As he hurried toward a freckled bellhop Mallory went back with Fred to the cashier’s window. “Fred,” she whispered, “is that check going to be good?”

  He exaggerated Larrick’s “Sure!” and looked at the elevators. Christopher Hand had gone. “What did that fellow start to say to you?” he asked.

  “He’s the one who was at the airport last night.”

  “He was?” Fred frowned quickly and scrutinized her face. “Then the man with him must have been one of Norcott’s servants. Find out from High Pockets. I smell a rat somewhere about that Norcott outfit. And about this Doctor Lack too. A wharf rat there.”

  “Fred, I’m not going to take advantage of Mr. Larrick. Don’t you, please.”

  “There may be a diamond ring in it for you, little girl. Careful, here he comes.”

  Larrick was shaking with suppressed laughter as he rejoined them. “See that man sitting in front of the first pillar to the right of the door?”

  Mallory looked at a large solid individual who wore the sombrero which in her mind’s eye she had seen all men wearing in this border country.

  “That’s E. Matthew Rone, the hotel detective. A big windbag. Used to be Hidalgo County sheriff. When Hesperides was formed he established residence here and ran against Peter Bounty. Didn’t get to first base. And in the meantime somebody else had nabbed the Hidalgo office. So E. Matthew was left holding the sack. They pay him in cigars here, I think.”

  The cashier had returned. “How much is it for?” he asked, eying the check which Fred was tearing from a full book. “Fifty dollars,” Fred told him.

  The man shook his head. “We do not have that much.”

  “Forty?”

  Another negative. “I am sorry. We have been very low on cash today.”

  “You sure must be,” Larrick said impatiently. “How much can he make the check for?”

  “Not more than ten dollars. And he will have to wait a few minutes before I can cash it.”

  “Will ten do, Fred?”

  “It’ll do.” Fred proceeded to fill out another check.

  While he was at it, Mallory, standing between the cashier’s window and the desk, heard a man ask the clerk in a somewhat apologetic tone: “Will you be kind enough to give me the number of Mr. Roger Norcott’s room?”

  “Your name, please?”

  “Ainsworth. Doctor Hugh Ainsworth.”

  “Do you have a card?”

  “A card? No, I don’t.”

  The cashier had turned his head. “O.K., Lequire,” he called. “That’s Doctor Ainsworth. Good evening, Doctor.”

  “Sorry I didn’t recognize you, Doctor Ainsworth,” the clerk said. “You understand how careful we have to be in giving out Mr. Norcott’s number. But you’re expected.” He lowered his voice and Mallory heard only: “Mezzanine floor.”

  “Thank you very much.” The man who was coming toward them had “old-fashioned country doctor” written all over him, Mallory thought. He wasn’t a large man, and the stoop of his shoulders served still further to diminish his stature. He smiled at Larrick and laid a hand on his arm as he passed. “Hello, Bert.”

  “Good evening, Doctor,” the deputy said respectfully.

  “How’s your mother?”

  “Just fine, thank you.” Larrick took the pen which Fred had laid down, signed his name with a flourish on the back of the check and flipped it over the counter. “You can join us as soon as you get your money, Fred. While I think of it, Peter Bounty’s bringing that whisky. I told him to leave it at the desk for you.”

  Fred was looking after the physician, who stood in front of the elevators. “That one of Norcott’s doctors?” he asked.

  “He’s the regular Norcott physician, but I don’t think he’s having much to do with this case. It’s all Lack’s show. Norcott’s having Doctor Ainsworth to dinner to meet Cotillion.”

  “A regular medical convention up there.”

  “Four doctors, Chris said. Cotillion, Lack, Ainsworth and Angelo.”

  “Angelo?”

  “County physician and head of the John Belton Lack Hospital.” Larrick took Mallory’s arm again. “Let’s walk down toward the door,” he said to her. “Slow. Watch E. Matthew Rone.”

  The freckled bellhop had been keeping an eye on Larrick. “Call for Elmer Matthew Rone!” he began chanting, moving off toward the side entrance of the lobby. “Elmer Matthew Ro-one!”

  The big man heaved himself to his feet and as he passed them, either not seeing or ignoring Larrick, his teeth were clamped upon his cigar.

  “Ready to bite nails,” Larrick sputtered. “Nobody’s supposed to know what the E. stands for. Quick, get his chair.”

  Then Mallory was deep in a very warm chair, Larrick was perched on the arm and they were watching, while pretending not to, the return under full sail of Mr. Rone. He stopped abruptly, looked from her to Larrick with hard little china-blue eyes, turned and made his exit from the scene past a potted palm.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Bert.”

  “Aw, he didn’t like me anyhow, because I’m Peter Bounty’s appointee. And, by the way, when I called Peter I suggested that the sheriffs office ought to stand its witness a dinner. Up on the roof garden, where there’s an orchestra. He said it was a good idea. What about it? I know from what your cousin said you haven’t had dinner yet. I’m including him, of course, if he wants to come.”

  Mallory looked at Fred, who was leaning against the ledge outside the cashier’s window, blowing smoke through his nose and watching them with a little smile, as if he had heard Larrick’s words. “No, Mr. Larrick,” she said firmly, “I’m going to have to say good-by as soon as this is finished. I’m getting ready to leave in the morning.”

  “Leave! Why, you just got here.”

  “I know, but I must. Now here’s something more I want to tell you about last night at the airport. You wanted to know exactly what this man Hieronymus did. You’ll think my imagination has been at work. Maybe it has. But when I got up to go meet Fred at the exit from the landing field, at nine sharp, Christopher Hand and another man entered the front door. Hieronymus left the booth just then and saw them. It certainly seemed to me that he tried to keep from being seen by them. He sidled to the door at once.”

  Larrick’s face needed yet more toughening by sun and wind, if he wished, as he plainly did wish, to hide his agitation. “What did the other man look like?” he asked.

  “I took him to be Hand’s servant.”

  “That would tickle Chris: to know you thought he had a servant at his beck and call.” He tried unsuccessfully to put pleasantry into it. “What gave you that idea about the man?”

  “His looks and manner. The way Hand acted toward him, especially when he gave him some money. He was smaller and older than Hand. He wore black clothes, with a stiff shirt front and collar and black tie. He was dark-skinned like Hand.”

  “Not that dark, was he?”

  “Maybe not. All you men down here look so dark to me. Come to think about it, that’s why I have to describe people by their clothes. I’m sure of those, when I’m not about ages and faces and—character. The tan gives everybody a mask, so you look very much alike at first sight. Not very complimentary, is it?”

  “It’s not complimentary to be told you look like Chris Hand.”

  “But you must notice in this lobby how an untanned man like Fred stands out. Or that one going there.”

  Mallory wished at once that she hadn’t called his attention to the broadly built man in dark gray clothes and Panama who was going past with a rather waddling gait. He couldn’t have heard her, yet his eyes switched to the left and he slowed his steps to let his gaze travel leisurely and insolently up to her face. His eyes were black and soft and slightly almond-shaped. With his small black mustache they accentuated the whiteness of his moonlike face.

  “Good evening, Doctor.” Larrick spoke with a slight and rather perfunctory note of deference. “Darn him,” he added in an undertone when the other looked his way without apparent recognition and moved toward the desk. “He’d better not act so high-hat around this town. That’s David Angelo. Doctor Lack knew him in the East and got him the job as head of the hospital. Only Lack’s influence has kept him from being kicked out long ago. You don’t mean to say you like pasty-faced men like that? Angelo never gets out in the sun. Lies around and sleeps all the time. That’s why he’s putting on weight.”

  “No, after being in the Magic Valley I’ll always think a man’s lacking unless he has a coat of tan. But Angelo—that’s a Mexican name, isn’t it? Strange I picked a Mexican as the whitest man here.”

  “Angelo’s not Mexican. Well, maybe he is partly, too. I think he’s from Mexico City originally, of some family of Southerners who left the States after the Civil War. But don’t judge Mexicans by him. Or Southerners either.” Larrick was thinking about something else, Mallory knew. “That man you saw with Chris Hand,” he said. “Did he have white hair?”

  “I couldn’t tell. He wore a hat. A derby.”

  “Of course. We’ll watch and you’ll probably spot him as he comes in. That must have been Beck, Doctor Lack’s valet, bodyguard or whatever he is. Nobody but he and his boss go in for boiled shirts and collars in the summertime here. Though if he’s got a coat of tan it’s been since I saw him last. Doctor Lack’s due at Norcott’s dinner, and where he goes, Beck has to bring up the rear. But listen, are you sure Beck and Chris Hand were together last night?”

  “They came in together and looked at the Chicago bulletin board. The Chicago plane and the one from New York, that Fred was on, are due in at the same time, you know. The Chicago plane was late. The valet turned and—since you’re laying so much stress on that telephone, I remember he went straight to the booth that Hieronymus had just left. He came back and got some money from Hand. Then he went across the room to a vending machine, got a package of cigarettes, brought them to Hand and lighted one for him. Then he went back to the booth and closed the door.”

  “That was after nine though, was it?”

  “A minute probably, when he was at the booth the first time.”

  “Did he put in a call then?”

  “I’m not sure, but I don’t think he had time.”

  “What did Hand do?”

  “He stood and looked—at the people in the waiting room and at the passengers from the New York plane. Fred came then and I didn’t notice either of the two again.”

  Larrick’s eyes had narrowed. “So that’s what Chris was trying to say when he got tongue-tied! He saw you. And Fred told me when he met me that you thought some masher was calling you. Did Chris—uh …”

  “No”—Mallory had to smile—“he didn’t.”

  “Well, that mug needs to be put in his place. He and I went to school together, and it wouldn’t be the first time I knocked his big ears down. I’m sorry I introduced him. If he so much as looks your way again, let me know, will you?”

  This was anticlimax for Mallory. It was too much like schoolboy chest-thumping, and she wondered if Larrick weren’t trying to brazen out something within himself. “I don’t think you need worry,” she said. “I haven’t seen anything of him all day. I did see the valet this morning though. When I was on my way to breakfast he was there at the desk.”

  “With anybody?”

  “No.”

  “What time was that?”

  “A little after nine.”

  “Good Lord!” Larrick exclaimed. “This is getting complicated. I think I know what Chris and Beck were doing at the airport. Doctor Lack must have sent Beck to meet Doctor Cotillion. Of course Chris would have to tag along, to bask in the reflected glory of the man who gets to see John Belton Lack, M.D., with his coat off.”

  “That’s supposed to be something, is it?”

  “In Chris’ mind. He’s the worst kind of snob. He probably couldn’t help throwing his weight around a little, to give the impression he gave you. He never smokes. He was just putting on airs. That’s odd, though, about Beck getting money from him. Maybe Beck didn’t have anything but hundred-dollar bills. This morning—let’s see. I suppose Beck came to see Doctor Cotillion about something, maybe to take him to the hospital or to Doctor Lack’s. That clears everything up, doesn’t it?” Larrick gave a fillip to his hatbrim. “You didn’t get the idea, did you, that Hieronymus was—well, afraid of Hand or Beck last night?”

  “That’s exactly the idea I got.”

  “He was merely afraid of being seen. He must have known one or both of them by sight. Naturally he wouldn’t want anybody connected with Norcott or Doctor Lack following his movements.” A slight crossness was gone from Larrick’s voice as he said: “Do you notice what a good air service we have here? Better than Brownsville. A new company’s come in to compete with the Pan American Airways.”

  “May I ask a question? You haven’t said so, but I judge Mr. Norcott traced his call to the airport. How does it come then that you didn’t know either Christopher Hand or Doctor Lack’s servant were there?”

  Larrick hesitated. “Well, Norcott didn’t trace the call. We did. And Peter thought, since Norcott hadn’t seen fit to ask our assistance, we’d better get the lay of the land before we barged into his private affairs. Not that we suspect—”

  Mallory’s hand touched the back of Larrick’s. She tried to withdraw it but found it imprisoned between both of his.

  She hadn’t seen the two men come in.

  One was the skulker of the airport, still in his faded yellow straw hat and baggy linen suit. With the light on the lenses of his spectacles he appeared sightless and rather meek and cringing. The rictus at the corner of his mouth became what it had been last night, a wistful pleading smile, and Mallory was suddenly reluctant to add weight to the evidence which Larrick said was bearing down upon him.

  Hence, when she gave her attention to the man who had him in charge, she wasn’t altogether unbiased.

  Sheriff Bounty himself, if that were he, would stand out among Valleyites because of his comparative fairness, his complexion evidently being one of those which will take no more than a bit of toasting from the sun. His face was finely featured but doped, so to speak, by a faintly sleepy, dissolute look. His frame was heavily muscled but slight and lithe rather than stocky. He was thinly clad in unpressed blue serge, worn so shiny in places that, watching his walk with its suggestion of stalking, Mallory thought of him as a sleek-coated animal.

  Neither spoke as they went to the desk, and only there did they seem to attract any particular attention. Discipline was relaxed and groups of uniformed boys crowded in closer, agog with excitement. Beside the clerk had appeared the plump little man, the manager evidently, whom she had noticed last night because of the queer scarred look of the lower part of his face. E. Matthew Rone was in evidence again, at one end of the desk. His hands were in his pockets and he was teetering back and forth as he looked the newcomers, Bounty as well as Hieronymus, up and down. On the other side Fred still leaned against the counter, doing an imitation, Mallory decided, of a poker-faced gentleman crook of fiction.

  Under the clock, whose hands were nearing the seven forty-five position, the pair paused. Bounty took a package from under his arm and laid it on the counter. The manager spoke to him and beckoned to the cashier, who came and presented the sheriff with a slip of paper. So absorbed did Bounty seem to become that Mallory couldn’t determine whether or not he noticed the long look which passed between Fred and Hieronymus.

  Larrick certainly didn’t see it, or the little shrug which Fred gave to the shoulder which was turned away from the lobby, for he was bending over her and whispering: “Well, Miss Witness, that’s the man, isn’t it?” When she hesitated his voice had a catch of dismay in it. “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me Hieronymus isn’t the one you saw!”

  “Yes, he’s the one. But I didn’t see him use the phone. Remember that, please. The doctor’s servant was in the booth too. And I’m positive this man was afraid of Christopher Hand.”

  “I know.” Larrick pressed her hand. “You feel sorry for Hieronymus. So did Peter for a while. He does seem a harmless old codger at first. But we’ve caught him in an out-and-out lie now.”

  “That’s the sheriff with him, the man you work for?”

  “That’s Peter Beauregard Bounty in person.”

  “You—like him?”

  “Sure, Peter’s a good fellow. Everybody likes him.”

  “Bert, I think he has the cruelest face I ever saw. There’s something silky and vicious about him. I wish—”

  “See here, little girl, you must be looking at E. Matthew Rone. Peter’s about as cruel as a nice old pussy cat stretched out by a fire.”

  “That’s just it, Bert. He’s like a cat. With claws. Isn’t this enough? I’d like to go to my room.”

  “Wait a minute. You’ll attract too much attention if you go now.”

  Hieronymus had turned and was looking over the lobby, his thin neck stretching gooselike out of his overlarge collar as his eyes went from chair to chair. Mallory had a revulsion of feeling toward him now. He had recognized Fred and was searching her out. She shrank back and covered the lower part of her face with a handkerchief but continued to stare at him in fascination. He was pale, that was it; his skin had the gleam of oiled parchment, and among these men he looked unhealthy. Like an old scar.

  “They’re leaving,” Larrick whispered. “I’ll move back so he won’t be so likely to notice you. No use letting him know who identified him.”

  Suddenly Mallory leaned forward, wadding the handkerchief in her hand. The sheriff had been looking at the register. Now he was looking at Fred, who stood in front of the window, taking a bill from the cashier.

  Both of them missed Hieronymus’ first signs of sagging. As Mallory’s gaze shifted and as Peter Bounty grabbed at him he sank to his knees, folded his arms across his stomach and fell over on one side.

  People jumped up from chairs then and blocked her view, but she heard his piping little cry: “Get me a doctor. Quick!”

  4

  Mallory tapped on Fred’s door and felt as if she were beating on a drum that sent its reverberations up and down the long deserted corridor. This hotel, with its Spanish-castle atmosphere, wasn’t the picturesque and cheery place it had been by day. Those brass lamps suspended by chains from the ceiling helped shadows to stir and stretch in corners and doorways.

 

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