort of thing.

He grinned and put the letter in his desk drawer. He had saved the second letter until last.

Lane, dear,

I suppose you follow the news and I suppose it is no news to you that I’m going to be a sort of house guest for a year and a day. My lawyer says I’m very lucky, and I guess I can live through it. I am writing this while waiting for the transportation to my new address. George drew twenty and it doesn’t seem half long enough, somehow. Vindictive sort, aren’t I?

Anyway, Lane, I wanted you to know that you straightened me out when I needed it and I’m grateful. A year and a day from now I will have decided what sort of new life I want. It will be a law-abiding and uneventful one, believe me. I hope some day to do you a favor in return — if I haven’t already done it.

Always,

Diana

He shrugged. The past part of the letter seemed incoherent. Not hard to understand how a girl in her spot might be a little incoherent.

He put her letter in the drawer too, stood up and clapped his hat on the back of his head. The managing editor came across the news room toward him.

“How’s it going, Lane?”

“Good, thanks.”

“Say, you’ll have no trial to cover down the line. The infection finally killed that Christy citizen. They didn’t get the arm off soon enough, I guess.”

Lane sighed. “That suits me.”

“By the way, that was a nice job you did on the transit squabble.”

“Thanks again.” He left, whistling. He went down the stairs, grinned in at the girls behind the classified ad counter.

As he reached the outside door he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a girl coming quickly toward him. He turned and gasped. “Sandy! Sandy, what...”

Her eyes were shining. “Don’t talk, darling. Just walk with me.”

Her hand was through his arm as they walked down the sidewalk. He smiled down into her face and she squeezed his arm lightly.

“I had to shut you up, you oaf,” she said. “I was about to cry.”

“I remember that you cry nicely. Sandy, why did you come here?”

“To see my ex,” she said smugly.

He stopped and faced her. “I’m no good for you. Didn’t we find that out?”

“Hush! I might give you a second chance. If you want it.”

“If I want it!”

“I’ll think it over, oaf.”

“After what I did to you, Sandy?”

“Or what I did to you? Damn a wife who runs out when she’s worst needed.”

“I chased you out.”

“You did not! I left!”

“By special request. Who cares? You’re back. But how come? How did it happen? I’m confused.”

She took his arm again. “Come on, keep walking. You see, I got a letter. From a girl. Quite a nice girl, I think. She mentioned that she ran into you and you seemed to be carrying a torch for one gal named Sandy, so she wormed the address out of you. It was signed Diana Saybree.”

“So that’s what she meant!” he said.

“What, darling?”

“Never mind. Look, I’ve got a small apartment just three blocks from here. There’s ice, gin and vermouth. They need a woman’s touch.”

He quickened his pace, but she stopped and made her eyes wide. “But I can’t! I just remembered.”

“What? A date?”

“No, I just remembered that I’m a single woman. Heavens! I’d be compromised.”

“Huh!” he said.

She laughed in the old well-remembered way. Again she took his arm. “Come on, you big mental hazard. What’s your address?”

Content

Scott O’Hara
Five-Star Fugitive

Chapter One Bordertown Harpy

Chapter Two Murder-Magnet

Chapter Three A Daughter of Many Kings

Chapter Four Kill-Boy’s Double-Cross

Chapter Five Lorelei and the Newshawk

Chapter Six No Place to Run

Chapter Seven Ambush

Chapter Eight Snowbirds’ Social

Chapter Nine Hamstrung!