By noon on Saturday, those reflected flashes of light in my eyes from across the canyon were getting my goat to the point where I was ready to do something about them.

I could have moved my typewriter in from the glassed porch of the mountain cabin, of course, but that would have removed the irritation and left me no good reason for not getting on with the story I didn�t want to write.

So I stayed out there stubbornly and cursed whoever it was, over at the Dwight estate, that persisted in playing with a mirror in the sunlight.

I thought of a lot of reasons for the flashes, but none of them made good sense. Heliograph signals, maybe, from the stone-turreted mansion of the oil magnate to watchers across the Rio Grande in Mexico, but they were too uneven to spell out any code.

Reflections from the glass of binoculars or telescope being swung in short arcs to cover the city of El Paso spread out below McKelligon�s Canyon... but what the hell was there to keep a watcher so continuously interested?

The estate of Raymond Dwight was across the canyon and up a short distance from my friend�s cabin � a place I was occupying for the week-end. On the same slope but down the canyon a little was my only other neighbor, a cottage occupied by Leslie Young and his wife.

I hadn�t met Young, but Jerry Burke had told me about him, asked me to get acquainted while I was located so close. Burke had met him somewhere in the Tropics on one of his soldier-of-fortuning escapades, and they�d renewed their friendship here in El Paso.

I remembered Burke had mentioned that Leslie Young and Raymond Dwight were a queer pair to be neighbors out in the lonely canyon... with Young violently Leftist and Dwight a multimillionaire, and while I sat there fidgeting over being unable to get to work I caught myself wondering whether Young had located in that cabin so close to Dwight by accident... or for a purpose.

Even that sort of wondering didn�t take my mind off the worrisome flashes of light. I got up and hunted through my friend�s rooms for a pair of field glasses while my Scottie pups frisked about hopefully; and when I didn�t find any I went to the party line telephone and called Leslie Young.

Explaining who I was, I asked him if he wouldn�t like to come over and get acquainted. He sounded pleased, and before he could hang up I asked him if he owned a pair of field glasses.

He said: �Yes, I have a pair,� puzzled, waiting for me to explain myself. By this time I was beginning to feel sort of idiotic about the whole thing, but I said: �I wish you�d bring them with you. There�s a... well, damn it, there�s something I want to look at through them.�

He said sure he�d bring them along, and hung up.

I went back to the porch and while I was waiting for another flash I saw a rider coming down into the canyon from his place. I lost sight of him in the thick foliage growing along the bottom, but figured it was Young on his way over, so I went around to the front and met him as he came loping up the steep road.

He rode his horse with a devil-may-care assurance. Physically, he was tall and lean, burned as dark as a Mexican by tropical suns, with a stern sort of hardness clinging to him that just missed arrogance by a shade. A man, I thought, who would be feared and hated by his enemies; trusted and admired by friends and followers.

I had an idea Jerry had told him a lot about me, and it seemed to me he looked me over with a flicker of disappointment in his keen dark eyes. I was probably not his idea of the man who trailed Jerry Burke around hunting murderers.

Young had the kind of grip you expected when he shook hands. He unslung the leather-cased binoculars from his shoulders and said, �Here you are,� in a soft, drawling voice.

I thanked him and apologized for not getting in touch with him before. We went inside and I explained that I had come to the cabin to work, but that all I had done was to watch some guy playing with a mirror over Dwight�s way.

His eyes appeared to leap out at me for the barest instant, but there wasn�t the slightest rancor in his tone when he said: �Quite a place that millionaire bastard has, isn�t it?� He spoke as though that was a natural word to use in describing Dwight.

I realized immediately that it was a natural expression for him to employ about any millionaire. He was the sort of man one meets nowadays who allows a personal bitterness to warp his judgment; who damns the entire capitalistic system and every moderately wealthy man as personally responsible for social injustices.

I knew there wasn�t any use arguing with him, although I know that lots of millionaires are decent people... even if our present set-up isn�t perfect.

We sat down in comfortable chairs when we reached the porch and I encouraged him to talk, but I couldn�t keep my eyes away from the window through which the flashes came.

�What is this about someone playing with mirrors?� he asked after a few moments.

I pointed across the canyon toward the Dwight mansion and explained that the flashes had bothered me all the afternoon before and that they had started again today.

A flame of intense hatred showed in his black eyes as he gazed across where I indicated. �What that dump needs most is a few well-placed bombs,� he muttered. �Preferably with Dwight inside when they�re touched off.�

While I was trying to think of a light remark to toss off, one of those flashes came across the way.

�There it is,� I said. �Heliograph signals to Mexico, maybe.�

�It might be at that.� Young spoke calmly enough, but his tone was edgy. �He�s raising hell about the Mexicans having the gall to take back what�s left of their petroleum resources after he and others like him have raped the country for years.�

Burke had told me about Young�s Mexican sympathies, so I wasn�t surprised. As I lifted the field glasses from the case I asked idly: �You�re in favor of the expropriation measures?�

He countered by saying: �Have you ever been in Mexico? Even seen how a peon exists on the munificent salary of fifty or sixty centavos a day paid by men like Dwight?�

I had to admit I hadn�t.

�They live in floorless thatched hovels, starving on a diet of frijoles and tortillas... to build up fortunes for absentee owners and contribute to a nightmare like that pile of stone.� He gestured savagely toward the Dwight estate.

I had the glasses to my eyes and was adjusting the focus. �Well, they�ve taken back their own, now,� I commented.

�And Dwight squeals like a stuck pig... shouts for the Marines to protect his interests... when he�s got millions salted away. Right now he�s cooking up some scheme with the State Department. He�s got Rufus Hardiman over there as his guest, supposedly on a vacation, but I�ll bet my bottom dollar he�s got a plan to get back his property...�

I let out a grunt of amazement that interrupted him. I had the powerful glasses focused and they lapped up that half mile between the cabin and the Dwight place to bring it right next door. Through the screening branches I was looking directly at a second story balcony and a man sitting back comfortably behind a telescope mounted on a squatty tripod. His right eye was pressed against the eyepiece, and the expression on his face brought another grunt from me.

In the first place, it was a shock to bring suddenly into close focus the man whom we had been discussing. I recognized Raymond Dwight from newspaper photographs. A short dark man with bushy hair, heavy features, black eyebrows which were at the moment lifted in a high arch as though whatever he looked upon through the instrument was giving him great pleasure. His thick lips were drawn back in a greedy smile, and below them his chin was blunt and square.

�What is it?� Leslie Young asked from behind my shoulder. �What do you see over there?�

�It�s the old boy himself,� I told him. �He�s got a telescope mounted on a second-story balcony. I can�t imagine what he�s looking at to put that sort of an expression on his face.�

I studied the direction and tilt of Dwight�s telescope for a moment, trying to determine where his gaze was directed so that I could turn my glasses in that direction. It was down the canyon and a little to the left, and the tilt was slightly downward.

I swung my glasses off the motionless figure of Raymond Dwight with a feeling of revulsion, turned to the right in the approximate direction of his telescope and moved the focus screw back and forth, explaining to Young: �I�m trying to line up with him and see what the...�

That was as far as I got. At that instant my elongated vision picked up what I was looking for... and I wished I had left well enough alone, for I was looking at the upper porch of Young�s cabin... and at a woman whom I knew instinctively to be Young�s wife... clad in a scrap of a sun suit and lying on her back with the hot rays of sun shining upon her.

I could see her rouged lips, black hair that was bobbed and tousled, dark eyelashes lying against smooth cheeks. One arm lay outstretched, with fingertips touching the pages of an open book.

I jerked the glasses down feeling like a cheap Peeping-Tom, and I guess it must have shown on my face along with the blood I�d felt rushing up to it. I made a desperate effort at nonchalance, but Young�s hard face was thrust forward close to mine and there was no mistaking the demand in his eyes and voice when he said:

�What was it? Did you see what Dwight was looking at?�

I shook my head. I am convinced that it is a mistake for a writer to indulge in the habit of rewriting and readjusting ideas. It robs him of quick, concise decision, and I needed to act quickly now. After all, you can�t just come out and tell a perfect stranger that you�ve caught a man staring at his scantily clad wife. Or can you?

I couldn�t.

I lied the best I could but I guess it sounded pretty lame. �I couldn�t see anything,� I said. �I guess he�s just taking a look-see around about.� My fingers shook when I tried, too hastily, to fit the glasses back in the case.

Young�s hard brown fingers closed over mine with deliberate force. His words were, �I�ll take the glasses if you don�t mind,� but his tone implied so much more that I let him have them and moved back a step and mopped sweat from my face.

Time plodded by on heavy tragic heels as I stood there watching him focus the glasses on Dwight. I opened my lips a dozen times to say something... but what was there to say? I�d already said too much when I asked for the loan of the instrument. Even now, after witnessing the aftermath of that moment, I don�t know what I could have said to ward off what was coming.

All I could do was stand there and watch it happen. Watch the muscles in Leslie Young�s face work spasmodically, then harden into caustic bitterness as he focused the magic lenses on Dwight; and listen to his heavy breathing as he swung the glasses in a forty-degree arc and levelled them on the lounging figure of his wife.

I don�t know how long we stood there like that. It seemed a dozen eternities to me before Young lowered the glasses. For a moment he appeared to be listening, as though he heard something I couldn�t hear. He was outwardly composed, almost stolid, as he picked up the case in steady fingers and fitted the glasses inside. I had seen his eyes, and I didn�t look at him again. I made some inane remark which he let pass unnoticed.

He turned away and said, �Thanks for asking me over,� and walked out through the door to his horse.

I walked over to a window and watched him ride down from my borrowed cottage into the shadowy canyon bottom. The sun was veiled with fleecy white clouds, the blue of the Texas sky shining in between. Shadows moved furtively over valley and slopes. The soft breeze and the dead quiet of the canyon had a strange, narcotic effect on my mind.

I stuck around for half an hour but didn�t get any work done. Half a dozen times I was on the verge of calling Jerry Burke at police headquarters in El Paso and asking him to come out, but I didn�t actually have much to go on and I was afraid Jerry would laugh it off if he did come, and give me a good-natured razzing for letting my imagination run away with me.

Besides, there wasn�t anything even a man in Jerry�s official position could do. You can�t arrest a man for looking through a telescope from his own front balcony.

Moreover, I had a strong hunch Leslie Young wouldn�t relish intervention in his personal affairs. He had definitely given me the impression of a man able to take care of himself, and I knew he intended to take care of this business in his own way.

It wasn�t a nice spot for me any way I looked at it. I sat there at the window looking uneasily from Young�s cabin across to the Dwight estate, and tried desperately to excuse myself from all responsibility in the affair.

There was a feeling that something was going to happen. That forces had been set in motion which would inevitably result in tragedy. That if I hadn�t come to the damned cabin in the first place... hadn�t let those flashes of light arouse my curiosity... hadn�t asked Young to bring over his glasses...

I succeeded in working up a strong conviction that I hadn�t had a thing to do with it. That if I hadn�t thrown the switch, something else would have set off the spark just the same. That it was more a cumulative result than simple cause and effect.

At any rate, there was potential explosive in McKelligon�s Canyon. I couldn�t laugh it off, and I didn�t even try.

So, I decided to clear out. It was like lighting a fuse and running, but I was past minding that. There was a quiet bungalow waiting for me back in the city where I might be able to forget Young�s face as he stalked away.

Nip and Tuck came out of their corner hopefully and sat quietly with Scottish heads cocked while I put pajamas and shaving things back into my suitcase; then followed me out to the car.

I felt released when I was packed and ready to start. As though I were fleeing from something just in time.

That stopped me. No man, I suppose, likes to admit consciously that he is running away from danger. A sense of shame challenged me to stay... or perhaps it was curiosity.

At any rate, I changed my mind abruptly, turned away from the car and went down the road leading into the paved highway following along the floor of the canyon, whistling the pups to heel.

The dwarfed and water-starved trees threw heavy shade along the twisting road which followed the canyon upward. Picnic spots were cleared under groves of cottonwoods where streams trickled down from the peaks of Mt. Franklin.

About a quarter of a mile from my starting point on the highway, a wide concrete drive curved away to the right, climbing a steep slope to a stone archway over a gap in the high wall shutting the Dwight grounds away from the common herd.

I kept on up the highway, glancing over my shoulder now and then at the wall until it was finally left behind; vividly conscious of the owner of the estate, and working up quite a dislike for him.

I�ve never had any use for the type of man who gets a kick out of nudity per se. To my mind, it�s a species of childish eroticism peculiar to moronic intellects. Like getting excited about an obscene postcard, or laughing heartily at a vulgarly pointless joke.

My thoughts, however, were mostly of Leslie Young, and after I had walked for a long time, it occurred to me that there might be something I could do to prevent him from getting into serious trouble with Dwight.

I turned back abruptly at a point where the canyon gradually flattened out into a broad valley. The pups seemed pretty well fagged out, but not eager to return. It was downhill and easy going, but they continually lagged back, pausing to sniff the air, then hurrying close behind me.

Dusk comes early in the bottom of a canyon, and we left the sunlight behind us by the time we�d covered half the distance back. There was a distinct chill in the air, and a blacker shadow seemed to hover over the silent steep-walled gap just ahead of us as we moved on... fading forward as we moved into it... keeping pace with us.

It was a distinct relief to sight the stone wall surrounding the Dwight estate and realize that it was only a little way to the Young cottage. I was getting jittery, and felt a need to know whether Leslie Young had acted on an impulse and gone after Dwight immediately.

I had just passed the Dwight driveway when I heard hurried steps around the bend beyond. In the solitude and the silence the noise came as a distinct shock, and I stopped with a prickly sensation around the base of my scalp.

Then, I saw the man across the road from me. He was middle-aged and tall, bareheaded, with a high forehead. His face was pale, features thin and ascetic, with pince-nez pinched on the bridge of an arrogant nose. He wore a white sweater and plus-fours, and carried an English walking stick which he thudded on the pavement with every step.

He did not look in my direction, but hurried on, paying no heed to the pups when they started across the road with a friendly greeting. I turned to watch him as he went up the drive into the Dwight estate.

I knew him then. I had seen his picture in the paper several times, but not lately. Rufus Hardiman. One of the higher-ups in our State Department in Washington. A house-guest in the Dwight home.

We went on around the bend, and suddenly the pups dashed ahead as we approached a culvert over a deep gully cutting in from the left. They scampered across the road, yelping with excitement toward a turn-out in a grove of oaks, then came to a halt with neckhairs bristling.

I followed them into the deeper shadow of the oaks. I saw a saddled horse tied to a sapling.

I halted where I was, peering through the shadows at the crumpled body of a man beneath a small oak. I had a sick empty feeling that a murder had been committed and that I might have prevented it. I knew Leslie Young was in a mood for murder when he rode way from my cabin.

A few steps closer I stopped again, staring down unbelievingly at the corpse of Leslie Young.

He was the one man in the world I hadn�t expected to see lying there.

He was peacefully slumped as if in restful relaxation. Crusted blood stained the short hair above his right ear... and there was the brighter stain of crimson on his lips.

I took one more step which brought me directly over the body. Shaken and unnerved by the unexpectedness of it, I stooped closer to his face. The crimson of his lips was ludicrous. His mouth was naturally thin and tightly drawn in death, but the perfect imprint of a woman�s full lips made it into a cupid�s bow.

Stranger than this, however, and far more awesome, was a two-barred cross of crimson on his right cheek. A long vertical mark crossed by shorter lines... wide marks, such as might have been made with a child�s crayon, or with a woman�s carmine lipstick.

The symbol of the double cross, was my dazed thought as I stood up and rushed to the highway, thinking only of getting word to Jerry Burke.

I heard the motor of a speeding car as I stood there, and I hurried out to the highway to flag down a couple of city-bound youths in a light coupe.

�It�s murder,� I told them. �Stop at the first telephone and call the police. Get Jerry Burke if possible. Tell him it�s Asa Baker and I�ll stay with the body until he comes.�

They drove away reluctantly, craning their necks in morbid curiosity, trying to see the body.

I walked back into the grove with my eyes wide open this time. There were fresh automobile tracks, showing where a car had recently turned off and parked, backed around and gone back toward El Paso.

The saddled horse was the same one Leslie Young had ridden to see me earlier. He was standing patiently, as though he didn�t realize his rider would never mount him again.

I circled back around the body carefully, staying far enough away so as not to mess up any footprints, trying mentally to recreate the murder.

It had happened while I was gone for my walk up the canyon, of course. I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly four o�clock. I�d been gone over three hours.

Young had ridden here from his cottage after I left, met someone in a car, perhaps; been killed while he sat quietly beneath the tree. Death had come unexpectedly � instantaneously, I guessed, noting the peaceful look on his face and the relaxed posture of his body.

Had he arranged to meet Raymond Dwight here? Or, had he called Dwight and threatened him � come here to meet someone else and been killed by Dwight lurking in ambush?

And, what about Rufus Hardiman? He had been plainly distraught and in a hurry � coming from this direction. I tried to recall exactly what Young had said about Hardiman in my cabin. No actual threat, but he had made it evident that he was deeply moved and angered by the assumption that Dwight was working on a scheme with the diplomat for the return of his expropriated oil property.

And all the time, my thoughts were edging away from the crimson stain on Leslie Young�s lips, the curious symbol marked in red on his cheek.

It grew chillier in the lonesome glade, and the shadows deepened. Nip and Tuck were circumspectly back on the edge of the grove and I was damnably alone with the dead man.

A kiss from rouged lips! A woman�s hand fumbling in her handbag for lipstick, bending down to trace the mark of the double cross in vivid carmine on the cold cheek of a dead man!

It was ghastly. I paced back and forth, looking anxiously down the winding highway, trying not to wonder what part I had played in the scheme of murder that day, and was at last rewarded by hearing the wail of a rapidly approaching police siren.

I stepped out into the highway and waved frantically as Jerry Burke�s official car roared into view, and he brought it to a screeching stop beside me.

Chief of Detectives Jelcoe was in the front seat with Burke. He peered at me irritably with twitching eyelids; grunted an accusing, �Humph,� as though my presence at the scene of murder satisfied a long-standing suspicion.

I looked past Jelcoe at Burke�s solidly square face. �It�s Leslie Young, Jerry. He�s... lying back here.�

A radio patrol car and an ambulance were pulling up behind Burke�s roadster. Jelcoe�s long legs stepped out past me in the direction I indicated, and I waited for Burke to come around the car.

�Young, eh?� There was a tired, hurt look on Burke�s face which I didn�t understand at the moment. �You had gotten in touch with him?�

�This noon.� I went by Jerry Burke�s side toward Jelcoe, who was standing over the corpse with an air of proprietorship. �I was coming back from a long walk up the canyon when Nip and Tuck scented the body and led me to it,� I went on hastily.

Burke nodded, moving with a surprisingly light stride for so heavy a man. He�s a surprising fellow in a lot of ways, even to me, and I�ve known him off and on since he was foreman on my dad�s cattle ranch on the Pecos River and I was just a kid.

He�s covered a long and adventurous trail since I first knew him, ranging from a hitch in the U. S. Intelligence Service during the war; through a period with the Texas Rangers; gun-running in Latin America and the Orient; successfully heading his own detective agency in New York � and finally being called back to El Paso to mop up the crime-ridden Border city.

I suppose all of that has contributed to make Jerry Burke the man he is today, but it has seemingly had an inverse effect.

Outwardly, he appears the least adventurous and imaginative of men. The inward spark that has driven him to do the things that other men wishfully dream of doing doesn�t show in his face, speech, or actions. In appearance, he looks like a moderately successful broker or merchant. His stubby hair is turning gray, and his body gets a little bulkier each year.

But I followed him around on the MUM case,[1] and I saw that glint in his eyes while we sat in the Juarez cafe waiting for the killers to show themselves at the end of a heartbreaking manhunt, so I know what�s inside of him that makes him tick.

Knowing him as I do, I shouldn�t have hung back and watched his face as he stepped forward by Chief Jelcoe�s side and looked down at the body. Perhaps I shouldn�t have wondered what his reaction would be to the red lips and queer symbol.

I might as well have saved myself the trouble. If Jerry Burke ever allowed himself to have a reaction he wouldn�t let it show outwardly. His heavy face was as impassive as though he had just shoved out a stack of blues on a busted straight.

Jelcoe�s long nose was quivering but he didn�t say anything. In Burke�s presence he had a way of respectfully effacing himself that was just the opposite of respectful. He�s the only man I ever met who could sneer with becoming modesty.

Uniformed men and the police surgeon were approaching. Burke stepped back to my side to make room, saying pleasantly to Jelcoe:

�Better start your blood-hounds circling while it�s still light.�

While Jelcoe issued crisp orders to his detectives, the police surgeon bent briskly over Young. He was a stout little man who whistled cheerfully as he went methodically about his task.

I couldn�t stand Burke�s silence as we stood there. �What do you make of it?� I burst out. �What do those marks on his cheek mean?�

Burke shook his head with maddening deliberation. The taciturnity of his cowpunching days still clings to him. �Guesses are for fools. But...� He paused, a puzzled look on his face, �I�ve seen such a two-barred cross somewhere.�

�Does Young�s wife use lots of lipstick?� I broke in impatiently.

�Damned if I know,� Jerry murmured. �We�ll ask her presently.�

Jelcoe had his men circling around looking for footprints or other tangible clues. He came sidling back to stand beside us as the surgeon straightened up and spoke.

�A small-calibre bullet into the brain from some distance .22 or .25, I imagine. Bullet�s lodged inside.� He stepped away, closing his medical case.

�How long...?� Jelcoe began eagerly, but the surgeon stopped him with a plump palm held up.

�I know. The one all-important question which no doctor can answer. I can narrow it down to comparatively brief limits this time. Death was instantaneous... not less than half an hour and not more than two hours ago. I may be able to do better after I get him in where I can go over him.�

�When did you find him, Asa?� Burke asked me.

Jelcoe�s eyelids twitched while I looked at my watch. �Exactly thirty minutes ago. I looked at my watch.�

Burke was satisfied but Chief Jelcoe wasn�t. From the beginning he hadn�t taken kindly to the action of the City Fathers in bringing Jerry Burke to El Paso and installing him as the supreme authority over the police department; and the ridiculous showing he made in his mishandling of other cases on which I had trailed Burke around hadn�t helped our friendly relations to any extent.

Now, he openly sneered: �Any witnesses around when you supposedly discovered the body?�

�A couple of Scotties,� I told him as calmly as I could. �And... I met a man just up the canyon as I was returning from a long walk. He might be able to verify the time.�

I purposely saved the identity of the man to tell Burke later, and Jelcoe pounced on my somewhat halting explanation with a gleeful sniff.

�A stranger, I suppose? One who will conveniently vanish in thin air if you attempt to prove an alibi by him.�

�What do I need an alibi for? Am I a suspect?�

�You were here. You reported finding the body.� Jelcoe�s voice sounded as though that clinched it.

I nodded disgustedly. �And I kissed him on the lips and marked his face up with lipstick after bopping him.�

Chief Jelcoe shrugged thin shoulders, the expression on his face indicating that he wouldn�t be at all surprised to learn I had done just that.

Jerry Burke put an end to the by-play by saying brusquely: �I�ll answer for Baker for the time being.� Two men were bringing up a stretcher, and Burke stepped in front of them.

He said: �I�ll go through his pockets before you take him away,� and leaned down to do that.

He brought out a little pile of keys, cash, and trifles, and laid them on the grass while Jelcoe stood by, rocking back on his heels and watching suspiciously.

Burke had an envelope in his hand when he straightened up, and he took a folded sheet of paper out while a photographer took several shots of the body.

Burke�s body stiffened as he stared at the sheet of paper. Jelcoe and I stepped close on each side of him and peered at it.

It was heavy orange notepaper, giving off a faint perfume, and the message was written in black ink in a flowing feminine hand. But what I saw first, and what brought a gasp from my lips, was the inked symbol in the bottom left-hand corner. A cross with two bars!

Drawn free-hand with firm vertical and horizontal strokes of the pen; like this:

Identical with the crimson marks on Leslie Young�s cheek!

The paper became a blur in front of my eyes, and I could have sworn it shook in the grip of Jerry Burke�s fingers. But his voice was steady enough as he read:

April 13th. 1939.

Dear Mr. Leslie Young:

You are not acquainted with the writer of this note but I know much about Leslie Young. If you are interested in matters that used to interest you come to Hacienda del Torro tomorrow night at eight. You will not be known by any who are present, and there will be no danger.

Cross the Rio Grande at Zaragoza, turn left on the first road beyond Waterfill Gardens, drive ten miles to stone gateposts on the right with a bull on the archway.

Michaela O�Toole

Burke was silent for a moment as he refolded the notepaper and frowned at the envelope. �It was mailed in El Paso yesterday afternoon.� He replaced the letter carefully in its envelope and put it in his pocket.

�D-didn�t you see those marks on the bottom?� Jelcoe sputtered.

Burke nodded. �The same symbol that�s on Young�s cheek... which gives us plenty to think about.� He turned to me, dismissing the chief of detectives.

�I�d better go up and break the news to Mrs. Young. Want to go along, Asa?�

I did. Very much. Walking toward Burke�s car with him, I said:

�While you�re getting turned around I�ll walk down the road and send the pups up to wait by my car. I�m all packed and ready to leave.�

I whistled to Nip and Tuck and went on while he got in and started his motor. At the foot of the road leading up to the Martin cabin I stopped and told the pups to go up and wait. Burke came along as they trotted up the slope submissively.

Getting in beside him, I asked: �Do you know Mrs. Young?�

�Not very well. I�ve met her a time or two.� As he let out the clutch and we rolled ahead, he added heavily:

�Young has been doing some undercover work for me recently. Dangerous stuff, investigating Border activities. I don�t know...�

His voice trailed off and he turned sharply to the left, climbing up steep ruts to a cottage of weathered logs standing in a clump of straggly oaks and jackpine.

A black Chevrolet sedan was parked in front of a low rock wall surrounding a cactus garden. Burke pulled up beside it and we got out.

The front door opened as we went up the path together. Myra Young stood full in the doorway watching our approach with dark sultry eyes. She was wearing a house dress of gay printed cotton material, and didn�t show up to such advantage as when she was sunbathing. Her hair was still tousled, and her mouth looked sullen without any rouge on it.

Burke took off his hat and stopped in front of her. �Mrs. Young, I�m terribly sorry to bring you this news, but Leslie has... had a bad accident.�

Sharp teeth came down over her full lower lip, leaving it indented. That was the only visible sign of emotion on her face. �Thrown?� she questioned throatily. �I told him that horse was mean.�

Burke shook his head. �Shot. I�m afraid it�s murder, Mrs. Young.�

A wild glint showed in her sultry eyes before she lowered her thick black lashes. �Murder?� Her fingers laced together in a quick spasm and her knuckles were as white as naked tendons. �I�m... not surprised,� she said.

I felt like a fool standing there waiting for her to go to pieces. Jerry, though, took it in his stride. �What makes you say that?�

She shrugged her shoulders. She cleared her throat, but her voice was still husky when she answered: �Plenty of reasons. That work he was doing for you. That crazy letter he got this morning, and the telephoned warning. And... playing around... the way he did.� Her body was shaking but she stood there obstinately gripping the door frame with both hands.

�Do you mean the letter from Mexico?�

�Of course. From that O�Toole woman. I knew something was going to happen when he insisted on going after being warned to stay away.�

�Tell me about the warning.� Burke�s voice was gentle, as though he realized how close she was to hysteria and wanted to keep her talking.

�It came... over the telephone this noon. Leslie was visiting some pal of yours at that cabin across the canyon. A woman called... she wouldn�t give her name, but she said Les would die if he insisted on going over to Mexico tonight.�

�What did you tell her?�

�I told her I knew Leslie too well to hope he�d be scared off by any such warning. Then she... hung up.�

�You should have temporized,� Burke told her. �There wasn�t any use forcing the issue. Your husband might be alive now if you�d used your head.�

I was amazed at Jerry�s tone. All at once it had become hard and relentless. Here was a woman freshly widowed...

But she came back at him without turning a hair. �Why should I protect him? He hasn�t paid any attention to me for months. Do you think I care what happened to him? I�m glad he got it! Do you hear! I�m glad!� She swayed as if a gale had suddenly struck her.

Burke made a quick step to catch her, but she pushed him off with clawed fingers, her face working convulsively.

�It�s... it�s all right.� Her voice had gone lifeless. She looked levelly at Burke with eyes that smouldered. �I guess maybe I do care. I tried not to. I tried to hate him...�

Burke had backed a step away from her. �You�d better not stay here alone,� he urged. �Let me take you down to a hotel. Or I�ll send a woman up.�

She shook her head. �I�m used to being alone.� Supporting herself with both arms outspread, hands pressed against each side of the door, she seemed a disembodied figure in the illusive half-shadows of the canyon, sagging forward, tortured eyes staring, as though she were the victim of physical as well as mental crucifixion.

While the toneless finality of her words, �I�m used to being alone,� still hung in the silence, Myra Young spoke again:

�Have you arrested Laura Yates?�

If Burke felt any surprise he didn�t show it. He said, gently, �Not yet.�

�Leslie went to meet her this afternoon.� The widow�s voice was a sullen drone like the distant roar of angry waters surging destructively and relentlessly onward. �She�s responsible for everything. She made Leslie promise to go tonight.�

�Do you know where we could find Laura Yates?�

�No. I don�t know where she lives.�

She slammed the door in our faces and we stood there looking at each other in the twilight. Then Burke said:

�I guess that�s that,� and led the way back to his car.

I followed, doing a lot of thinking. How did it all tie up with Dwight and his telescope... the sunbathing?

�Suppose you run me over to the Martin cabin,� I suggested. �My things are all packed and I�m ready to leave. I�ll trail you into town to my place.�

He gave me a sidelong glance. �I won�t have much time for idle chatter this evening. I�ll be busy on this thing.�

�That,� I told him, �is why I want you to stop by my place. I know some things you need to know.�

He didn�t act surprised to learn that I had been holding out on him, but, then, he never does, so you can�t tell. He pulled up to the Martin cabin in second gear, and as I got out, he said gruffly:

�I�ll be at your place when you get there.�

I opened the back door of my not-so-late model car and let the pups in, then got in and pulled away from the spot with a jumpy feeling of relief.

But I knew it wasn�t ended. Knew it just as certainly as though I�d seen the handwriting on the wall. I was mixed up in murder, and a man doesn�t leave that behind him simply by driving away.

Burke was just getting out of his car at my front gate when I pulled into the drive. He walked on in, knowing my front door is always unlocked, while I got out my typewriter and bag.

He was standing in the middle of the living room floor ruffling his stubby gray hair with heavy fingers when I came in. He looked depressed and worried.

Going past him to a bedroom with my bag, I said: �Open a bottle and pour us both a triple shot.�

He was sitting at the center table in front of a bottle of bourbon and two brimming wine glasses when I came back into the room. He lifted his glass and said heavily: �I don�t like any of this, Asa.�

I knew what he meant. I sat down and swallowed a couple of fingers of the whiskey and said: �You�re going to like it less when I finish spilling all I know.�

He nodded, taking out a stubby pipe and filling it with the rank tobacco he uses. �I gathered you were holding out on Jelcoe,� he said mildly. �You shouldn�t do that, Asa.�

�Why not? God knows he always holds out on you when he gets a chance.�

Burke�s heavy seamed face was placidly inexpressive. He sucked flame into the bowl of his pipe and said: �Two wrongs don�t make a right.�

That�s Jerry Burke all over. He�s so damned fair he leans over backward. With Chief Jelcoe not missing a chance to knife him in the back he still insists on giving him every break.

�That�s up to you,� I told him stiffly. �You can hand Jelcoe my information if you want, but you�ll be a stubborn fool if you don�t take advantage of it this time.�

He puffed on his pipe without saying anything, letting his bigboned body relax comfortably while he waited for me to go on.

I emptied my glass and began where I had first noticed the flashes of light from the Dwight estate, going on to tell about calling Leslie Young and asking him to bring his field glasses over; then describing in vivid detail what I had seen through the glasses.

Jerry Burke was sitting erect when I paused after telling how Leslie Young rode away from the Martin cabin hell-for-leather after seeing the millionaire spying on his wife.

�You shouldn�t have let him go like that,� he said gravely. �You could have phoned me...�

I squirmed under his boring gaze, and poured myself another drink. �I know I should have done something,� I admitted unhappily. �But I�ll be damned if I know yet what it would have been. You know Young. You know how much good it would have done to argue with him.�

Burke nodded, rubbing his square chin. �It�s difficult to reason with Young,� he admitted. �I�m not blaming you, Asa. Go on.�

I related how I had packed my things to leave the cabin, and then suddenly decided to take a walk up the canyon. He listened without a flicker of expression on his face until I described the man I met just before coming on Young�s dead body.

�Good God!� he exclaimed. �That sounds like...�

�It was,� I interrupted him. �Rufus Hardiman. The Washington diplomat who is visiting Dwight.�

�That�s bad.� Jerry was staring past me, shaking his head. �Leslie hated Dwight�s guts and suspected that Hardiman was conniving with him to force some sort of a settlement from Mexico in connection with Dwight�s oil claims. Leslie was a fanatical champion of Mexico�s expropriation program. He wouldn�t have stopped at anything to break up a deal of that sort.�

�How about the letter Young had in his pocket?� I asked excitedly. �How do you suppose that hooks up?�

Jerry shook his head doubtfully and brought the folded sheet of paper from his pocket. Spreading it out on the table, he read it aloud while I stared at the fateful symbol that had reappeared on Leslie Young�s cheek in death.

�It doesn�t make much sense,� he commented as he finished reading the note, �but we mustn�t forget the telephoned warning for Leslie to stay away from the hacienda tonight.�

�That name!� I interjected, repeating the mouthful of syllables, ��Michaela O�Toole.� What sort of a phony would you call that?�

�I�m not at all positive it�s a phony,� Jerry said soberly. �The Mexicans have a way of adding an a to a masculine name to make it feminine.�

�A feminine Michael O�Toole? She sounds interesting.�

Jerry nodded, taking his cold pipe from his mouth and jabbing the stem of it at the double-barred symbol on the letter:

�I�ve seen that two-barred cross before. Leslie Young had one about two inches high, hammered out of pure silver by a native artisan. He showed it to me one night in a box full of souvenirs he had brought back from Mexico. And that same evening, Asa,� Burke went on impressively, �he spun me a yarn about a certain Mike O�Toole he�d known in Tejuantepec years ago.�

�In connection with the cross?�

�I�m not certain. I have a vague hunch that seeing the cross reminded him of O�Toole in some way... though he didn�t say so. O�Toole was a renegade Irish sergeant, a deserter from the Fifth Cavalry while on patrol duty down in the Big Bend. He�d gone native, as I recall Leslie�s story, though I don�t remember any mention of a daughter.�

�But that sort of explains the wording of the note,� I pointed out. �Michaela O�Toole says Young doesn�t know her, but that she knows much about him. An old friend of her father�s would fill the bill.�

Jerry Burke frowned and knocked out his pipe, refilled it thoughtfully. �We�ve got too damned many leads,� he grunted. �With some sex stuff on the side. I wish I knew more about the Laura Yates Mrs. Young mentioned.�

�And Mrs. Young said it was a woman�s voice over the telephone this noon warning her husband to stay away from Mexico.�

Jerry glanced at his empty glass and I refilled it. He read the note again and muttered: �It says that no one at the hacienda knows Leslie Young...�

As his voice trailed off, I took up the thought: �It would be a fair guess to presume that the person who warned him to stay away will be there. If she carried out her threat... it would be disconcerting for Leslie Young to appear in the flesh.�

He nodded stolidly. �A clever man might learn something of importance at the Hacienda del Torro tonight by keeping his eyes open and his mouth shut. A man who might conceivably pass for Leslie Young.�

I said: �That�s one of the things I do best, Jerry.�

He nodded. �I wondered if you�d volunteer. I�d try it myself but I�m too well-known along the Border... and I haven�t quite the right physique. Still, I shouldn�t ask you...�

�You can�t give me the run-around,� I argued. �I�m already in this thing up to my neck. I�ll take that note for identification and pass myself off for Leslie Young until I meet someone who knows Leslie Young hasn�t any business being up and about tonight. Then we�ll have our murderer, Jerry.�

�It sounds simple but it�s likely to be dangerous.�

I didn�t try to laugh that off. I�m not the type to plunge into danger for the fun of it. But the idea of going across the border and posing as a dead man intrigued me. I wouldn�t have missed it for anything. I told Burke so.

He nodded glumly and got up. �I�ll be somewhere around to keep an eye on you, but don�t bank on me too much. Mexico is foreign territory and I don�t pull a lot of weight over there. God knows what you�ll run into at the hacienda.�

�But I can�t,� I told him as lightly as I could manage it, �pass up a chance to meet a damsel named Michaela O�Toole.�

�I suppose not,� he grunted, �but you�ve got to remember you�re a family man,� with a glance toward the Scotties lying quietly in their corner.

�I�ve got you down in my will to inherit Nip and Tuck,� I told him. �So that�s all right.�

They came trotting forward when I spoke their names. Burke and I went to the door together and down the walk to his car, with the Scotties staying sedately at heel. Somehow, they seem to know when grave matters are afoot.

At his car, Jerry shook hands with me soberly. �Watch your step tonight, Asa. Pretend not to recognize me if you see me across the line. I don�t know how close I can get to the hacienda nor what I can do if you hit a snag, but I�ll be somewhere close.�

I told him that would be swell, and watched him drive away. Then I whistled to the pups and took them across to the park for a run.

A murky bank of low hanging clouds was moving in over Mt. Franklin when I got back to the house. There was a flurry of cooling rain, then one of those drenching downpours that come in from the desert and sweep on down the valley.

The heavy clouds and a drizzle stayed on after the rain passed over the city. I killed time by opening a can of corned beef hash, heating it in the oven with strips of bacon across the top, poaching an egg to complete a one-man meal.

By seven o�clock I�d killed all the time I could. I was nervous and edgy. I wanted to get on with the evening�s work. I wanted, by God, to meet Michaela O�Toole.

The name held a peculiar fascination for me. With a slug of brandy in a cup of black coffee, I spread the sheet of orange notepaper out and read it two or three times, spending a lot of time studying that inked cross with its two bars. What the hell did it mean? What did the message mean? What was the connection between it and death in the afternoon?

It was seven thirty when I drained my coffee cup and refolded the note. I wondered what the correct attire would be for an evening appointment with a femme named Michaela O�Toole at a Mexican hacienda. It didn�t sound like an occasion for tails... which was lucky, for I didn�t have any.

The clouds had closed down and a wind had blown up, whipping flurries of rain gustily before it, so I changed to an old dark suit, with a soft shirt and four-in-hand. With a slicker over that, and a felt hat that had been rained on in the past, I was ready for a wet night.

I took the note with me, but no gun. I had a .38 in the house but this was one night I didn�t want it. The Mexican officials sometimes take a notion to search cars crossing the border, and I�m not exactly gun-handy anyway. I�ve done all my lead-slinging via the typewriter.

With a goodnight for Nip and Tuck and with my heart hitting a little faster pace than usual, I backed my �36 model sedan out of the garage, drove through the city and hit the Ysleta highway eastward through the Valley.

It was dark enough to call for headlights by the time I�d driven the thirteen miles to Ysleta. It was still trying to rain.

I turned south on the Zaragoza road, slowed at the bridge and was waved on by a slickered U. S. Customs� man, pulled on to the other side where a Mexican official glanced in the back of my car and said, �Bueno, Senor,� politely.

Just across the bridge the Waterfill Gardens Cafe and picnic grounds were brightly lighted but didn�t have many customers.

I passed the Gardens and turned left on the first road as instructed by the note, and the rain was beginning to come down again.

All at once I realized what I was actually letting myself in for. Just crossing the Rio Grande from north to south somehow makes an unaccountable difference. It�s purely a mental reaction, of course. Actually, there are the same carefully tended farms, the same adobe houses on the Mexican side as on the American. Along the border the percentage of Mexicans to Americans is approximately the same on either side.

But there�s a feeling of helplessness that grips you once you leave American soil behind. After all is said and done, American citizens don�t realize what law-and-order actually means until they�re in a foreign country where it�s only an empty phrase.

You can laugh it off, and I can laugh it off, now, but it wasn�t something I could laugh off that rainy night while headed for I-didn�t-know-what at the ranch of the bull south of the Rio Grande. People do disappear in Mexico without leaving a trace behind them. Such thoughts were my companions as I drove along slowly, and my damned imagination had me jumpy.

The road was deserted and my headlights cut a narrow swath of light through rain that slanted down. I kept a sharp lookout for Burke as I drove along, thinking he might be where he could give me the high-sign, but I didn�t see him.

With Zaragoza about a quarter of a mile behind me, the road curved sharply to the left across an irrigation ditch lined with cottonwoods.

As I made the turn, my headlights picked up and outlined the figure of a woman stepping from beneath the shelter of a tree toward the road. She was facing me and her outstretched arm signalled me to stop.

There was a white face beneath the soggy brim of a hat which might have once been jaunty. I stepped on the brake because she was an American and had no business being out alone on a deserted stretch of Mexican road on a wet night.

She had the right-hand door open and was sliding in beside me before my car had stopped rolling. She said, �You�re late,� with chattering teeth, before she�d had a chance to see my face.

I turned my head sideways and the dashlight threw a faint glow over both our faces. Her teeth stopped chattering when she got a good look at me. She said:

�Oh, I�m sorry. I thought you were... someone else.�

She was good-looking, in a hard, self-possessed sort of way. Perhaps I shouldn�t say hard. I�m trying to set down my initial impression without allowing it to be colored by later events. �Self-possessed� tells the whole story. She�s the only woman I�ve ever known who could be wholly self-possessed under just those circumstances.

Her voice was cool and impersonal. She was about thirty, with widely spaced gray eyes which regarded me steadily, a wide mouth that was heavily rouged, and a firm chin. She wore a tailored linen suit which clung, rain-soaked, to an athletically firm body with its full share of curves. She seemed more curious than embarrassed as she studied my face.

I found myself apologizing: �I�m sorry too. I didn�t know you were waiting for someone, and I naturally thought...�

She said: �It does sound screwy, but I made the appointment before I knew it was going to rain.�

There was mockery in her eyes. I knew she was from the east. A New Yorker, I guessed. I couldn�t help stiffening up defensively. New Yorkers (particularly the female of the species) always put me on the defensive. I�m just a boy from the cow country, and they seem to sense it intuitively. I asked:

�Do you want to sit here out of the rain and wait for whomever you are expecting?�

She repeated, �Whomever?� with upcurved lips, as though it amused her to hear me use the correct word under the unusual circumstances.

I hate patronizing females from the east. I said: �It was merely a helpful suggestion. As a matter of fact, I�m late for an appointment as it is.�

�So am I.� The curve of amusement went away from her lips and she looked worried. �Are you going far in this direction?�

�About ten miles.�

�As far as... the Hacienda del Torro?�

I should have been surprised but I wasn�t. It was all in line with the night... with the adventure I was embarked upon. Things like that do happen once a man pushes out into the unknown. I only said:

�That happens to be my destination.�

Her eyes widened and she bit her lower lip. She was prettier than I had first thought.

She shrugged her shoulders. �Things do happen, don�t they. Would you be willing to pinch-hit for my negligent escort?�

I said: �I wouldn�t leave a she-duck stranded out on a night like this,� and stepped on the starter.

She put her hand on my arm as I reached for the gear-shift lever. There was pulsing warmth in her hand, and her voice was oddly changed to a lower, more intimate tone:

�It isn�t as simple as it sounds. I was to have been vouched for by... whomever it was I was expecting. I won�t be able to get in without someone to vouch for me. Unless you�re willing to do that, I might as well stay right here.�

There it was already. Ten miles from the hacienda, and I had bumped into something funny. I couldn�t afford to pass up anything. I said:

�Why not? You�ll be in the car with me. There�s no reason I should tell anyone I picked you up on the road.�

Her fingers closed tightly on my arm. �Hadn�t you better get started?�

I put the car in gear and eased out the clutch. I glanced at her as we pulled away from the cotton-woods, and said: �It�s going to look funny, though. You soaked to the skin and me perfectly dry. What�ll I tell them at the hacienda? That you got out in the rain to change a tire while I sat in the car with my slicker on?�

She laughed and lifted a small leather overnight bag which I hadn�t noticed before. �I brought along a change when I saw it might be wet waiting. If you�ll take the ten miles slowly, I�ll slide into the back seat and make a quick change to dry things.�

I told her to go ahead, and she climbed over into the back.

�The dome-light switch is by the door,� I told her, �if you feel the need of light.�

She thanked me matter-of-factly and switched it on. I drove slowly into the rain. I�m not going to say I made any great effort to keep my eyes off the rear-view mirror which reflected her in the dim glow of the dome-light as she undressed. What the hell? She must have known it was there, and she wasn�t making any effort to keep herself from being seen.

I could see only the upper half of her when she got stripped down to damp flesh, but she had smooth shoulders and her breasts were pink and firm.

She disregarded me utterly while she rubbed down with a hand towel. Then her breasts went into a lacy brassiere � which they filled competently; a silk slip went over her head; and lastly a white dinner gown of some shimmery stuff slithered down her figure.

I�m a bachelor and it was the first time I�d ever sat in on the intimate secrets of a lady�s boudoir. I�d forgotten all about murder and Michaela O�Toole when she brought out a comb and smoothed down her brown bob, took a compact from her purse and began doing over her face.

She used a generous amount of lipstick... and I thought about the murdered Leslie Young. Every woman uses more or less, I suppose, but my passenger was one of those who uses more.

Lipstick on his mouth... smeared on his cheek, A woman�s voice warning him over the phone not to go to the hacienda...

The dome-light blinked out and she was spreading the robe from the back over the wet cushion beside me. Then she slid over as calmly as though we had been married ten years and were driving a few blocks to attend a session of the local bridge club.

An evening wrap of coral satin was drawn snugly about her shoulders, and she had a demure smile for me when I looked her over.

�I hope you won�t be ashamed to present me as your wife... that is... if none of those present have met your wife.�

I was so taken by surprise that I blurted out: �I haven�t any wife.� I realized it was a slip as soon as it was said. I was posing as Leslie Young, and Young had been married two years.

She said, �Well...� doubtfully, and I broke in:

�None of them know I�m a bachelor, though. We can tell them you�re my wife... if you particularly wish to be introduced that way.�

�I thought it might be best. In a situation like this, they�re not going to trust just anybody.�

I had told Jerry Burke I was good at keeping my eyes open and my mouth shut. I tried to make good on my boast. Not having the slightest idea what �situation� she was talking about, I changed the subject:

�What shall I call you?�

She laughed and leaned closer to me. �You might call me darling... just for camouflage. I�ll answer to Laura also.�

Laura? That was the name Mrs. Young had mentioned. I made an effort to be casual, saying:

�And you can call me Leslie if you like.�

She pulled away from me and I heard a quick breath sucked in between her teeth. I kept looking straight ahead... keeping my eyes open and my mouth shut.

There was a catch in her voice when she spoke again: �And I�ll be...�

�Mrs. Young,� I supplied. I looked at her and she was in the act of swallowing whatever words were about to pop out. It seemed to me there was more of bewilderment than any other emotion on her face.

Then my headlights picked up two stone gateposts on the right with a high archway between. A lifesize stone statue of a bull pawed the air atop the archway. I slowed down and started to turn in.

A barefooted peon stepped in front of the car, holding an American Springfield rifle at an awkward port arms. I stopped and rolled down the window while he came to it. In Mexican, I told him: �I am expected by Michaela O�Toole.�

�Como se llama usted?� He had a thin hungry face, and his teeth were a dirty yellow.

I answered his question as casually as I could: �My name is Leslie Young.�

��Sta bueno.� He nodded and stepped aside to let me drive onward toward lights which glowed faintly from the windows of a sprawling two-story adobe house.

Laura Yates didn�t say anything. She hadn�t said anything since I told her my name was Young. She was drawn back in her corner, staring at me.

Weeds grew along the drive, and what had once been a lawn was now an expanse of untended grass. Two cars were drawn up in front of the adobe house. One was a long glittering limousine with a Texas license. The other was a battered Model A coupe carrying a Mexican license. My lights lit up a ragged hedge and I was sure I saw a bulky shadow pressed close to the bushes. My nerves got jumpy until I remembered Jerry Burke�s promise. I wondered if Jerry had arrived so quickly.

When I pulled up behind the limousine I saw the outline of a chauffeur sitting behind the wheel. I memorized the license number before cutting off my ignition and lights.

It was too dark to see Laura�s face but I could feel the intensity of her regard as we sat there in the dark for a moment. I tried to speak lightly but I muffed it:

�Here we are, Mrs. Young... darling.�

She didn�t say anything. I got out, baffled and uneasy, went around to her side and opened the door. The rain had stopped and a slit of a moon was looking down at us through a crack in the clouds.

She put her hand on my arm and got out. I took her arm and felt it quiver beneath my touch. We went up the gravel walk to the front door and I lifted the heavy bronze knocker and let it drop twice. The knocker was a miniature of the bull above the archway.

I don�t know what I expected to happen. Nothing, I�m sure, could possibly have surprised me. There was only one thing definitely in my mind... to keep my eyes open and my mouth shut.

The heavy oak door opened a cautious slit and a pair of black eyes stared at me while a cruel mouth asked: �Quien es?�

�Mr. and Mrs. Young.�

The door swung open and a brown hand slid a pistol back into the pocket of an unpressed coat. The Mexican spoke in perfect English:

�I will take you to Miss O�Toole.�

We went over the threshold into the great wide hallway and he closed and barred the door. There was a mouldy smell of dampness in the hall and the only illumination was a single candle in a wall bracket.

Laura pressed close to me and a tremble was communicated from her body to mine. I wasn�t feeling like a tower of strength, but I braced myself and followed the Mexican down the hall, with dust swirling up from the thick carpet under our feet.

We passed one wide doorway on the right. Light and the sound of voices streamed past heavy curtains.

Our guide drew the curtains aside from another arched doorway beyond. With my hand on Laura�s elbow we went into a low-ceilinged room lit by flickering tapers in a wrought-iron candelabra suspended from an overhead beam.

In a far corner of the room from us, a girl and a man stood in low-voiced conversation. The man was tall, stooping in what appeared an earnest and argumentative posture. His hands moved nervously as he spoke. His back was turned to us, and they stopped talking abruptly when the guard announced us.

I knew the girl was Michaela O�Toole though her features were shadowy so far from the candelabra. I had thought of that name subconsciously ever since I first heard it. The last name was, of course, flagrantly Irish, but as she came toward us and the flickering candlelights fell upon her, I knew that her high cheek bones and finely chiseled chin were a heritage from Spanish and Indian ancestors.

But I was in no way prepared for her strange beauty as she moved slowly and gracefully forward, a sharp little frown coming in her smooth brow, as if she were annoyed at this interruption.

Her eyes were that deep fiery blue of Irish eyes; when she half closed them, long black lashes hung like silken fringe, dimming their light. Her hair was intensely black, drawn back from a smooth high forehead the color of ivory. A sweep of black and perfectly arched brows made her eyes look enormous when she opened them wide, which she now did in her intent scrutiny of Laura Yates and myself.

She wore a Mexican-styled dress of black velvet with a crimson bolero jacket. A single crimson rose nestled in the curve between taut breasts.

I stepped forward and said: �You sent me a note...�

She did not reply immediately, and I forced myself to look away from the suspicion growing in her eyes as she quietly looked us both over from head to foot.

The tall man had turned, and I drew in a sharp breath of consternation when I stared at the ascetic features of Rufus Hardiman. He still stood in the shadows, twiddling his watch fob nervously. But there could be no doubt that it was he. The man whom I had met at the bend of the road, and who disappeared into the driveway of the Dwight estate.

�Who are you?� Michaela�s voice was cold, yet she could not hide the languorous quality indigenous to the tropics.

I turned quickly to see a flash of blue steel in her eyes, and involuntarily I thought of the blue steel dagger which probably lay beneath the crimson rose at her breast. I hadn�t fully recovered from the shock of seeing Hardiman here in this damp, dusty room which reeked of being tightly closed for a long time.

�Why I... I am...�

Laura Yates moved in front of me like a flash and interrupted my stammerings:

�This man lies. He is going to tell you he is Leslie Young... but he isn�t. He is an... imposter.�

That was a nice slap in the face from a woman I�d picked up out of the rain and brought along like a weak-minded samaritan. I didn�t know what to say next. I was plenty on the spot. There was the note addressed to Leslie Young in my pocket, of course, but I knew I couldn�t keep up the imposture very long if I was questioned closely.

So, I set my teeth together hard and kept my mouth shut while a strained silence held all of us in a sort of hypnotic spell, as if we waited for a witch to serve a potion which would unleash our tongues.

In the silence, Michaela stepped close to Laura Yates and studied her face through low-lidded eyes.

Laura stood the inspection without wavering. She was the first to recover, and she asked, �You�re Miss O�Toole?� as if renewing an old acquaintance at a pink tea.

The shining black head nodded. �I am Michaela O�Toole.� She relaxed; her voice held the liquid warmth of tropical sunlight.

I knew I was sunk if the two women made up to each other the way they started out. The note would be nothing but a scrap of paper. I cursed myself for the world�s greatest fool when Laura went on pleasantly:

�My name is Laura Yates. Mr. Young had asked me to come here with him tonight, but he didn�t meet me as prearranged. This man came along... it was pouring rain... and I accepted a ride after discovering that he intended to pose as Leslie Young. I came to... warn you against him.�

I started to protest, but decided that the less I said the better chance I would have. Michaela had turned her head and was looking past Laura at me, Irish eyes flaming. She was young... not more than twenty, I thought... but the tropics breed maturity at that age. Rich warm blood suffused her creamy cheeks close to the surface. Her upper lip was sensuously short, and she used no make-up anywhere on her face.

Her beauty was extraordinary and, somehow, dangerous. There was a hint of fanaticism in her whole expression, but it was dominated by a coldly calculating personality which robbed her of any taint of feminine weakness.

Looking directly into my eyes, she asked: �Who are you?�

It was one of those moments. I could feel destiny in the making. Here I was on an important mission for Jerry Burke and on the verge of being checkmated by two women. I am a man slow to anger, but it was a pang of outraged anger which saved me... and determination to be loyal to Burke.

I said: �Leslie Young, of course. I don�t know why this woman lies about me. You wrote me a note asking me to come tonight. You can readily see,� I went on, taking the note from my pocket and handing it to her, �that this woman who calls herself Laura Yates is an ingrate, so I am not surprised that she lies.�

There was a faint gasp from Laura. She moved to one side and stared at me with a puzzled frown.

Michaela glanced at the note and handed it back to me. She looked doubtfully at Laura and said:

�What makes you say this man is not Mr. Young? I sent him this note yesterday.� There was an undertone of imperious anger in her voice.

The American stepped forward from where he had been standing all the while. He spoke suavely before Laura could reply:

�It seems to me, Miss O�Toole, that it would be better...�

He was interrupted by a harsh American voice in the hall beyond the curtain shouting:

�Mr. and Mrs. Young you say? I don�t believe it.�

The curtains parted and the owner of the voice came into the room. His face was vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn�t place him at the moment. When he strode forward under the light, I recognized Raymond Dwight.

He was a short dark man with bushy hair. Between forty and fifty years of age. His heavy features were deeply tanned by the sun, and every inch of his short stature exuded self-conscious arrogance. He was a man, one knew instinctively, who had bulled his own way ahead in the world by sheer force of a ruthless character; a man who enjoyed meeting obstacles for the perverse pleasure of riding over them roughshod; a bully of a man with a thin veneer of suavity which clung to him as awkwardly as did his obviously expensive tweed suit. He had a stub of a black cigar between thick lips, and his gaze jerked suspiciously from Laura to me.

He rumbled: �Pasqual said Mr. and Mrs. Young were here.� It was more a challenge than a statement.

Michaela�s perfect eyebrows moved slightly upward. �Do you know Leslie Young... and his wife?�

�I�ve... met them. Who are these people?�

�He says he is Mr. Leslie Young. She,� Michaela indicated Laura, �says he is not. I think there is some mistake.�

�He is not Young.� The short American ground out the words. �I don�t know the woman, but...� He stopped, his small pale eyes going over Laura, thick lips pursed pleasurably.

�If you�ll just let me explain...� Laura begged.

Michaela turned on her with a flame of anger in her eyes. �We wish to hear no more.� She spoke then to Hardiman, who appeared acutely uncomfortable: �Your pardon for this happening, Senor. It is not of our making, I assure you.�

Facing the curtained doorway, Michaela clapped her hands sharply and called: �Pasqual!�

The swarthy Mexican who had met us at the door came through. His hand held the hilt of a half-drawn dagger, his mouth was a thick, cruel slit. He moved stealthily, his black eyes upon Michaela in complete adoration.

She made an imperious gesture. �You will take these... guests... to the front upstairs room, Pasqual. See that they make no trouble.�

I was watching my chance. Laura and I were nearer the curtained doorway than the others. I grabbed her wrist in a hard grip and jerked her around. Together we made for the door. With Burke outside, we�d be all right if we could make it through the door.

Half-way down the hall I could hear the swift thud of running feet, then Pasqual was upon us. By the dim light of the one candle I saw the gleam of steel in his hand. His grip on my arm was like iron claws, and his dagger hand went up. In the excitement, I had held to Laura as she wriggled to get away.

A sharp voice came from the curtains:

�Pasqual!� and a crisp command in Spanish which I could not interpret.

The Mexican grudgingly loosened his grip. The weapon clattered to the floor and his other free hand closed upon Laura. With the brute strength of a giant he forced us back along the hall.

�See here,� growled Dwight, �I don�t like this.�

�Nor do I, Senor.� Michaela silenced the short man with a wave of her slender hand. �I think we will not talk of it until they are safely upstairs.�

Laura started to say something, but didn�t. Pasqual was pressing close to me and I felt the muzzle of his pistol prodding my ribs.

Michaela spoke softly: �You will go with Pasqual to the room, and no harm will come to you.�

I saw the uselessness of a further attempt at escape. With mock courtesy I offered my arm to Laura as we went up the stairway at the end of the hall, Pasqual close behind, holding a candle in his left hand.

At the top of the stairs he motioned forward with the candle and we went down an unlighted, bare hall with only the faint gleam to guide us. At the end, he opened a door and we went into a big square bedroom. Pasqual closed the door and a key clicked in the lock outside.

There was only the cold gleam from stars and a slitted moon coming through high barred windows to light the room. Laura�s hand dropped from my arm and she moved away from me. I stood just inside the door and said:

�This is a hell of a jam you�ve gotten us into.�

�Isn�t it?�

God! how I hated that woman�s self-control. I was pretty shaky inside, and I�m afraid my voice wasn�t wholly steady. She, however, sounded quite interested and amused.

There was the creak of bedsprings in the direction in which she had gone. I lit a cigarette and held the match high above my head. There was a four-poster bed in one corner, two straight chairs, and a massive chest of drawers. Laura was sitting on the bed, tranquilly watching me. The musty odor of a long unused room was suffocating.

I went to the windows and found them all tightly closed. I loosened a rusty catch and went to work on one, finally getting it open after barking my knuckles. The iron bars outside were heavy and solid. Directly below was the hedge, and I strained my eyes downward and made out a skulking figure beneath the window. It was Jerry Burke all right. He was looking up, motioning.

He moved away along the side of the house as I watched, and some of the empty feeling went out of my belly. If worst came to worst, I knew Jerry would take a hand.

Leaning on the sill, I breathed the first deep breath I�d had since entering the house, but it didn�t relieve the sick feeling that I had fallen down completely on the job Burke had assigned to me.

It was all Laura�s fault. I decided then and there that gallantry and sleuthing didn�t mix. Yet, I couldn�t put too much of the blame on her. By exposing me as an imposter she had simply rushed ultimate exposure. Dwight would have ruined things even if Laura hadn�t been along.

I stood at the window a long time before the thought struck me forcibly that Laura Yates might fit into the scheme of things in a terrific way. If she had murdered Young as Mrs. Young intimated, wouldn�t she pull just such a stunt as she did tonight? To throw suspicion away from her?

Whirling from the window, I asked directly: �Why was Young bringing you with him tonight?�

�Because I asked to come.� She spoke impatiently.

�Do you generally keep your dates under a cottonwood tree on rainy nights?�

�We agreed to meet there this afternoon... before it started raining. I came down on a bus from Juarez late this afternoon.� She paused, then went on coolly: �Mrs Young has a very jealous nature and doesn�t approve of me. Naturally, it was best for her not to know Les and I were meeting tonight.�

�You made the arrangement this afternoon? Where?�

�I don�t see how that can concern you.�

I didn�t tell her that it was going to concern the police. Instead, I persisted:

�What time did you see Young this afternoon?�

She didn�t answer for a time. I struck another match and started toward the bed. She was lying back as if she had suddenly grown weary.

�Well... what time?� I asked again.

She sprang up to a sitting position. �Why the cross-examination?� she flared. �It seems to me you�re the one who should be answering questions. Why are you pretending to be Les? Where did you get that note you showed the girl downstairs? What�s it all about?�

�Don�t try to be naive all of a sudden,� I grated.

She stood up and went to the window and I walked over and stood beside her. She was tight-lipped and quiet. Her shoulder was touching my arm. I was thinking hard about her heavily rouged lips, and about the rouge found on Young�s dead face and mouth.

Suddenly my hands gripped her shoulders and shook her. �You�d better come clean and answer some questions. This isn�t any time for smart repartee.�

Her flesh was softer under my fingers than I had supposed it would be. She let me shake her without offering any resistance.

The faint moonlight touched her face. Her red lips mocked at me and there was a gurgle of laughter in her throat.

�You wouldn�t be wanting to take... advantage of me... locked up in a place like this, would you?�

She was taunting me and I knew it. She was one of those women who recognize a man�s feelings before he, himself, is aware of them. Her words brought me to a realization that beneath my anger another emotion surged.

My fingers were tight on her shoulders, but I wasn�t shaking her any more. She was leaning back, laughing up into my face, a shaky, baffling sort of laugh. The pliant warmth of her body was pressed close to me, and her lips parted beneath mine in the semi-darkness.

Perhaps there is a psychological tie-up between the presence of danger and the sex-urge. Many psychologists argue that this is true. Explain it any way you want to... or let it pass... but instead of hurling leading questions at a woman who might be a murderess, I was holding her in my arms and kissing her � when a key grated in the lock.

The beam of a flashlight was on us before we were wholly untangled. Two uniformed Mexican policemen were dimly outlined in the back-glow of a candle. One of them spoke in broken English:

�You weel both come weeth me to ze jail in Juarez.�

Laura clung to my arm as I stepped forward and said heatedly: �You can�t arrest us. What the hell have we done? We�re American citizens and I demand...�

Both policemen held revolvers. �Eeet ees for murder,� the man continued. �For ze murder of anozzer gringo... Meester Leslie Young.�

Laura�s head snapped up and she gasped: �Leslie Young? Murdered!�

�Si, Senorita.� The Mexican nodded gravely while I wondered if she could possibly be putting on an act. If so, she was doing a good job of it, popping excited questions at the policeman to which he responded with a stolid shaking of his head.

Then they were herding us out and down the long hall to the stairway. Holding my arm tightly, Laura whispered:

�You knew about Les, didn�t you? How? Tell me what all this means.�

I concentrated on keeping my mouth shut and my eyes open. I wasn�t worried about the arrest, of course. Burke would fix that up with the Juarez police. But I hated to be hustled away from the hacienda with so many unanswered questions hanging fire.

I didn�t learn any of the answers on the short trip out to the front door, which Pasqual held open unsmilingly. The curtains were tightly drawn across both archways leading off the hall, and there was silence inside as we were pushed past.

Outside, I tried to argue with our captors, but Mexican cops are hell on wheels when it comes to carrying out orders. They hustled Laura into the front seat of the police car they had driven down, put me in the driver�s seat of my car while a cop got in the back. He ordered me to follow along behind the other car, and Laura leaned out to wave mockingly as they pulled away from in front of the hacienda.

Nothing happened on the road to Juarez. I pulled up behind the police car in front of the Juarez station, and my shadow and I got out behind Laura and her escort.

The first person I saw inside the police station was Jerry Burke. He was lounging against the railing talking to the officer in charge, and he blinked his eyes and stared when Laura and I were led in.

Then he began laughing.

That gave me the idea he had engineered the entire arrest and it made me sore as hell. I didn�t laugh. I said:

�Maybe it�s funny to you, but my sense of humor is out of joint.�

He quit laughing and did some rapid explaining to the officer in charge of the desk. The Mexican knew Burke, and very politely turned us over to him with the explanation that he knew nothing about the matter except a telephone from the Hacienda del Torro to send men to arrest a couple of people who were impersonating Mr. and Mrs. Leslie Young of El Paso. While the cops were waiting for us to be brought in it seemed that Burke had just happened to turn up at the police station in the nick of time to identify us.

While Burke was shaking hands and matching the Mexican�s politeness, I moved over beside Laura and said:

�You�d better come along with us and answer some questions that Jerry will want to ask you.�

She looked through me. �So you�re a stooge for the cops?�

Burke was coming across the room toward us. I turned to him and said:

�Let me present Miss Laura Yates. She messed things up for me at the hacienda and she�s admittedly been friendly with Young and if she kissed a man the stain would stay on his mouth a long time.�

He glanced at my mouth and grinned. �Is that what you were proving when you accumulated that war paint?�

I got out my handkerchief and rubbed my lips. The shock of being arrested had caused me to forget that moment in the barred room just before the police came.

Burke didn�t rub it in. He went on casually: �I drove over in my car. Suppose we all go out to your place to talk this thing over, Asa.�

�You�d better bring Miss Yates in your car,� I told him stiffly.

Jerry Burke turned on her with that slow grin of his that spreads all over his square face. Her white evening gown looked incongruous as hell in that drab setting but she was just as self-possessed as ever.

I went out and got in my car, drove over the Sante Fe Bridge and out to the bungalow where Nip and Tuck pretended they were totally disinterested in my return, but gave away the show because they couldn�t control their tails.

I let them out for a run in the yard, went into the bathroom where the mirror showed a faint crimson stain still on my mouth. I went to work with a soapy cloth and had it cleaned off by the time Burke pulled up in front.

He and Laura were in the front room when I came out. They�d let the pups in, and Laura was squatting down with her full skirt spread out on the floor, making up to Tuck.

It was disgusting to see the way he squirmed and fawned on her when she petted him. Nip, though, came to me when I sat at a table and poured myself a drink. I�ve always thought she had more discernment and dignity than her frowsy mate.

Burke sat in the chair opposite me and told me to spill it. Laura played with the pup, pretending not to listen while I told Burke everything that had happened from the time I picked her up in the rain until we were brought into the Juarez police station, omitting only an explanation of the lipstick on my mouth, and, for Laura�s benefit, not mentioning seeing him across the line.

When I finished, Burke got up and paced the floor slowly for a couple of minutes. He didn�t seem to be disturbed... only curious. His eyes went to Laura several times, but she paid not the slightest attention to him.

He came back to his chair and sat down, got his pipe going. Laura was sitting on the rug and Tuck�s head was in her lap, his eyes contentedly closed.

Jerry Burke turned his chair to face her and said: �Now, Miss Yates.�

�Your stooge has told you my part of it.� Her gaze met his frankly.

I poured myself another drink and kept quiet.

Burke frowned and asked: �How well did you know Leslie Young?�

�Quite well.�

�Enough so his wife was jealous of your intimacy?�

�I don�t like your use of the word �intimacy�. Les and I were rather friendly.�

�Friendly enough for Mrs. Young to object?�

Laura laughed coldly. �That doesn�t mean anything. Myra Young was jealous of Leslie�s shadow.�

�When did you last see him?�

�This afternoon.� Laura�s gaze was steadily on Burke�s face.

�Where?�

�In the canyon, about a mile above his house.�

�Tell me about it.�

She shrugged her shoulders. �There isn�t much to tell. We�ve met there often to avoid an unpleasant scene with Myra. I drove out in my car and he met me on horseback. He called me about noon, told me about the O�Toole note, and we arranged to meet. When we met he told me of the telephoned warning for him to stay away from the hacienda, which naturally made him more determined to go. It sounded interesting and I asked him to take me along. He agreed to pick me up in his car just the other side of Zaragoza. I was waiting for him when your friend came along and picked me up.� She nodded toward me with a half-smile.

�Leslie Young was alive when you left him this afternoon?� Burke persisted.

�Of course. Would I have been waiting out in the rain for a man whom I knew to be dead? Don�t be absurd. You haven�t told me...�

�You�re telling me, Miss Yates. What time was it when you last saw Leslie Young?�

�About two-thirty. It was approximately three o�clock when I reached my apartment on Tularosa.�

�How long have you known him?�

�Almost two months... ever since I�ve been in El Paso. As a matter of fact, I came here from the east particularly to contact him.�

Burke puffed on his pipe and said: �Suppose you explain that.�

She shrugged her shoulders again. �There�s nothing in our relationship that I have any reason to hide. I�m a free-lance writer... specializing in Sunday newspaper feature stories for eastern syndicates. About three months ago Leslie Young submitted an article to one of the syndicates which I represent. It contained interesting subject matter but was amateurishly done. The editor turned it over to me for a rewrite job and I had to get in touch with the author to clear up certain obscure points. His reply concerning himself gave me the idea that he would be a good source of material for future articles and I suggested collaboration. He welcomed the idea so I came here as soon as I was free to work up a series of Mexican articles with him. We worked together harmoniously until his wife got the idea that our relationship was more than a literary collaboration.�

�Was it?�

�No.�

�Is it your custom to kiss your collaborators when meeting them secretly?�

She wasn�t at all disturbed. She answered serenely: �If I like them well enough... and if it will help me get material I need for an article.�

�Why did you spoil Baker�s impersonation of Young before he had a chance to get a line on Young�s murderer?�

Laura glanced over at me and spoke to both of us. �I�m sorry about that. I didn�t know Les had been murdered. I didn�t know why another man... a perfect stranger... was trying to pass himself off as Les. I felt I might earn the O�Toole gratitude by exposing the fraud at once... and might get a good feature yarn from her.�

�Do you know either of the Americans at the hacienda?�

She shook her head with a frown. �No. But the disguised roughneck who said he knew Mr. and Mrs. Young seemed vaguely familiar. Good clothes couldn�t hide the piratical look he has.�

The telephone rang. Burke answered it while Laura got up after giving Tuck�s head a farewell pat, and came over to stand close to me. Laura sat down in a chair close to me and looked as if she wanted to ask some questions, but I forestalled her by picking up the evening Free Press and glancing at the front page.

Jerry came back from the phone rubbing his chin meditatively. �It begins to tie up,� he said. �I�ve had the Mexican authorities checking on Michaela O�Toole. She is the daughter of an American renegade, Michael O�Toole, and her mother is a Maya Indian from Yucatan. She�s a radical firebrand, an active leader in the Young Socialistic Movement of Mexico which has been clamoring for the nationalization of all the natural resources of the country. There�s a link... some sort of a link... between Raymond Dwight, Michaela O�Toole, and Leslie Young�s murder.�

�How and when was Les killed?� Laura asked.

�Shot through the head with a .25 automatic about a mile up the canyon from his cabin at approximately three o�clock this afternoon,� Burke told her bluntly.

�A mile up the canyon?� Laura dropped her air of bravado and self-confidence for the first time since I�d met her.

Burke nodded. �His horse was tied to a sapling and he had evidently met and talked with someone in a car.�

Laura looked at Burke, turned away quickly from his piercing eyes. For a moment she was silent, and I could tell that she was doing some fast thinking. After a while she said:

�Then... he must have been shot just after I drove away.�

�With your lipstick still hot on his mouth,� Jerry Burke agreed drily.

�Les was like that. He didn�t believe in impersonal friendship between the sexes.� Laura also spoke drily but there was a faint flush on her cheeks.

�Did you see anything out of the ordinary? Did he say anything to indicate he might be in danger?�

�There was only the anonymous telephone call warning him to stay clear of the hacienda. He joked about that. He was sitting under a tree smoking a cigarette when I left him.�

�He was lying under the tree when Asa and the pups found him a little before four o�clock.�

�There goes a swell batch of feature material,� Laura said disgustedly, and I had the feeling that Young�s death meant exactly that to her and no more.

Which shouldn�t have mattered to me, but somehow it did.

�Suppose you run Miss Yates home?� Burke suggested to me. �I�ll probably still be here when you get back... if it isn�t too late.�

�It won�t be late,� I told him, getting up. Laura went out with me to my car and told me she lived in the 3800 block on Tularosa. It was a fifteen-minute drive from my place and we didn�t say anything during those fifteen minutes.

She pointed out an old frame house that had been made over into housekeeping apartments, and I pulled up in front. She got her overnight bag out of the back while I sat glumly behind the wheel.

She affected me in a perversely different way from any woman I�d ever met. I was tremendously attracted by her, and ashamed because I was. It was something I couldn�t analyze. Just one of those things that are. I�m pretty sure she knew how I felt.

She came around to my side of the car and put her hand on my arm. �I�m sorry I spoiled things for you at the hacienda by speaking out of turn.� Her voice was warmer, more nearly human than it had been before.

�And I�m sorry the cops came in when they did.� I didn�t know I was going to say that. I didn�t know why I said it. Just one of those inane things that a man says and doesn�t mean. Or... maybe I did mean it. Looking back, I guess maybe I did.

Her fingers tightened on my arm. There was that same pulsing warmth I had felt before. She said:

�I�ll be seeing you. I�m going to do some personal checking on Leslie�s murder.�

�Do you think it�ll make a feature story?� I asked bitterly.

�It might.� She was gone down the path and a mocking laugh floated over her shoulder to me.

Burke was sitting in the living room when I got back. He got up and yawned when I came in the door.

�It doesn�t add up, Asa. Why did Michaela O�Toole write that come-on note to Young? Who warned him not to go... and why? O�Toole and her political faction are ardently opposed to any payment for expropriated oil property... what�s her hook-up with Dwight and Hardiman? How well did Dwight know Leslie Young? Was Young alive when Laura Yates drove away from the canyon this afternoon?�

I dropped moodily into a chair. �Why ask me? I�m not an oracle.�

�They are important questions, Asa,� he said. �It�s a touchy business... digging into international relationships.� He looked moody and prepossessed, and I had the feeling that he was not talking to me, but to himself.

�What,� I asked him, �did you find out on your trip to the hacienda tonight?�

�Not a damned thing,� he admitted. �I was watching through a window and saw you jerked out and taken upsairs. And I overheard them phoning for the police to come for you, so I knew you weren�t in any actual danger. That�s why I motioned up to you to let matters take their course.� He yawned and got up, reaching for his hat.

�We�ll be visiting McKelligon�s Canyon tomorrow,� he said, starting for the door. �There are some questions I want to ask Mrs. Young and Raymond Dwight.�

Burke picked me up after lunch and we drove out to the canyon in his car. �I�ve been thinking about something,� I told him as soon as we started. �Someone at the hacienda must have known Young was dead... else why would they call the police to arrest us for murder?�

Burke shook his head. �The Juarez police had the murder report as a matter of routine. Michaela O�Toole called and asked them to investigate a couple claiming to be Mr. and Mrs. Leslie Young. From all reports, O�Toole is a shrewd woman. The note... the arrest... everything might be a ruse to throw suspicion away from herself... or someone else who is involved.�

I settled back on the seat while he drove unhurriedly north on Piedras Street. The McTelligon Canyon road takes off from the north end of Piedras, leading through a rugged slit deep into Franklin Mountains.

I couldn�t get Laura Yates out of my mind. I kept wondering if she had a pistol and whether it was a .25. It recurred to me time and again that she had the best opportunity to kill Leslie Young of any one we had suspected so far. Yet, it was impossible to think of her as a murderess. She appeared to have nothing to hide, answered questions wholeheartedly.

But perhaps that was her way of covering up... just as Michaela O�Toole used cunning... and Mrs. Young openly admitting that she was glad her husband was dead. Then there was Hardiman... and Dwight.

I had them all on a merry-go-round together, trying to supply a motive for murder for each of them when I realized that we were on the paved road leading through the rugged canyon.

With an effort I forgot the murder to enjoy the desert plants and innumerable varieties of cacti blooming profusely along the sloping floor of the canyon, and the rocky walls which were brilliant splashes of color drenched by the afternoon sun. Here and there were turnouts leading to picnic spots, with rustic ovens and cabins nestled beneath clumps of trees along both slopes. Peace and serenity were everywhere and the mood of the hills came over me.

Then suddenly Burke swung off the highway on a narrow road which climbed up the hillside to a cottage of weathered logs in a clump of straggly oaks and jackpine. I came out of my peaceful musings and recognized the Leslie Young cabin.

Two cars were already parked beside the rough rock wall. One was a black Chevrolet sedan and the other an official police car which I recognized as Chief Jelcoe�s.

Burke pulled up behind the police car and said with a slow grin: �Jelcoe is Johnny-on-the-spot, as usual.�

I saw the chief as I got out. He came to the front door and peered out when he heard us drive up. Sunlight glinted on his bald head and his eyelids started twitching in their peculiar and memorable way when he recognized me.

I went up the path and held out my hand, but he had eyes only for Jerry Burke. He nodded to me and spoke jerkily to Burke:

�I told you the answer would be right here, didn�t I?� Crafty triumph showed on his thin face. �No use chasing all over Mexico when here�s your murder case all in the bag.�

He held out his hand, palm up, showing half a dozen small brass cylinders with snubby lead points.

Burke picked one up and looked at it thoughtfully. �Good work. They�re .25�s all right. Where did you turn them up?�

Jelcoe looked cautiously into the house and his right eyelid did a solo rigadoon. In a hoarse whisper he said:

�Don�t spoil it. I want to spring these on her all of a sudden. She�s resting on the back porch while I�ve been poking around. I reckon she didn�t expect me to find the evidence hidden in a baking powder can in the kitchen.�

�Probably not,� Burke agreed. He dropped the bullet back into Jelcoe�s hand with the others. �Have you found the pistol yet?�

�No. But I will. I figure she ditched it in the ravine after killing her husband. I�ll have a search party comb every inch of the slope.�

Burke nodded absently. His mind seemed to be on somethnig else and I had a feeling that he wasn�t particularly disturbed about Jelcoe�s find. He said, though:

�Perhaps you can frighten her into admitting something by sticking these bullets under her nose without warning.�

I wanted to laugh. Burke has a way of saying things in deadly earnest, yet giving an impression, to one who knew him as well as I did, that he was laughing inside.

�Just my idea,� Jelcoe said emphatically. He turned back into the house with a stride as nearly a strut as his thin legs and rounded shoulders could manage.

Burke and I followed him into a large living room. Bearskin rugs were scattered on the floor, and at one end there was a huge fireplace of native stone. Rows of well-worn books filled the bookcases lining one side, and a long center table was littered with books and papers. A covered typewriter sat on a desk in one corner.

Up above was a narrow balcony with its balustrade strewn with bright shawls and Indian rugs. A triple row of shelves held an array of what-nots which I imagined Leslie Young had brought from Mexico. There was nothing in particular to give the room an air of disarray, yet the impression was given. As if Myra Young gave little time and thought to housekeepng.

Jelcoe wore rubber-soled shoes and had a catlike way of treading soundlessly. He reminded me of Slim Summerville in a burlesque. We followed him to a door leading onto a screened rear porch which gave onto a splendid vista across a small wooded valley. The stone gables of the magnificent Dwight mansion peeped through treetops on a small plateau beyond the valley.

Myra Young lay outstretched on a leather-cushioned glider. She wore a man�s khaki shirt, faded riding breeches and well-worn boots. Her black hair was uncombed, her mouth sullen. Little lines ran down from the corners of it as if she spent many hours with desperately unhappy thoughts, during which her lips drooped. Her dark eyes were smouldering when she looked up from a book in her lap and saw Jelcoe standing in front of her. She didn�t seem to notice us standing slightly behind him.

�I told you to go ahead with your detecting and leave me alone,� she flared.

�I�m all through.� Chief Jelcoe�s voice was oily with certitude. �I believe you told me you didn�t have a pistol?�

She tensed and then relaxed. �I did tell you that. And I haven�t.�

�Then why are these hidden in your house?� Jelcoe palmed his find under her nose.

She glanced down at the brass cylinders and shrugged disdainfully. �Hidden?�

�In a baking powder can where you didn�t think I�d find them.�

�It�s no concern of mine whether you found them or not.�

�Is that so? Where�s the pistol that they fit?�

�It was Leslie�s pistol.�

�A .25?� Jelcoe leaned forward and his voice was harsh. �That�s a lady�s choice... not a man�s.�

�Leslie bought it for me... for my protection when I was alone here while he was traipsing off God-knows-where.� Myra Young managed to put a sneer into the words without changing her facial expression.

�Ah! He bought it for you? Then you did own a .25 pistol? Why didn�t you tell me that yesterday instead of denying it?�

�I don�t own a pistol. I�ve never owned a pistol. Leslie bought the one those bullets are for.� She swung her legs off the cushions and sat up, seeing Burke and me behind Jelcoe. Her eyes narrowed and she said:

�Reinforcements, eh? Are the three of you going to try and beat a confession out of me?�

Jelcoe waved a bony finger under her nose. �Where is that pistol?�

�I don�t know.� She stood up and her lips were twisted. Her hips filled out the riding pants, and the loose shirt didn�t wholly conceal full breasts.

�Someone stole it three weeks ago. It disappeared after that Yates wench was here the last time. You might ask her where it is. She probably stole it because she was afraid I might use it on her... and I might have. Now, get the hell out of my house... all of you. If you want to accuse me of murdering my husband, get out a warrant and arrest me. Until you�re ready to do that I don�t want to see any of you around here again.�

Her face was white and her lips seemed swollen, drawn away from her teeth. Burke and I went out the front door into the sunlight while Chief Jelcoe backed away, protesting that she should be interested in helping discover who murdered her husband.

�Why should I be?� Her shrill voice carried out to us in the front yard. �I�m not weeping any tears over him. He got what he�s been asking for. Whoever shot him probably had a good reason. Don�t ask me to help you.�

Jerry Burke looked at me with twinkling eyes while Jelcoe backed hastily out the front door.

�She certainly doesn�t give a damn who knows how she feels about the whole thing,� I suggested.

Burke nodded. �She�s on the verge of hysteria. I�d say she isn�t responsible...� His voice trailed off into silence as Jelcoe came up, sputtering indignantly:

�She�ll be a surprised widow if I do come back with a warrant. She was here by herself yesterday afternoon, with no alibi and every chance in the world to have pulled the job. A stolen pistol! I wonder who she meant by �that Yates wench�?�

�Miss Laura Yates,� Burke told him with a smile. �She lives in an apartment in the 3800 block on Tularosa. She�s the last person known to have seen Leslie Young alive.�

Jelcoe�s jaw sagged and both his eyelids did a hula dance. �Is she the one Young met up the canyon?�

Burke nodded. �Her apartment hasn�t been searched for lethal weapons.�

Chief Jelcoe went trotting toward his car. Looking after him, I asked:

�Do you suppose he�ll find the pistol?�

�Not in Laura Yates� possession. If she did steal a .25 automatic and kill her paramour with it, she�s too cagy to leave it lying around for Jelcoe to find. Come on. We�re going up the canyon where X marks the spot.�

As he drove down to the paved road he asked casually: �What do you make of her?�

I knew he meant Myra Young. It wasn�t an easy question to answer. I honestly didn�t know what to make of her. I said: �She doesn�t bother to put on any outward semblance of grief.�

�She didn�t yesterday... even when we first brought news that her husband had been murdered.�

�Yet, she�s supposed to have been jealous of him,� I argued. �A woman isn�t jealous of a man she doesn�t love.�

Burke drove slowly, his expression one of preoccupation. �I got the idea yesterday that she has been hanging onto Leslie for some time, knowing it was a losing game... knowing that he cared, temporarily at least, for someone else. I felt, somehow, that it was more of a relief to her than anything else to suddenly realize that the struggle was ended and she didn�t have to keep on trying to stave off what she knew was inevitable.�

There was a culvert just ahead. A gully flattened out into the wooded valley. We both knew that spot. Burke slowed crossing the culvert, turned to the right on a little-used road, drove into a clump of trees and stopped.

We looked around wordlessly for a minute or two. Then I said, �This is where Laura Yates met him,� more to myself than to him. The grass was badly trampled but there was still a rusty splotch of blood where Young�s body had lain. I was still thinking that a man had been kissed, marked with a cross... murdered, when Burke said:

�No use wasting time here. Jelcoe and his human bloodhounds have been over every inch of the ground. If there�d been a clue, Jelcoe wouldn�t have missed it. He does get the facts.�

He led the way beyond the shaded spot into bright sunlight. I stopped beside him, looking up the slope of the Young cabin. �It�s much less than a mile straight down here from the house,� I pointed out.

Burke nodded, following my thought: �If she knew about this meeting place she could easily have followed him unseen, hidden in the brush and watched that last fatal kiss from Laura Yates� rouged lips... then let him have it after Laura had driven away.�

�What about the two-barred cross on his cheek?�

�That,� Burke admitted, �is just one of a lot of things I wish I understood.�

Up the other slope, to our left, was the low stone wall surrounding the Dwight estate. Gray stone turrets showed their tops above the wall.

Burke�s eyes narrowed as his gaze went from the Young cabin across the ravine to the Dwight estate. He slid down the bank to the rock-strewn bottom of the dry wash and started following its winding course upward.

I moved along behind him without asking any questions. His broad shoulders were hunched forward and he moved as stealthily as an Indian scout. I didn�t have the faintest idea what sudden thought had come to him, but I knew it was important and that I�d know in good time.

Thorny mesquite branches whipped our faces and the tiny fangs of catclaw bushes tore at our clothing. Not a breath of air stirred in the gully and the sun blazed down mercilessly upon us.

It was slow going, with Burke taking every precaution to make no sound. I followed just as cautiously without in the least knowing what or who he was stalking.

It must have taken us half an hour to cover much less than a mile when Burke suddenly stopped. Moving close to look over his shoulder I saw in front of him the unmistakable mark of footprints crossing the gully at right angles. They were jumbled and messy in the loose sand, pointing in both directions. Traces of an old path showed on each side of the gully, now overgrown with fresh foliage which showed distinct signs that the old path had been lately traversed.

While Burke stood there peering down at the footprints as though they proved something important, the thought came to me that we must be in an almost direct line between the Young cabin and the Dwight mansion. I thought that might be significant and was on the point of mentioning it to Burke when we heard the sound of approaching footsteps from our right.

Burke stepped backward without warning and the sudden impact of his heavy body almost knocked me down. He grabbed my arm and pushed me back cautiously around a bend where we were screened from view by the leafy branches of a mesquite. We stood close together, our eyes glued to the crossing, and the footsteps came closer by the moment.

I don�t know whom I expected to see. Certainly not Myra Young.

But we both saw her clearly as she slid down into the gully, stalked across in her riding boots and climbed up the other side toward the Dwight estate.

She was bareheaded and her face was flushed; whether from the sun or from some inner emotion I could not tell.

We stood with the sweat dripping down from our faces until the sound of her footsteps died away in the afternoon stillness.

�What do you make of it?� I asked Burke excitedly.

He shook his head. �If the MUM case taught me anything at all it was never to indulge in a theory. Come on. You and I are going to pay Mr. Raymond Dwight an informal visit. Perhaps he�ll serve us tea and crumpets.�

A two-lane concrete drive curved off the main road between magnificent granite columns. The upward sweep of rocky slope had been sodded to thick turf and expensively landscaped with exotic shrubbery and trees which God hadn�t intended to bloom this close to the desert. The layout looked as though it might easily have set Dwight back a million bucks, and the upkeep on it must have swallowed up the income from a couple more millions.

It was a good half mile to the sprawling two-story mansion flanked by tennis courts, formal gardens, and even a palm-bordered swimming pool remindful of pictures you see � and don�t believe � of Hollywood estates.

Burke parked in a semi-circular concrete area in front of the house and we walked down a path of marble flagstones leading beneath an arbor of climbing roses to a wide front porch with granite columns supporting a second-story balcony. The flagged walk turned off to the right and left just in front of the steps, and we paused there as we heard a shrill voice coming around from the right side of the house:

�But I saw her come. Just a few minutes ago. She�s making up to Pops with her own husband not buried yet. It�s goddamn indecent if you ask me.�

We couldn�t tell whether the answering voice was male or otherwise. It was throaty and effeminate:

�That sun-bath technique looked like a decoy to me from the first. I had a hunch she knew all along that she was showing herself off in front of a telescope.�

�Pops wouldn�t listen when I tried to tell him she was just giving him the old come-on. You know how he is when he sees soft meat.�

Jerry Burke�s fingers were biting into my arm. He led me quietly along the walk toward the voices.

�She was smart enough to make him come after her,� the second voice drawled.

�And to stall him with a virtuous act until her husband was well out of the way. Then, she comes running.�

�What we need,� the effeminate voice suggested, �is another little drink.�

Burke kept going when we reached the corner of the house. Four huge oaks made a triangle of heavy shade over two figures lying belly-down on a Navajo blanket. A silver serving tray stood on the grass in front of them, holding four frosted silver julep cups and two empties. Their buttocks were toward us as we approached on the thick grass and it was difficult to determine which pair, if either, was masculine.

They wore shorts which left nine-tenths of their suntanned skin uncovered. The back hair of the figure on the left was cut shorter than the one on the right and I guessed that one to be male.

I was wrong, though. She rolled over to squint at us and I saw that her breasts were covered with a triangular dab of silk which tied down to the front of her shorts and was held up by a narrow ribbon about her neck. She looked an unsophisticated sixteen and she wasn�t disturbed or alarmed by our intrusion. She said: �For Christ�s sake, look who�s here, Marv,� and reached a slim arm out for one of the full julep cups.

Her companion turned sidewise on one elbow and looked at us. He had nothing over his chest, not even hair, and he looked a few years older than the girl. He had plump cheeks and a soft peevish mouth which gave forth the effeminate voice we had heard: �Who are they?�

�I wouldn�t know.� The girl sat up crosslegged and buried her snub nose in the spray of mint sticking over the frosted silver rim. �Pops does have the goddamnedest visitors lately,� she went on with casual disinterest.

Marv turned his head and said sulkily: �Send them away. Can�t we have any privacy?�

The blas� rudeness of the younger generation gives me the jitters. I�m past expecting courtesy from them but I haven�t been around them enough to get used to being treated like a worm. I was getting ready to blurt something out when Burke squeezed my arm warningly and moved over to squat down in front of the julep tray.

As a souvenir of his cowpunching days on the Pecos, he has a way of putting his entire weight comfortably on his left heel while his right foot, flat on the ground and a little in front of him, easily balances him. He handed one of the full juleps up to me and took one for himself. Without looking at the girl, he said:

�We just dropped in to look for a murderer.�

The girl�s blue eyes were strangely murky. She had long dark lashes and practically no eyebrows. She said:

�You can find damn near anything around this dump if you poke into all the ratholes.�

Marvin rolled over to look at us again. �What is it, a gag?� He wasn�t wholly sober.

The julep was swell. Mellow Bourbon and powdered ice, with just enough sugar to blend with the pungent mint.

�Did either of you kill Leslie Young?� Burke asked casually.

The girl rapped knuckles against her forehead and frowned. �I don�t remember all my victims but I can�t seem to recall that particular name. How about you, Marv?�

He lifted the fourth julep from the tray and drank half of it before taking it from his mouth. That�s no way to treat a decent drink but it seems to be one of the symptoms of youth to manhandle liquor. His lips twisted in petulant belligerence and he asked:

�Who are you fellows?�

The girl leaned forward eagerly. �I bet they�re G-men. That�s what Pops gets for sticking his fingers into politics and pulling out a prune like Hardiman. He laughed at me when I warned him that Les Young was a spy and would mess up any deal he tried to make with the Greasers.�

Burke took another sip of his julep. �Pops... your father, I take it, being Raymond Dwight?�

She stared at him with her slaty eyes, plainly surprised. Her face looked like somebody had squashed it in by holding firmly to forehead and chin... like you�d work an accordion.

�Of course. Excuse me for neglecting the formalities. I�m Desta Dwight, and this sodden goof is Marvin Moore.�

�Delighted,� Burke drawled. He seemed to be amused, but you can never tell, particularly when he�s on a case. �Meet Mr. Asa Baker,� he continued, pointing a blunt thumb at me.

Desta Dwight looked me over appraisingly. �Didn�t you write a book once?� she asked bluntly. �Seems to me I read one by that name, and it stunk,� she told me candidly. �How come you picked out such a screwball to do your masterminding? Except for one of your eyes, you�re much better looking. Jerry Burke! Christ Almighty! No wonder murders go unsolved around El Paso if the citizens depend on a dope like him to do their detecting.�

I grinned at Burke, who was filling his pipe and pretending not to be interested.

�I�ll see if I can�t imbue him with a brain or two,� I promised. �You knew Leslie Young, did you?�

She shrugged slim bare shoulders. �I met him... once.� She paused, her strange small eyes narrowing. �He tried to make me.�

�To make you what?� Burke asked interestedly. He had his pipe going, and he took it from his mouth and pointed it at her.

She exploded with shrill laughter. �What do you think?�

�I�d still like to know,� Burke persisted mildly.

�Let it pass,� I said hastily. �Tell me what you meant about Leslie Young and your father.�

�He was a red-eyed radical. He thought it was swell when the Spicks stole all Pop�s oil wells. He hated the guts of anyone with a bank account. When Pops put on the pressure to get Hardiman and Senor Rodriguez together...� She clamped her teeth together suddenly and did not go on.

�We�re listening,� Burke told her.

�I�m not supposed to talk about that.�

�This is a murder investigation.�

�Don�t tell them anything... except they might get the hell out and quit bothering us.� Marvin Moore finished his julep and swayed upright to his feet.

Jerry Burke put out his hand and said, �Wait,� as Desta Dwight started to get up. There was a note in his voice that made even that wilful child of riches settle back on her haunches.

�You don�t like Mrs. Young, do you?� he asked her.

�Why should I like her? Sneaking over here to see Pops before her own husband�s cold.�

�She seemed rather nice to me.�

�She affects all men that way.� Desta sniffed scornfully and got up. �It�s the way she twitches her butt.� The girl yawned, arched her slim back, thrust small tight breasts against the silken triangle. �Look me up if you run any murderers out of their rat-holes.� With this parting shot she strolled off languidly with Marvin to a side entrance.

Burke knocked out his pipe and looked after her. �So, that�s what they call a flapper.�

I laughed out loud. �You�re hopelessly outdated, Jerry. Desta Dwight is to the Flapper Era what the flapper was to the Mauve Decade. The flappers were consciously proud of shocking their elders. The present generation simply doesn�t realize it is shocking. The last I heard they were called �jitterbugs,� but I may be somewhat outmoded myself.�

Burke grinned mirthlessly. �Well... you�d better hunt yourself a streamlined detective.�

�I�m perfectly satisfied,� I told him.

�What did you make of the dope she spilled?� he asked.

�We already know Myra Young has sneaked over here. Now we have a daughter�s suspicion that the widow has designs on her father. If Dwight is interested... as the girl intimated... it furnishes Myra with a nice motive for murder.�

�There was a mention that she had stalled off Dwight�s advances previous to her husband�s death,� Burke reminded me. �Raymond Dwight has a nasty reputation for taking a woman when he wants her. Perhaps Myra�s refusal was on the level, and he had to make away with Leslie before he could get what he wanted. That would give him a motive.�

Burke paused and squinted up at the balcony where the telescope was mounted on its squatty tripod. �I�m curious to know just what can be seen from up there,� he said. He stepped back a few feet to get a fuller view.

�Why didn�t you ask Desta? You might have had the luxury of a deep blush for her answer.� I grinned at him, but he replied in a serious tone:

�I didn�t want them to realize I was interested. That kind will drop more information casually than under cross-examinaiton. Like the hint she dropped about Hardiman and the Mexicans.�

We went to the front door and Burke rang the bell. A pot-bellied butler in dark livery opened the door.

�We want to see Mrs. Leslie Young at once,� he said.

The butler blinked. �I believe she�s in the drawing room with Mr. Dwight. I wouldn�t wish to interrupt...�

�That�s all right.� Burke pushed past the butler�s protruding abdomen. �We�re the law and we�re investigating murder.�

�Quite so, sir.� The butler sounded as though murder investigations were normal routine at the Dwight mansion.

�We�ll see Mrs. Young as soon as she finishes her conference with Dwight,� Burke told him. �In the meantime, I want to have a good look through the telescope.�

�Very good, sir.� The butler snapped his fingers at a maid wearing a frilly apron, who was coming down the hall. �Show these policemen the telescope balcony.�

We followed her up a stairway leading off the hall, to double glass doors opening onto the balcony which was littered with lounging chairs and sun umbrellas. Burke said, �Thanks,� and closed the door behind me as I followed him out.

The balcony was high enough so it overlooked the tops of trees dotting the lawn in front of the house. A large telescope was mounted on a heavy tripod near the railing. Burke dropped into the leather-cushioned chair set conveniently behind it, leaned forward and squinted through the eyepiece. It was mounted on a knuckle-bearing which allowed it to swing up and down as well as around in a circle.

I stood behind him while he adjusted the focus and moved it back and forth over a small arc. He got up after a few minutes and motioned for me to have a look.

It was a powerful glass. Burke had it focussed directly on the flat roof above the screened back porch of the Young cottage. A rustic stairway led up to the roof from the outside. I felt as though I could reach forward and touch an outspread blanket on the roof, an open book lying face downward beside it, a water pitcher and a glass. The connection between sunbathing and a telescope was cinched, just as I had known it would be. Had there been a nude figure lying on the blanket every intimate detail would have been revealed to me... a mile away.

I swung the telescope downward, adjusting the knurled focussing screw as I did so. Treetops on the Dwight estate cut off the view about halfway down the slope from the Young cabin to the gully where Young had been murdered.

Watching me, Burke said: �I thought of that too, Asa. But it doesn�t work. The crime couldn�t have been witnessed through this telescope.�

I swung the telescope up and brought the city of El Paso vividly into focus. Sitting comfortably in that cushioned chair, one could clearly see the features of people walking in the Plaza; the glimmering serpentine of the Rio Grande seemed just over the brow of the slope, and the quiet Mexican countryside was clearly revealed.

Burke was pacing up and down puffing on his pipe when I got up. He gestured across the valley toward the Young cottage with a grimace.

�It�s a hell of a note when a woman can�t have privacy on her own roof out here in the wilderness.�

I said: �A certain type of man gets a kick out of that peeping tom stuff.�

�Men like Raymond Dwight?� Burke�s jaws clamped his pipestem tightly.

I hesitated, trying to recall all the rumors I had heard about the private life of the oil baron. �That�s hard to say. He has money enough to buy all the women he�s wanted since his wife died.�

�Lots of men want what they can�t buy.�

Without pretending to be a psychologist, I knew what Burke was getting at. It wasn�t difficult to conceive aroused male passion at the small end of a telescope focussed on the naked body of Myra Young enjoying a sun-bath. Dwight had a reputation for going after anything he wanted with a ruthless disregard for human rights. If he desired a woman enough...

Burke interrupted by train of thought. �There�s no use wasting time guessing. Let�s go down and ask him.�

He went inside through the curtained glass doors and I followed him downstairs. The butler was hovering anxiously around the foot of the stairs.

�We�ll see Mr. Dwight now,� Burke told him.

�I thought you wished to see Mrs. Young, sir.�

�We�ll take them both in our stride. Is the drawing room down this way?� Burke started down the richly carpeted hall.

The butler trotted along with a worried frown on his face. �I had instructions they were not to be disturbed, sir. Definite instructions...�

�I�ll take full responsibility. You needn�t announce us. In fact... I prefer not to be announced. Show us the drawing room.�

�Here, sir.� The butler indicated closed sliding doors. �But, if I may offer a suggestion...�

�Offer it,� said Burke genially, �and be damned.� He opened the sliding doors and stepped inside the long drawing room.

I was at his heels. The couple on the window seat at the far end of the room didn�t hear us. It was like a movie close-up with the villain straining the woman to him while she futilely tried to push him away.

Jerry Burke cleared his throat when we were halfway across the thick rug.

Raymond Dwight came to his feet like a released spring, his dark face flushed with anger. Myra shrank back on the window seat, one hand going to the loose top buttons of her khaki shirt.

�What the devil does this mean?� Dwight�s voice was a heavy bellow of rage.

�My name is Burke...�

�I don�t give a goddamn who or what you are. Get out of here!�

Jerry Burke set his big frame solidly as the millionaire stalked toward him with outjutted jaw.

�I�m the law, Dwight,� he said coldly. �Your millions don�t make you exempt.�

Myra Young got up and came to Dwight�s side. Her gaze rested on us scornfully. �It�s the policemen I told you about, Mr. Dwight. The ones who came to my cabin and threatened me.�

Then she challenged Burke: �Have you a warrant for my arrest?�

�Not yet,� he told her evenly. �Chief Jelcoe is probably swearing out one for you. The charge is going to be first degree murder, Mrs. Young.�

Raymond Dwight�s heavy jaw sagged ludicrously. Then it snapped shut. �What right have you to enter a private residence? I�ll have your stripes for this intrusion.�

�I have no stripes,� Burke told him drily. �I�m laying my cards before Mrs. Young on the chance that she may wish to amplify her previous testimony.�

Myra Young linked her arm in Dwight�s. �We were just... talking about it.�

Dwight still faced Burke angrily. �Are you threatening Mrs. Young?�

�No indeed,� Burke assured him. �I noted that she hurried over here by an unobserved back trail to interview you as soon as she realized we were closing in on her. I merely wondered why.�

Mrs. Young started guiltily and a spot of color glowed in her cheeks. She started to say something, checked herself.

Dwight patted her arm and said: �If either Mrs. Young or I have a statement to make it will be in private to the highest authority. Not to some insolent...�

Burke moved back and sank easily into a deep chair, interrupting Dwight: �I�m giving you this opportunity to make a statement to one in competent authority. I don�t believe you heard my name. It was Burke. Jerry Burke. And this is my assistant, Asa Baker.�

Raymond Dwight started to sputter an angry retort, then looked at me for the first time. He swallowed his words and looked again.

�I believe you two have met before... across the Border, wasn�t it? Baker was acting for me last night.� Burke�s easy manner changed to one of authoritative briskness: �If you can throw any light on this murder investigation, Mr. Dwight, I�m waiting to hear it.�

The millionaire and the widow exchanged glances. Dwight cleared his throat and led Myra Young to a chair. Then he went to the sliding doors and closed them tightly. Coming back to stand by Myra, his attitude was protective.

�A cigar, Mr. Burke? Mr. Baker?� He held out an open leather case, and when we both refused he selected a blunt perfecto, clipped the end and lit it with a jeweled lighter. Myra�s hands gripped the arms of her chair tightly and I felt that she was going to scream if something didn�t break in a hurry.

Raymond Dwight�s fingers touched her shoulder as he said: �I�ll be frank with you, Mr. Burke. Man to man, eh? May I have your word that what is said here in confidence will go no further?�

Burke was carefully filling his pipe from a worn pouch. He didn�t look up. �I want Leslie Young�s murderer. I reserve the right to use any information you give me as I see fit to serve justice. I am not, however, desirous of dragging the name of any innocent person into the limelight.�

�Very fair indeed. I�m going to trust you, Mr. Burke. We... Myra and I... have to trust you. At the moment you so unceremoniously burst into this room I was on the point of advising Mrs. Young that suspicion of murder was not to be trifled with even at the cost of... ah... certain embarrassing revelations. Was I not, my dear?� He looked down at Myra Young with as nearly a fatuous expression as his heavy features could contrive.

Her underlip was caught between strong teeth and she was staring at the floor. Her �Yes� was faint.

Burke said: �She�s in a tough spot. She had the motive, the opportunity... and no alibi.�

�Suppose she produces an alibi, Mr. Burke?�

�It�ll have to be a good one.�

�An unimpeachable alibi, Mr. Burke.�

Jerry Burke shrugged. �I�m listening.� I had a hunch he pretty well knew what was coming.

Raymond Dwight blew out a cloud of blue smoke and said: �I understand Mr. Young was shot and killed at two-thirty yesterday afternoon.�

Burke nodded. �Approximately.�

�I am prepared to swear to an alibi for Mrs. Young between two-fifteen and four o�clock yesterday afternoon.�

Burke�s expression didn�t change when Dwight delivered that bombshell. Damn the man! He�s utterly inhuman. Even if he was expecting to hear just that, I don�t see how he could take it so calmly. He merely asked:

�Why did Mrs. Young withhold that vital information when we first questioned her?�

I was watching the widow. She flinched as Dwight answered suavely:

�She hoped it might not become necessary to reveal this fact. Innocent of any crime, she did not realize that she might actually be suspected of her husband�s death. It was not until you and your associates began cleverly weaving a web of circumstantial evidence about her that she realized it was no time for quibbling.�

�So she slipped over here to discuss it with you?�

�Exactly.� Raymond Dwight met Burke�s gaze unwaveringly.

�Where was she at the time her husband was murdered?�

�At home.�

�She told us that. What can you add to her former statement?�

�I was with her during the period in question.�

Myra�s eyelids quivered shut.

�Without her husband�s knowledge?�

�Er... yes. You can understand her natural reluctance...�

�Did you know her husband would be away at that time?�

�Yes.�

�How?� Burke was shooting out the questions like bullets.

Raymond Dwight glanced uncomfortably down at Myra. She lay back with closed eyes and heaving breasts. It evidently wasn�t a pleasant session for her.

The millionaire pursed his lips and blew out a cloud of smoke. �I realize this is no time for concealment or half-truths, Mr. Burke. I have a telescope mounted upon my front balcony. You can easily determine that through it I can be aware of every movement at the home of my neighbor across the valley.� He paused, fumbling for words, went on slowly:

�Some time ago we arranged a signal which would indicate to me that Mr. Young would be away for an appreciable period and I would be... er... a welcome visitor. I was at the telescope yesterday afternoon and saw him ride away on horseback at two o�clock. Shortly thereafter, the signal was flashed to me by Myra. I walked across the old path leading directly to the cottage and was there within fifteen minutes. I did not leave until four o�clock.�

�Is this true?� Burke threw the question at Myra.

She opened her eyes but did not stir. �Why not? Did Les give me any reason to be faithful to him? What was he doing at two-thirty? I had as much right as he to step out.�

Burke shrugged his shoulders. �This isn�t a morals hearing. Your statement throws the case wide open again, Dwight.�

�I trust it will go no further.�

�It won�t. Unless further developments make it absolutely necessary.�

�You�d better check up on that Yates woman!� Myra sat erect and the words were hissed out between set teeth. �Les practically admitted he was going to meet her when he rode away from the house.�

�He did meet her,� Burke admitted affably. �Perhaps she did steal that pistol, Mrs. Young.�

I stared at him, wondering if he meant it. His expression didn�t tell me anything.

Dwight was helping Myra up, bending over her solicitously. �I�m sure Mr. Burke doesn�t wish to detain you longer, my dear.�

�No.� Burke didn�t get up. �But I�d like to think this thing out a little, Dwight. I may wish to question some of your servants.�

�Certainly.� Dwight went out with his hand under Myra�s arm, and I had a funny all-gone feeling of not knowing what the hell it was all about.

�And that,� said Jerry Burke, �is positively that.�

I grimaced at the doors which had closed behind the couple. �Things like that keep me thinking I�ve been smart to stay a bachelor.�

�I guess no man ever knows about a woman. I would have sworn she was in love with Leslie.�

�She had Dwight�s daughter fooled too,� I pointed out. �The girl thought there hadn�t been anything between them previously.�

Burke�s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. �The under-surface stuff dredged up in the course of a murder investigation continually amazes me.�

�You weren�t surprised by her alibi,� I charged.

�N-o-o. I had a hunch she had an ace up her sleeve. She was entirely too unconcerned about being suspected. Jelcoe didn�t worry her with those .25 bullets. She almost had to have an out that we knew nothing about.�

�Where does it leave us?�

�I�m afraid,� he said soberly, �we�ll have to start barking at Laura Yates� heels.�

I had felt that coming and was braced against it. Somehow, goddamn it, I didn�t like to think in that direction. It was something I hadn�t figured out. I hated myself for feeling physically attracted by Laura.

Mentally, she irritated me. I felt that her outward calm was inhuman and that it had to be a pose... and I detest posing females. I couldn�t forget that she had listened to the story of Young�s death with as much emotion as she would have shown over the announcement that her car had a flat tire.

And I couldn�t forget that she had kissed him a few minutes before he died. The memory of her kiss in the darkened upstairs room of the hacienda still plagued me, and I found myself wondering how much she would have emoted if I�d been shot five minutes later.

�On the other hand,� Burke�s speculative voice recalled me to the present, �there are other angles. I can�t rid myself of the feeling that the warning for Young to stay away from the hacienda is definitely tied up with his death.�

�Here�s a hunch!� I spoke excitedly. �Myra answered the telephone while her husband was absent and replied to the anonymous telephoner without consulting Leslie. In view of what we�ve just learned... that she was tangled up in an affair with her millionaire neighbor... we know she had a good reason for wanting Leslie out of the way. How do we know the voice over the wire wasn�t more specific than she admits... we have only her unsupported word for what was said. Instead of doing the natural thing... putting the woman off, promising to urge Leslie not to go, playing for time... she admits accepting the challenge, taunting the threatener with the announcement that Leslie would go in spite of the threat.�

Burke was nodding. �That begins to make sense, Asa. There might even have been a definite threat which she hasn�t told us about. She might have watched Leslie ride away at two o�clock, knowing it was the last time she would see him alive.�

�Then hurried to signal Raymond Dwight to come on over,� I carried the theory on. �Providing herself with a perfect alibi in case she needed it.�

�Going on from that premise... we�d better start looking for a woman with a good reason for preventing Leslie Young from keeping his appointment in Mexico with the O�Toole girl.�

We sat and looked at each other in silence until I said: �That certainly puts Laura Yates in the clear. Of all the females involved she had the strongest reason for hoping Leslie would keep the appointment.�

�Unless,� Burke said drily, �she realized it was something big and didn�t want to split the story with him.�

�But she wouldn�t have been waiting out in the rain for a man whom she knew to be dead,� I objected.

�It would have been smart to pretend to be waiting for him. And if she was after a story, she had to get to the hacienda somehow.�

Jerry Burke was like that, damn his soul. He has the uncanny faculty of looking beneath the surface for hidden motives not apparent to a guileless person like myself. I was suddenly glad I wasn�t cursed with a suspicious mind which couldn�t take any fact or person at face value. I said so, somewhat sulkily, I�m afraid.

Burke was unmoved. �There�s only one basis for a murder investigation, Asa. We must assume the possible guilt of every man or woman even indirectly involved, and scrutinize every action of every suspect on the assumption that it may be motivated by murder. On that basis, we cannot yet eliminate Miss Yates.�

�Let�s scrutinize the actions of some of the others on that same basis,� I muttered lamely.

�Exactly what I intend to do. The anonymous telephonist was a woman, according to Myra�s testimony. Only four women are thus far involved: Mrs. Young, Laura Yates, Michaela O�Toole, and... Desta Dwight.�

He smiled grimly when I started with surprise at hearing the last name on his list.

�I�m not at all sure that she doesn�t know more than she�s told us. She admits knowing Leslie Young.�

�She had just met him once,� I objected.

�According to her statement.�

There it was again. Another instance of my guileless acceptance of a statement as fact. I stammered something about making a lousy detective, and Burke agreed, with a grin which took the sting out of it. Then he settled back seriously to his theorizing:

�Going back to our four women: Myra is out... she received the telephoned warning. I�ve conjured up a thin motive for Laura Yates wanting Young to stay away from the hacienda. Thin... but possible. Michaela O�Toole is definitely out. She wouldn�t write a note asking him to come, and then turn around and kill him to prevent it. That leaves Desta Dwight to be considered.�

�What possible motive can you conjure up for her?�

�Until we know the real object of the meeting of these various people at the hacienda, we can�t do much guessing. She let it slip that her father had some plan for bringing political pressure on Rufus Hardiman in regard to Mexican oil payments. We also know that Desta recognized Leslie Young as a stumbling-block in the way of forcing any such payments from Mexico. By her own admission, her father just laughed at her when she warned him against Young. What would be more natural than for a headstrong young girl like that to decide to take matters in her own hands and remove the menace to her father�s business dealings with the Mexican government?�

�All I hope is that you don�t start analyzing me for a motive.�

He grinned that slow grin of his, then said: �I�m interested in the identity of the Senor Rodriguez Desta mentioned.�

�Dwight was talking with someone in another room when we first reached the hacienda,� I reminded him. �It could have been the unknown Senor Rodriguez.�

Burke was refilling his pipe, an expression of intense concentration on his face.

�I�m going to build up a hypothetical case and I want you to tear it to pieces if you can. It�s evident that Dwight�s daughter is more or less in her father�s confidence. Suppose she was aware that Rufus Hardiman isn�t simply vacationing here... that her father has brought pressure to bear in the right places in Washington and has persuaded the State Department to abandon their hands-off policy in regard to oil payments... that Hardiman is here in his official capacity to present a note demanding payment for expropriated property to an accredited representative of the Mexican Government... one Senor Rodriguez, shall we say? Secrecy is necessary because the demand for payment is being made only on Dwight�s behalf... leaving the rest of the owners of seized property to hold the bag... so they arrange to meet secretly at the Hacienda del Torro...�

�Aided and abetted by Michaela O�Toole?� I scoffed. �She�s on the other side of the fence, Jerry. She would be doing her best to prevent such a meeting.�

�Exactly.� Burke�s eyes were shining. �Through some hold on Rodriguez she plans to be present and stop it if she can. Needing help and knowing Leslie Young by reputation to hold views similar to hers, mightn�t she invite him to join the conference? It would explain her rather strangely-phrased note. Young, not knowing what it�s all about, might mention the note to Desta Dwight who would immediately realize the importance of keeping him away from the hacienda. She tries a telephone message... then an automatic. Remember, there is well over a hundred million dollars involved. Enough motive for a million murders.�

I was hanging on the ropes by that time, too confused by Burke�s relentless logic to offer a single objection. Also, I suppose I was ready to grab at any straw that pointed away from Laura Yates. I said:

�You make it sound swell. All we need is to prove a few of those hunches.�

�We�ll start right now,� he said as Raymond Dwight came back into the drawing room followed by a servant with a tray of glasses, whiskey, and a siphon.

When the man had set the tray down and withdrawn, Dwight mixed whiskey and soda in three glasses and gave us each one.

�I sent Mrs. Young home in my car to pack a bag and return,� he said casually. �It is naturally a strain on her to stay alone in that house with its unpleasant memories, so I�ve invited her to remain here as my house-guest for as long as she wishes.�

Personally, I thought they had their nerve... with Myra�s husband not buried yet, but I guess a few million dollars make a man contemptuous of the conventions. Burke nodded as though it was a perfectly natural development, and said:

�There are several points you can clear up for me, Mr. Dwight.�

The financier settled himself with his glass. �I�m happy to cooperate, Burke. Though I don�t see what possible help I can give you.�

�Did you know Leslie Young had been invited to be present at the Hacienda del Torro last night?�

Dwight showed surprise at the question. �Indeed?� He glanced coldly at me. �I suppose that explains your attempt to impersonate him.�

�A point which may have a direct bearing on his murder is that he was warned by telephone at noon yesterday by an anonymous person not to keep the appointment. I want to know who might have been interested in keeping him away.�

Raymond Dwight�s face remained impassive as he realized the turn Burke�s questioning was taking.

�I�m sure I can�t help you there,� he said stiffly. Then: �Who invited him to the hacienda?�

�Miss O�Toole.�

He had the blank face of a professional gambler. Not a flicker of emotion disturbed it. But his eyes were keenly alert. �Exactly what do you want from me, Burke?�

�I want you to tell me the purpose of the meeting at the hacienda. That might give me a clue as to why someone wanted to be very sure Leslie Young was not present.�

�I am not at liberty to tell you.�

�You mean you won�t?�

�Bluntly, yes. I will go so far as to say it was a private matter and could not possibly have any bearing on the murder you�re investigating.�

�But the telephoned threat! What do you make of that?�

Dwight smiled thinly. �I�m not a detective, Mr. Burke. You�ll have to draw your own conclusions.�

Burke relaxed and stretched out his long frame. �Why is Rufus Hardiman a guest in your house?�

�He came here at my invitation.�

�Why did you invite him?�

Dwight�s dark face flushed. �Need I explain why I invite a friend to pay me a visit?�

�Oh. Is Hardiman a personal friend?� There was a peculiar inflection to Burke�s voice. I knew he was leading up to something but I�ll be damned if I could see what.

Dwight said: �Of course,� impatiently.

�A friend of long standing?�

�Why... yes.�

Burke blew an indolent puff of smoke toward the high ceiling. �That�s queer. Department of Justice agents in Washington answered my telegraphic query with a report this morning that questioning of Hardiman�s family and associates indicated that you and he were wholly unacquainted before he made this trip.�

I couldn�t suppress a start of surprise. There was Burke for you again. Always about two jumps ahead of me.

Dwight finished his whiskey and soda and set the glass down with a thump. �He is a friend of a friend, shall we say?�

Burke nodded approvingly. �That�s thinking fast. I�m beginning to understand how you built a fortune out of nothing in the oil game. However, I take the liberty of assuming that his presence here at your house has more significance than a mere social visit.�

�You assume a great deal, Mr. Burke.� There was an edge of roughness to Dwight�s voice.

�That�s one of my bad habits,� Burke told him equably. �In this case I base my assumption upon nothing more definite than the meeting you have arranged between Mr. Hardiman of the State Department and Senor Rodriguez of Mexico.�

That shot in the dark hit home. A bilious flush mottled the millionaire�s dark cheeks. �You�re welcome to your assumptions, of course.�

�Thank you.� From Burke�s tone I knew he was enjoying himself. �How far is Rodriguez empowered to go in negotiating a private agreement for your benefit?�

Dwight didn�t reply. Instead, he pushed an ivory call-button on the table. To the servant who came in response, he said harshly: �Show these men out.�

Jerry Burke relaxed a little more comfortably. �We can find our way out without a guide, thank you. We�re not leaving just yet.�

�I�ll have you thrown out,� Dwight blustered. �You can�t come here with your insinuations...�

�...that you are making a cat�s-paw out of Rufus Hardiman to negotiate a favorable personal settlement for yourself with the Mexican government?� Burke finished for him coolly. �But I am here, Mr. Dwight. And that isn�t an insinuation. It�s an accusation.�

I thought Raymond Dwight was going to have a crack at tossing Burke out unaided. That would have been worth seeing, but he got a grip on his anger and sank back in his chair.

The servant was still waiting at the door, undecided and frightened.

�Get out of here,� Dwight growled at him. �Bring the gardener and chauffeur with you if I ring again.�

The man backed away, mumbling: �Yes sir Mr. Dwight, but...�

�But what?� roared Dwight.

�I was to tell you, sir, that Miss O�Toole and her escort are here to see you, sir.�

Burke spoke before Dwight could answer. �Bring them in here.�

His voice held an inflexible quality which silenced any protest Dwight might have offered.

The man looked inquiringly at his employer, hurried away when Dwight nodded assent.

Things had been happening too fast for me to keep up with them. I was sitting on the edge of my chair, breathing fast and wondering how far Burke could carry his bluff. A queer shiver went down my spine when the servant announced Michaela O�Toole. I had a hunch there would really be fireworks when she came in.

The ensuing silence was awkward and strained. It was clear that Raymond Dwight was restraining his anger with difficulty. I suppose it had been a lot of years since he had been pushed around by any man. Jerry Burke certainly had a way about him. I had never admired him more than while watching him handle the oil man. Without the slightest bluster, he was so damned sure of himself that he was a difficult man to oppose.

We were all sitting there in strained attitudes when Michaela O�Toole and a male companion were ushered into the room. It was the man whom she had called Pasqual... the Mexican who had met us at the door and later herded Laura and me up to the locked bedroom.

Michaela wore a simple dark dress which enhanced rather than detracted from the vivid quality of her beauty. I don�t want to go poetic, but Michaela did bring something into a room. Standing quietly inside the sliding doors with a questioning look for Burke, eyebrows raised in surprise as she recognized me, she was clothed in a tangible aura of glamour which vitalized the atmosphere.

I turned my attention to Jerry Burke after one glance at Michaela. More than anything else, I wanted to see how he would react to her.

He stood up as Dwight went to her, his gaze gravely fixed on her face as he stood waiting for his host to bring her forward. He looked as stolid and unimpressed as though this was just an ordinary occasion. It wasn�t until she came close and unleashed the deep blue of her Irish-Indian eyes upon him that I saw a flicker of interest light his face.

Neither of them smiled as Dwight said bluntly: �This is a policeman who insists upon questioning you, Miss O�Toole,� and I had the feeling that they were measuring each other. In the silence my quickened perceptions seemed to catch a ringing sound as of two unsheathed blades clashing dangerously.

The moment was past and Burke was bowing stiffly. �I�m delighted to meet a friend of Leslie Young�s.�

If he expected to catch Michaela off-guard he had underestimated her. In her liquid voice with its undertone of Irish blarney, she replied:

�It is too bad to disappoint you, Mr. Policeman.�

�Are you going to tell me you didn�t know Leslie Young?�

�Why not?�

�You wrote him a note asking him to come to the Hacienda del Torro last night.�

She shrugged. �But yes.� The corners of her mouth were upcurved and I knew she was baiting Burke.

The rest of us had been standing there like statues during the interchange, and Dwight suddenly took a hand:

�We may as well sit down,� he suggested gruffly. �And allow me to finish the introductions: Mr. Baker, Miss O�Toole... and he assures me that Baker is actually his name. Senor Pasqual Morales, Burke and Baker.�

Pasqual moved to Michaela�s side and nodded to us jerkily. His beady black eyes flickered from Burke to me with definite menace. He had a folded newspaper gripped tightly in his right hand, and looked uncomfortable in an ill-fitting suit of blue serge, but his manner plainly indicated that he was determined not to be intimidated by us nor by the unaccustomed luxury of his surroundings.

We all sat down and Dwight rang for cracked ice and more glasses. Burke took a chair in front of Michaela and continued his questioning as though it hadn�t been interrupted:

�Do you make a habit of writing letters to strange American men?�

�But no, Senor Policeman. You make the joke, no?�

�No,� Burke growled. �I want to know why you wrote Young that letter... if you didn�t know him.�

Michaela had a way of opening her eyes wide with child-like simplicity. She used it effectively. �Must I give reasons for letters I write?�

It was parry and riposte, with no advantage to either verbal fencer. Burke shifted his attack:

�You know Young has been murdered?�

�The police told me last night when I called for them to come and take this man away.� She glanced at me with her wide eyes, then back at Burke.

�I have reason to believe your invitation to the hacienda was directly responsible for Young�s death.� Burke hammered the words at her.

She merely looked surprised, but Dwight leaned forward and exclaimed:

�I think you should explain that insinuation, Burke.�

�I�m asking for explanations... not giving them,� Burke told him evenly, without taking his eyes from Michaela�s face.

The servant came with a pitcher of cracked ice and two more glasses. Dwight�s big hands shook as he mixed a drink for his guests from across the border.

�I�m still waiting for an answer,� Burke told Michaela.

She shrugged her shoulders insolently and black lashes came down to shield her eyes. �I think you will wait a long time, Senor Policeman.�

�Aren�t you interested in helping me find the murderer of your father�s old friend?�

That thrust brought Michaela�s eyelashes up. You could almost see her readjusting her mental defences before she answered: �You are smart... for a policeman.�

�Thanks,� Burke acknowledged grimly. �Policemen aren�t always as dumb as detective story writers would have you believe. I know some other things, too. For instance: Do you want to explain what you and your companion were doing up this canyon yesterday afternoon while Leslie Young was getting himself murdered?�

The silence was electric. Dwight�s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. I sensed a furtive movement at my left and I glanced over at Pasqual in time to see his right hand gliding into his coat pocket. He leaned forward tensely, glaring at Burke.

I was as surprised as any of the others. I didn�t see why in hell Burke couldn�t tell me things so I�d be prepared for them beforehand. This was my first intimation that Michaela and Pasqual had been north of the Rio Grande yesterday.

�I have not said we were here.� Michaela sounded uncertain for the first time since the inquisition started.

�But I know you were here. You stopped at a filling station at the mouth of the canyon at two-thirty to inquire your way to the Dwight estate. I have your description and the license number of your car.�

�Perhaps we were coming to visit Mr. Dwight... if we asked the way to his house.�

�Which puts you conveniently at the scene of murder just when it was happening.�

�I cannot help that, Senor Policeman. I did not plan it so.� The girl was getting her second wind.

�Just another coincidence,� Burke muttered bleakly. He swung from her to glare at Pasqual. �Your boy-friend doesn�t happen to be jealous of Americans to whom you write notes, does he?�

Pasqual glared back at him, breathing heavily. His hand was lumped in his pocket and I knew his kind was as dangerous as a coiled diamond-back.

Burke didn�t seem to realize the danger of pushing him too far. He got up and took a step toward the Mexican with outstretched hand. �There�s a law in this country about carrying concealed weapons. Better hand it over, Pasqual, before it goes off and hurts someone.�

There was a long moment while anything might have happened. Then Pasqual�s eyes flickered toward Michaela and he must have received some signal from her for he relaxed visibly. His brown hand came slowly out of his pocket with a snubnosed revolver clutched in his fingers. Burke took it, glanced at it and dropped it in his own pocket.

�Unfortunately, it isn�t a .25,� he said shortly, going back and sitting down.

Michaela finished her highball and stood up. �If this is ended, Senor Policeman, I would like to speak to Mr. Dwight in private.�

�We don�t seem to be making much headway, do we?� Burke stood up with an unabashed smile. �Baker and I will get out of the way, but I�m going to ask you not to leave the grounds, Miss O�Toole. We�ll continue our question-and-answer game later.� He nodded at me and strolled toward the door.

I went out with him. Dwight followed us and slammed the sliding doors together.

�Why the hell do you keep hiding things from me?� I asked him.

�Such as what?� He was leading the way toward the front of the house and he sounded pleased with himself.

�Such as Michaela and her shadow being here yesterday afternoon.�

�I wasn�t at all sure of it myself. It was more or less a shot in the dark. It�s one of the things Jelcoe turned up in the course of his investigation yesterday afternoon. The filling station man remembered the beautiful girl in a car with a Mexican license.�

He stopped a maid and asked her where the butler was. She took us to a curtained alcove off the front hall where the butler was relaxed in a deep chair with the top buttons of his uniform pants loosened. He jumped up and looked flustered when we barged in, but Burke waved him back to his chair.

�Just checking up on a couple of unimportant items. What time did Miss O�Toole and her companion arrive here yesterday afternoon?�

�I think it was in the neighborhood of three o�clock, sir.�

�Was Mr. Dwight here to receive them?�

�No sir... that is, I couldn�t make any definite statement concerning Mr. Dwight�s whereabouts, sir.�

�What do you mean by that?�

�Merely that I am not accustomed to inquire closely into the master�s movements, sir.�

�But you showed the guests in, didn�t you? Give me a straight answer. Was Dwight here at the time or wasn�t he?�

�I really cannot say, sir.�

�Goddamn it!� Jerry Burke�s fist pounded down and an ink-well jumped an inch above the desk in front of the butler. �Did you announce them or did you just leave them standing at the door?�

The butler stood up and faced Burke with the dignity that only a bloated belly can give a man. �I showed them to the drawing room, sir, and sent a maid to summon Mr. Hardiman who was resting in his room.�

�Then they came to see Hardiman... not Dwight?�

�Quite correct, sir.�

�Why the hell didn�t you say so in the first place?�

�You did not ask me, sir.�

A low giggle from the hall outside interrupted this interesting dialogue. It was followed by a muffled voice:

�Did you ever hear anything so utterly dumb in all your life? Even our butler twists him around his finger.�

Burke jerked the curtains aside and caught Desta Dwight�s arm as she jumped back from her eavesdropping position with a little squeal of fright. Marvin Moore stood beside her with a vacuous grin on his face. They had both changed to sport clothes and it was evident that they had kept right on drinking after leaving us on the lawn.

Burke said: �You need a paddling, young lady,� and Desta swayed close to him, gurgling, �Why, Mr. Burke.�

�Leggo her arm.� Marvin tried to push between them, his peevish face abruptly hard � surprisingly so.

Burke gave her an impatient shove into the arms of her escort. �Take her away,� he growled. Then, to me with a sigh: �What a madhouse. The logical way to hunt a murderer here would be to count them out with an eeny meeny miney moe. Come on outside where we can talk and try to think.�

The sun was below the treetops when we stepped outside. The peaceful hush of evening lay softly upon the sloping hillside. Murder seemed remote and intangible. �How does it add up?� I asked Burke as we strolled across the velvety grass.

He shook his head with a frown. �It doesn�t add worth a damn. Every time I untie one knot I come on two more tangles. It isn�t over yet.� He was talking more to himself than to me. He paused beneath a tree to light his pipe. A car was coming up the driveway, screened from our eyes by the thick hedge. His gaze rested somberly on the Young cabin across the narrow valley, and I wondered what he was thinking about.

The front door slammed loudly behind us. We turned and saw Raymond Dwight hurrying across the grass, waving a newspaper over his head. He was apoplectic with anger.

�Who�s responsible for this outrage?� His voice reminded me of a bull�s infuriated bellow. �Someone, by God, will pay for this.� He kept on howling unprintable threats while Burke reached out and took the afternoon edition of the El Paso Free Press from him. A two-inch headline screamed:

While Dwight stamped up and down, pulling out his hair and cursing, Burke began reading aloud:

Burke folded the paper with a shrug and a grimace. �Someone seems to have been talking out of turn. The Free Press is still after my scalp and is using this as a basis for another personal attack. It doesn�t even mention your name, Dwight. What the hell are you raving about?�

Raymond Dwight waved clenched fists above his head. �What am I raving about? Good God, man! don�t you realize that this publicity is likely to be absolutely fatal? People will be sure to misinterpret and condemn what is in reality a legitimate business coup. If I could get my hands on the dirty louse who caused these filthy insinuations to be printed...�

�I thought it was a pretty swell piece of reporting,� a cool voice interrupted Raymond Dwight.

We all wheeled about to confront Laura Yates, who had come up behind us soundlessly on the thick grass. She had a mocking smile on her lips, and appeared as unruffled as though she were guest of honor at a pink tea and making a correctly late entrance.

I hadn�t thought of Laura in connection with the news story, but Jerry Burke didn�t seem at all surprised. He said:

�You didn�t lose any time getting that stuff into print.�

�It�s making headlines all over the country this minute,� she assured him, while Dwight glared at her.

�Who is this woman?�

Burke introduced her to Dwight and she said: �We met rather informally last night... south of the Rio Grande.�

Dwight ignored that. He gestured fiercely toward the paper in Burke�s hand and asked: �Did you cook up this? Are you responsible for this outrageous and libelous attack?� A thick vein throbbed in his forehead.

Laura nodded proudly. �Your name isn�t mentioned, Mr. Dwight, so it�s hardly libelous. I thought it rather good... considering how few actual facts I had to work with.�

Raymond Dwight started toward her with a murderous light in his eyes. �I ought to choke the life out of you! By God, do you realize what your little item is likely to cost me?�

Burke got in front of him, but Laura Yates stepped aside and asked tauntingly:

�How many million, Mr. Dwight?�

The oil man snarled, �Plenty,� and tried to shoulder Burke aside.

Laura laughed. �You admit the private deal you were trying to put over with Rodriguez. Thanks. I�ll quote you on that.� She whirled and started toward her parked coupe.

Struggling with Dwight, Burke snapped curtly at me: �Stop her, Asa. Don�t let her drive away.�

I caught her just as she was getting in her car. With my hand on her wrist I held her from getting under the wheel. �Hold it,� I panted. �Jerry wants you to stick around.�

She gave me a withering glance and tried to jerk loose. �Aren�t you forgetting yourself?�

It was the first word she had addressed to me since she had come up. She might just as well have slapped my face. I jerked her away from the car and for the first time in my life I understood how wife-beating husbands get that way. More than anything in the world, I wanted to crack that mask of cynical hardness on her face.

�You have a hell of a way of respecting confidences,� I told her angrily. �How much did the Free Press pay you for the inside dope we let you in on last night?�

�They paid quite well, thank you. With this additional verification from Mr. Dwight...�

Burke and Dwight came up together. Burke�s hand was tightly on the millionaire�s arm, and Dwight was wiping a slime of saliva from his lips with a silk handkerchief.

�I�ll take care of her,� Burke was saying. �And you�d better send your limousine in for Senor Rodriguez. We�ll have a showdown, here and now.�

�That�ll be just ducky,� Laura Yates said brightly. �I�ll be delighted to sit in on the conference... and I don�t believe there�ll be any more talk of libel when it�s over.�

�How do you stand in this?� Dwight asked Burke, disregarding Laura with an obvious effort.

�All I want is Young�s murderer,� Burke assured him. �I won�t interfere with any of your double-dealing unless it has some connection with the case.�

Dwight�s limousine came purring up the drive just then. Laura�s eyebrows went up when she saw Myra Young getting out of the back seat. She had changed from her mannish costume to a white silk dress with a belt of red leather set jauntily about her hips.

Dwight hurried forward to take her arm, and the chauffeur set two traveling bags out on the concrete.

�More stuff and such,� Laura exclaimed ecstatically. �The Widow Wore White would make a swell lead line.�

�For a story you�re not going to write,� Burke growled.

�But you don�t know what I can do with a sensational sex angle,� she cried with shining eyes. �It looks as though she�s moving in. Did Dwight kill her husband?�

�That,� Burke told her, �is one of the things we don�t know... yet.� He paused, watching Dwight and Myra go in the front door together; went on in a different tone:

�That story was good work. There�s nothing like publicity to smoke out a stink.�

I looked at him in astonishment. �Did you know she was going to sell out to the Free Press?�

Burke laughed. �I could see her itching to get to a typewriter last night... and I knew the Free Press would headline any story they could twist into a slam at me. But I intend to censor your next story,� he went on to Laura. �Where are the keys to your car?�

�In the ignition. But you needn�t be afraid I�ll leave. I�ll stick around and see what happens.�

�I know you won�t leave until you get a story,� Burke agreed. �But we can get along nicely without further publicity until we have Young�s murderer.� He went to Laura�s car and took her ignition keys, stalked away without a backward glance.

Her red lips smiled after him. �What a masterful brute he turned out to be.� Her gaze strayed on to the shabby car with its Mexican license and she ceased smiling. �You didn�t tell me the O�Toole menace was here.�

�You didn�t ask me.�

It was difficult to remain angry with her when she smiled with disarming frankness and said: �Let�s not be stuffy.�

She put her hand on my arm and I let her lead me to a garden seat where we could see the red rim of the sun above the horizon.

�Tell me what�s been happening,� she said as we sat down together.

I took out a pack of cigarettes and offered them to her. She accepted, and leaned close for a light when I struck a match, her eyes fixed on mine.

�You hate me, don�t you?�

I said, �No,� and lit my cigarette.

She sank back, with half-closed eyes contemplating the glowing tip of her cigarette. �We�re both after the same thing... material we can sell. Why do you begrudge me my share of the profits in a nice, juicy, murder?�

The woman was always putting me on the defensive, and I didn�t relish it. �The Free Press is a muckraking sheet,� I told her heatedly. �They�ve been on Jerry Burke�s tail ever since he took the job of cleaning up El Paso.�

�That�s exactly why I sold them my story. No other paper would have played it up so sensationally and brought Rodriguez, Hardiman and Dwight out in the open,� she came back irritably. �Aroused public opinion is going to make it difficult for them to put over a pirate deal.�

�And the Free Press will use the issue as fuel to make another attempt to drive Burke out of town. I have a hunch that in cleaning up El Paso, Burke has cleaned out their pockets to a great extent... theirs and their henchmen�s.�

She laughed softly. �From what I�ve seen of Burke, he gives the impression of not being very good at running. Besides, I dug through some old copies of the Free Press last night and checked up on some of his activities.�

�The Free Press is no criterion for what Burke has done,� I told her. Then I went down the line on how the sheet had tried to hold him back... and also how Jelcoe, with his slapstick sleuthing had given Burke a lot of trouble.

She laughed again when I finished. �Chief Jelcoe came to my apartment with a search warrant after lunch. He wouldn�t tell me what he was looking for, but he seemed awfully disappointed and stamped out after going through all my things and leaving them scattered all over the floor. He refused to discuss the case with me, but left the impression that he would like to pin it on Myra Young.�

�He might have succeeded if Dwight hadn�t popped up with an alibi for her.�

�What does the Mastermind think?�

�You�ll be doing better than I can if you get an opinion out of Jerry Burke,� I answered gloomily. �The only definite statement he has made is that he�s convinced the anonymous telephone threat had a direct connection with Young�s death.�

I was feeling a lot better after my spiel about the Free Press and Jelcoe. I relaxed, and Laura did too, over my way. Presently she said:

�O�Toole will bear watching. I have an idea she can sprout claws on her little soft paws at will. And that hard-faced watchdog of hers looks capable of anything.�

I agreed to that, recalling the dagger he wielded over me and the pistol he held in my ribs. Laura had not met Desta Dwight, and she listened interestedly while I described Desta and our interview with her.

�She sounds like another good suspect,� she commented.

I nodded. �Jerry and I agreed it lay between you and her.� I tried to make my voice sound joking but I�m afraid I wasn�t very successful.

She asked in a low tone: �Do you believe me capable of murder?�

I hesitated, then said: �Yes, damn it, I do.�

She laughed and let her head lie back against my shoulder. �You and I are going to get along. And you�re right... I am perfectly capable of murder.� Her voice was as calm and steady as if she were discussing her ability at tennis or quoits.

A faint chill came with the setting of the sun. Dwight�s chauffeur drove away toward the city and I remember wondering if he was going in to pick up Senor Rodriguez. That would bring all the actors in the life-drama together and I felt that the solution would be a relatively simple one of untangling the various motives and cross-motives of them all.

It was very quiet on the lawn. Serene and peaceful after a hectic twenty-four hours. I had a feeling that it was all over... and I didn�t have half enough material for a book.

An upstairs window was suddenly flung up behind us, and Laura and I turned on the garden seat as a woman�s scream of terror knifed through the soft mantle of twilight.

Through the dim light we saw two women struggling on the ledge of an open window twenty feet above the ground.

The screaming was over by the time we reached the house and were running up the stairway, but we were led by the sound of scuffling and loud voices to a front bedroom where Desta Dwight was struggling in Burke�s arms to get at Myra, who was collapsed on the floor. Dwight and Marvin Moore were also there, and everyone was talking loudly and at the same time.

Desta was pretty drunk. She writhed in Burke�s grip, spitting out non-juvenile epithets at the sobbing widow whose white dress no longer looked jaunty.

Raymond Dwight was gently lifting Myra up from the floor, while Marvin sagged against a bedpost in an alcoholic stupor.

Burke pushed Desta back into a chair and clapped a big hand over her mouth. The stopping of her shrill voice let us hear Dwight saying solicitously to Myra:

�It�s all right, dear. Everything�s going to be all right. If anyone gets thrown out of this house it will be Desta, not you.�

Myra sagged against him, sobbing. There were three ugly red marks on her cheek where Desta had slapped her, and one sleeve of her dress was torn.

Standing in the doorway with me taking it all in, Laura giggled as Burke jerked his hand away from Desta�s mouth with an oath. Blood smeared his palm where she had bitten him.

The girl�s hysteria had left her and she was in that cold unreasoning stage of drunkenness in which a vagrant idea becomes an obsession.

Her obsession-of-the-moment was a violently murderous hatred of Myra Young.

�I�m not going to stand for it. I�ll kill you first. Moving into my room just because it connects with Pops�! No bitch is going to put me out of my own room. Why don�t you move in with Pops and be done with it?� Desta�s voice was controlled but her eyes were crazy.

Dwight tenderly laid Myra back on the bed, then whirled on his daughter: �Shut your mouth, Desta. You�ve caused enough trouble...�

�Not as much as I�m going to cause.� She stood up and Burke stepped back, watching her narrowly.

�I know what�s been going on around here. You haven�t been fooling me. I�m through keeping quiet and when I tell what I know...�

Raymond Dwight moved swiftly for so heavy a man. Before anyone could stop him, he was across the room and his big hand struck his daughter a sweeping blow in the mouth. She sank back limply with a gurgle of fright.

Burke shouldered Dwight aside and stood over the girl. �Go on and tell us what you know,� he commanded. �I�ll see that no one touches you.�

A look of cunning came over Desta�s face. She shook her head, seemingly sobered by her father�s slap. �I don�t know what I was going to say. I guess I just went sort of crazy when I found Pops installing that woman in my room without a word to me. I�m sorry I... caused so much trouble. If I could have a drink...� She looked around hopefully.

With a snort of anger the oil man turned his back on his daughter and went back to Myra. Passing Marvin, he gave the youth a shove toward the door. �Get Desta out of here... and the rest of you might clear out, too.�

Burke walked over to us with a grim smile on his face. �That seems to ring down the curtain. I think I could use a drink.�

Marvin had hold of Desta�s arm and was urging her outside as we three went down the hall together. Laura�s eyes were very bright but her forehead was puckered with a frown.

�It doesn�t make sense,� she said hopelessly. �I would have sworn Myra was in love with her husband.�

�It hasn�t taken her long to get over it if she was,� Burke said, sardonically. �She�s making no bones about moving right in to the front bedroom connecting with Dwight�s.�

The butler, two men-servants and a maid were grouped at the foot of the stairs, looking up fearfully.

Burke paused and said: �If any of you mix the Dwight girl another drink tonight, make it plenty light.� He paused while they all nodded, then went on: �Where are the Mexican guests?�

�They�re having a cocktail with Mr. Hardiman on the side lawn, sir,� the butler replied.

�We�ll join them. Bring out some more cocktails, and the rest of you go on about your affairs. Everything�s all right upstairs.�

We went out the front door and around on the flagged walk to the spot where we had first seen Desta and Marvin. It was that period of half-darkness when the last lingering light of day seems reluctant to give way to night. There were colored electric bulbs strung between the trees but it wasn�t dark enough for them to give off much light.

Michaela and Hardiman were seated at a round metal table. In a cushioned chair a little back of them, Pasqual seemed more than ever the alert watchdog. A lowtoned conversation between man and girl ceased as Burke went up to them. Laura�s hand on my arm guided me to a garden seat ten feet away where we could see and hear everything.

Stopping at the table, Burke said: �You folks seem to take attempted murder right in your stride.�

The tall man stood up. He said coldly: �I don�t believe I�ve met you.�

�I�m Jerry Burke, in charge of a murder investigation. You�re Hardiman, of course, of the State Department.�

Hardiman inclined his head. �Miss O�Toole has just been telling me how a local newspaper has chosen to misinterpret my presence in El Paso.�

�The Free Press has a habit of misinterpreting my presence here,� Burke said wearily. He sat down without waiting for an invitation. After a slight moment of hesitation, Hardiman also sat down. Michaela watched Burke with her head tilted a little, but did not say anything.

�Dwight has sent his car in for Senor Rodriguez,� Burke told them. �When the Senor arrives I�m going to demand that all of you lay your cards on the table before me where I can count them.�

�By what authority do you make such a demand?� Hardiman asked him.

Burke�s fist struck the metal top of the table angrily. �I�m tired of getting the run-around. I�m only interested in murder. I�ve assured Dwight I shan�t dig into any other angle. If you�re using your official influence to force a settlement from the Mexican government in Dwight�s favor... that�s your dirty linen. No doubt he promised you a big enough cut to make it worth your while. My business is...�

�That is a libelous accusation, Mr. Burke. I�ll ask you to make a full retraction.�

The two men glared at each other in the dim light. Hardiman, coldly austere; Burke, hunched forward, his heavy jaw uncompromisingly squared.

A servant came with a tray of cocktails. Burke relaxed and took one. The man brought the tray to us, and Laura took an Old-fashioned while I selected a Side-car from the assortment he offered.

Burke filled his pipe and leaned back to sip his drink. Hardiman didn�t relax. He continued to lean forward stiffly:

�I�m waiting for your retraction.�

Burke sighed. �I�ve told you I�m not interested in anything except murder. What you and Rodriguez do or don�t do is your own affair... except as it concerns Leslie Young�s death.�

�You haven�t intimated what possible connection you suspect there may be, Mr. Burke.�

Burke motioned to Michaela. �Ask her.�

�What does the man mean?� Hardiman demanded of the Mexican girl.

Michaela shrugged her shoulders with Latin expressiveness. She spoke for the first time since Burke had joined them.

�I will tell you nothing.�

Laura�s elbow nudged me. �There�ll be fireworks for sure if your friend ever mixes with that gal.�

The American diplomat�s fingertips were drumming on the table. �It appears to me you are taking a great deal for granted, Mr. Burke.�

�You have to in my business.� His voice remained unperturbed. �Do you know why Miss O�Toole invited Leslie Young to the hacienda the same night she was expecting you and Dwight?�

Hardiman glanced aside at the girl�s enigmatic features. �All this talk about Leslie Young is absurd,� he protested. �I don�t even know the man.�

�I�m quite sure he was murdered to prevent him from keeping that appointment.�

It was dark, and the overhead globes lighted the faces of the trio clearly. It was like having the front seat at an absorbing play.

�There�s some mystery here,� Hardiman exclaimed impatiently.

Jerry Burke laughed shortly and knocked out his pipe. �That makes two of us, Mr. Hardiman. You might clear up one angle by explaining how you were able to sit here unconcernedly while a woman was screaming bloody murder out an upstairs window.�

�We were assured by a servant that it was a family affair and there was nothing we could do,� Hardiman told him stiffly.

�It�s a screwy household,� Burke muttered. �Perhaps after I�ve been around a few days I won�t pay any attention to such minor matters either.�

Michaela smiled. She looked more like a naive child than an adventuress when she smiled. �It is nice that we will be protected by a policeman. But I am bored with too much talk and I think I will go inside where there is not so much protection.�

She got up and glanced at Pasqual. He followed her into the house as though she had ordered him to heel. Burke looked after them, shaking his head.

Hardiman leaned forward and asked: �How long is this farce going to continue?�

�Until I learn why Michaela O�Toole invited Leslie Young to meet with you and Dwight at the Hacienda del Torro. You could help by telling me why you and Dwight were there.�

�So far as I know the meeting was arranged simply to provide a place for us to meet Senor Rodriguez without causing public comment.�

�For what purpose?�

�I leave that to your imagination,� Hardiman countered urbanely.

There was the purr of a powerful motor climbing the concrete drive to the house. Burke stood up.

�That will be Dwight�s limousine bringing Senor Rodriguez safely away from a patriotic Mexican mob. You�re playing with fire when you connive at what they regard as treachery. Mexicans take their politics lots more seriously than you in Washington are accustomed to. The deal you and Rodriguez are cooking up contains enough dynamite to cause a dozen murders. Think that over while pulling your dollar diplomacy coups.� He got up and strolled toward the house.

Hardiman followed him after a moment of indecision.

Laura set her empty glass down. �Jerry Burke is going to have plenty of trouble digging any facts out of this gang.�

�You haven�t been such a hell of a big help,� I reminded her. �You were the last person to see Young alive. Exactly what did he tell you about Michaela�s letter... and about the telephoned threat?�

�Not very much.� She appeared to be honestly striving to remember. �He just laughed at the threat. You didn�t know Leslie, did you? He was the perfect fictional soldier of fortune. He�d been shot at so often that one more threat against his life meant less than nothing to him. The only way he could explain the note was the possible connection between the writer and his old buddy, Mike O�Toole, of Mexico and points south.�

�Michaela�s father, according to Burke�s information.�

She nodded, frowning. �That�s what doesn�t add up at all. The Mike O�Toole Leslie used to know was an out and out Communist. His daughter is supposed to have followed along in his footsteps, yet here she is conniving with a couple of political scavengers to put one over on her own country. Her connection with this oil fix simply doesn�t make sense.�

�There�s enough money involved to make sense out of anything.�

�You don�t believe that,� Laura told me quickly. �It�s impossible for an idealist like you to be convincingly cynical.�

She was leaning against me looking up at the night. My arm went about her as though it belonged there. She relaxed against it with a little sigh, closing her eyes. Her parted lips were stained the same vivid red they had been the first time I saw her... the same vivid red that was on Leslie Young�s mouth when he died.

I�ve never been an impressionable fool about women. I�ve always been able to take them or leave them alone.

I knew it couldn�t be that way with me and Laura Yates. I either had to hate her, or... God help me... love her. Either way, I was lost.

I was bending closer over her and she lay quietly against me. Had her kiss betrayed Young to his death?

I got up suddenly and she slumped back against the seat, lifting her lashes and watching me with wary eyes.

I lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and muttered something about getting home to Nip and Tuck.

She didn�t say anything.

She was sitting there slumped back against the seat as I walked blindly down the driveway to the road where I might bum a ride as far as the street car line. I forgot about Burke and about the case and about the book I was going to write.

There was room for only one thought in my mind, and it drummed at me relentlessly.

I had to get away from her... before I couldn�t get myself away from her.

My telephone was jangling when I let myself in the front door of my house almost an hour later. Nip and Tuck waggled a furious welcome but I took time for just one pat and to let them out for a run before hurrying to the telephone.

Chief Jelcoe�s voice rasped over the wire: �Baker? Do you know where Burke is hiding out?�

I said, �Yes,� and waited.

�Where can I reach him?� Jelcoe sputtered. �I�ve been phoning all over the city. He might at least get in touch with his office every now and then.�

�I�ll see that he gets any message you want to give him.� I didn�t know whether Burke wanted Jelcoe to know where he was, so I played safe.

Jelcoe sputtered a few puny curses over the wire but I didn�t help him any. He wound up by saying:

�There is an important confidential message for him from Washington. Evidently in reply to some query he sent out this morning, though it doesn�t make much sense to me.�

�Send it out to my place by messenger,� I suggested. �I�ll see that it reaches Burke at once.�

�I certainly would like to know what he�s doing on the Young case... if anything.� Jelcoe sounded aggrieved.

�He�s making progress,� I told him, and couldn�t resist adding: �Have you arrested Mrs. Young yet?�

�Not yet. But I�m convinced she lied to us about the pistol being stolen by the party she named. I made a thorough search of her apartment this afternoon and found nothing. But I believe the Yates woman will bear watching.�

I mumbled something, then asked him: �What public effect did the Free Press story have?�

�There�s hell to pay down here. Our switchboard is clogged with calls from citizens demanding to know what action Burke is taking. The Mexican quarter is seething with bands of Young Nationalists calling for a public demonstration against any secret settlement of oil claims. Is Burke doing anything, for Chrissake?�

�He was drinking a Tom Collins the last time I saw him,� I chuckled, and hung up before Jelcoe had a chance to get started again.

Then I looked up the number of the Dwight residence and called it. After a long wait, I got Burke on the wire and he sounded relieved to hear my voice:

�I�ve tried to call your house twice, Asa. Why the devil did you run out on me?�

�You forget I�m a family man. My dogs are well-trained, but I can�t leave them locked up in the house indefinitely.�

�I forgot about the pups. Why didn�t you take my car?�

I didn�t want to admit the mood I was in when I left the Dwight estate so I lied to him: �I thought I�d drive my own car back... just in case something came up and we had to go in two directions in a hurry.�

�U-m-m.� He sounded a bit skeptical. �Laura Yates said you legged it away from here as though you had ants in your pants.�

I disregarded that, and repeated what Jelcoe had told me over the telephone.

�That message may be the break I�ve been waiting for, Asa. I should have kept in touch with the office and gotten it when it came. Rush it out as soon as you get hold of it.�

I told him I would, and asked if he still had everything under control.

�As far as I know... with the gang I�ve got cooped up here. I don�t think there are any new corpses... yet.�

�What about Rodriguez?�

�He was as full of information as the others,� Burke grunted disgustedly. �That telegram from Washington may be the key to a lot of things, Asa. Don�t delay getting it here. It�s a confidential report on Rufus Hardiman, and may be the lever we need to start the ball rolling.�

I promised again that I�d bring it right out, hung up and stepped out on my front porch. Nip and Tuck came wagging up with reproachful faces and I squatted down to explain to them that I was on the trail of a story that would buy them lots of dog-biscuits and that they would have to be patient with me for a little longer.

They snuggled down beside me and seemed to understand. Or, not understanding, they trusted me and were perfectly satisfied to enjoy the moment.

Lucky they weren�t detectives, I thought to myself, or they wouldn�t even be able to trust me. With a hand on each coarsely-furred head I let my thoughts drift to the collection of suspects Burke had herded together at the Dwight mansion.

I didn�t trust any of them. Not even Laura. Laura, perhaps, least of all. And that was the hell of it.

I wanted to trust her. And that made me distrust myself. I know I�m saying it very badly. I feel it�s impossible to deal with a thing like this honestly in retrospect. I�m trying to define emotions that were intangible.

I tried not to think about Laura... but I couldn�t think about anything else.

A motorcycle slid to a stop in front of my gate. A uniformed man came up the walk and asked me if I was Asa Baker. I told him I was and he gave me a thick yellow envelope which had been opened and resealed. I sat there with it in my hands while his motorcycle roared off.

Then I gave my brains a shake and called the Scotties inside. They mournfully followed me to the kitchen where I filled their bowl with fresh water and replenished their supply of dog biscuits.

Their eyes followed me accusingly as I went out the back door toward the garage.

An instinct warned me, too late, of danger as I passed the black shadow of the hedge.

I whirled in time to see a shadowy figure and an arm coming down in a chopping motion. I fell a hell of a distance and hit bottom with an awful thud. Then everything was blacked out for me.

Two Scottie tongues were frantically rasping over my face when I came up from the depths. Tuck whimpered and pawed at me when I sat up. Nip crouched down on the floor with her ears back and a deep worry-line creasing her forehead.

I was lying just inside the kitchen door and I didn�t have the slightest idea how I�d gotten there. I sat on the floor with my head in my hands for a minute, trying to recall what had happened, but my only memory was of seeing an arm coming down. I didn�t even know whether my assailant was a man or a woman.

Then I thought about Burke�s important telegram. It was gone. My wallet with its few small bills was still in my pocket. Nothing was missing except the telegram.

Feeling like hell-before-breakfast, I got up and stumbled into the bathroom, where I doused my head in cold water. There was a nasty bump on the back of my head, but no other damage.

In the living room I damn near passed out again when I saw by the clock that it was eleven-thirty. I�d been unconscious for hours � instead of minutes, as I first thought.

I started for the telephone to call Burke; changed my mind and went into the bedroom, where I got my .38 and threw a cartridge under the hammer; picked up a flashlight in the kitchen and again went out the back way toward the garage.

There was a scuffed trail on the dirt walk showing where I had been dragged to the kitchen. I wasted thirty seconds at the spot where I had been attacked without finding anything, then went on in the garage and backed my car out.

With the wind-wing turned to throw night air in my face, I drove slowly out Piedras. I felt like a nitwit to have had such a thing happen to me, and I couldn�t rationalize the setup at all.

Someone was after the telegram. Someone who knew I had it and was taking it to Burke. Someone who wanted it badly enough to take a chance on murder to gain possession of it. Yet, someone who was kind enough to drag me back into my kitchen after knocking me out cold.

It didn�t make sense.

There was a hammer pounding inside my head and my thinking processes didn�t jell any too well. I speeded up when I began wondering what had happened in McKelligon�s Canyon during the hours I had lost. I had to step on the brake hard to make the turn into the Dwight estate, and I took the slope in second gear with the accelerator all the way down.

A man came running toward me from the front lawn when I pulled up and parked.

It was Jerry Burke, hatless and worried. �For God�s sake, Asa, where have you been?�

I leaned on the steering wheel and told him what had happened. He drew in a long breath of relief when I finished.

�I couldn�t figure it out. I called your house twice and no one answered... thought you must have started out here and run into an accident. Half the cops in El Paso are combing the city for you or your car. I�d better go in and phone Jelcoe to call them off.�

I put my hand on his arm as he started away. �Wait a minute, Jerry. Who socked me?�

�That�s what we�re going to find out.�

�Anyone...� My voice was weak, �...from here?�

�I don�t know how anyone from here could have known about the telegram.� He paused, rubbing his jaw. �Laura Yates slipped away soon after you left. She must have shorted the ignition wires on her car to get it started without a key.�

�Before or after I called you, Jerry?�

�I�m trying to think. I can�t be sure, damn it. It was after you called when I noticed that she wasn�t around.�

�Anyone else been missing?�

�Hardiman was gone for a short time. I let him go to the city for some cigars. But he�s been back for an hour or more. I�ve been out here walking up and down and wondering what the hell had become of you. I�ve been too busy to keep track of Desta, but nothing she could do would surprise me.�

�Did either Laura or Hardiman overhear our telephone conversation?�

He shook his head positively. �I was in the butler�s cubbyhole and there was no one close enough to hear. But there are extension telephones scattered all over the house. Every one of them might have been listening in. I haven�t tried to check because I didn�t know it had any bearing on the fact that you were missing.�

I got out of the car dizzily. Hardiman and Laura! I was positive that Hardiman wouldn�t have bothered to drag me back to the kitchen after slugging me. What about Desta? I had a hunch she had a queer streak a yard wide and was capable of anything.

I followed Burke into the house and stood in the hall while he got Jelcoe on the phone and told him to call off the search for me and come on out to the Dwight estate. Coming out, he filled his pipe and said:

�When I first called Jelcoe about you, I had him repeat the message from Washington as closely as he remembered it. Not knowing what it was all about, he hadn�t read it carefully, but the substance of it confirms my belief that Dwight is holding something over Hardiman�s head, blackmailing him into using his official position with the State Department to force Mexico to make a private settlement with Dwight. I�ve been too upset by your absence to spring my information on Hardiman, but we won�t let it wait any longer. Come on.�

He strode down toward the open doors of the lighted drawing room. I followed on his heels and we found Myra Young, Michaela O�Toole, Pasqual, and a tall Mexican whom I hadn�t seen before.

Myra was stretched out on a divan with a highball within reach of her hand. She glanced at us with a grimace, and quickly looked away.

The three Mexicans were in a huddle across the room. They broke off their low conversation to look up inquiringly as we barged in. Senor Rodriguez was a tall, courtly, old fellow, with a lean scarred face and a bristly white mustache. He reminded me of a duelist on guard as he faced Burke.

�Where�s the rest of the happy family?� Burke sardonically asked the room at large.

Nobody answered him for a moment. Then Myra swung her legs off the divan and sat up. �The Dwights said to hell with all their uninvited guests... and went to bed.� Her face was drawn and sallow.

�What about Mr. Hardiman?�

�He had a telephone call a while ago, and went out the side door soon afterward. He didn�t tell any of us where he was going but I thought I heard him upstairs talking to Ray a little while ago.�

By �Ray� I gathered that she meant Raymond Dwight, and the thought flashed through my mind that she wasn�t missing any opportunity to impress upon us her intimacy with our host.

Senor Rodriguez interrupted my thought by striding forward and confronting Burke: �As a citizen of another country I demand a reason for your holding us here against our will. I warn you that I shall make the strongest diplomatic representations to my government...�

Burke broke in rudely: �You�re safer here than if you were within reach of the mobs after your scalp for selling out your country to Dwight.�

The Mexican�s lips were set in a thin tight line, and his eyes blazed, but he didn�t answer Burke.

Myra got up and moved toward us. �I�ll run up and see if Mr. Hardiman is still with Raymond. Shall I tell him you want to see him?�

Burke nodded absently. I went to the center table and mixed myself a stiff brandy and soda from the bewildering array of drinkables displayed there.

Burke turned to Rodriguez and said: �I apologize for my unwarranted crack about you selling out your country. I think I�m beginning to understand the sort of pressure you�ve been under... and I believe it is about to be withdrawn. But I insist that you are far safer here until the matter is entirely cleared up.�

The tall Mexican bowed stiffly. �In return, I assure you, Senor Burke, that my every action has been with honorable intent. There has been no secret agreement between my country and private interests, and there will be none if I can prevent it.�

I heard Chief Jelcoe�s thin voice in the hallway, and Rodriguez moved away from Burke as the tall figure of the detective entered the drawing room. His eyes bulged as their gaze roamed over Senor Rodriguez�s scarred face, then rested on Michaela and Pasqual who were talking together in low tones on the far side of the room.

�Hello, Chief,� Burke greeted him, then took his arm and drew him aside. �That telegram from Washington has disappeared. I want you to repeat it as nearly as you recall...�

Hell broke loose upstairs.

A door slammed and the clamor of shrill voices tore the silence to shreds. A scream that contained more of anger than anguish sliced through the clamor; then there was the pounding of feet on the stairs and Desta Dwight�s voice crying: �I caught you that time! Just like I knew I would! I�ve been watching...�

Myra darted into the drawing room with Desta in close pursuit, Desta, her eyes glittering hotly, her slim body inadequately clad in filmy pajamas of flame-colored silk.

Burke took one step forward and his right arm encircled Desta�s waist as Myra collapsed on the divan. He slapped a big hand over Desta�s mouth and held her wriggling body tight while sternly asking Myra what it was all about.

Glaring back defiantly, Myra panted out: �She came at me in the hall just as I was closing her father�s door. Without stopping to ask any questions, she jumped at her own nasty conclusions and tried to claw my eyes out. She�s nuts if you ask me.�

Desta looked like a crazy person as she struggled, against Burke�s hold, to get at Myra. Her face was smeared with cold cream or some beauty preparation, and her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. Gurgles of anger crowded past Burke�s big hand pressed tightly over her mouth.

Jerry lifted her bodily and carried her across to a big chair into which she crumpled when he let go his hold. Her breath wheezed in and out between set teeth, and little bubbles of saliva formed at the corners of her mouth.

Glancing aside at Jelcoe, I had to smother a laugh at the look of stupefied bewilderment on his sallow face. I had forgotten that he hadn�t been with us all evening and didn�t know this was just the normal thing to expect in that haywire household. In Desta�s collapsed condition I thought I might be able to get something out of her, so I moved forward to the chair and reached down to shake her shoulder.

She looked up at me with a furtive glint of fear in her eyes, cowering away as though she expected me to hit her.

I said: �Some fresh air will do you good,� and pulled her to her feet.

Burke nodded with understanding and motioned the others back when I put my arm about her waist and steered her out the door.

She apathetically let me lead her out the front door, as though her spirit had suddenly crumpled under the strain. Her flame-colored pajamas were as near no covering as could be devised by modern science, and she began to shiver when we got out into the cool moonlight.

I went to the bench Laura and I had sat on, saying matter-of-factly: �You�ve been kicking up a lot of hell, young lady. Explanations are in order.�

She sighed and cuddled down against me on the bench, pressing my hand tightly against the inadequately covered flesh of her flat stomach. �Why?�

�Have you been away from here the last couple of hours?�

She snuggled a little lower. Again, she asked sleepily: �Why?�

�Someone followed me to my house and attacked me. I want to know...�

She giggled. Not hysterically, but with real mirth. �Do you think I�d do that? Attack you, I mean? Would you really make a girl go that far? I should think...�

�Not the way you mean,� I said hastily. I tried to move my hand but her hot moist fingers held mine tightly, kneading the flesh beneath them with a feverish intensity of purpose that made me uncomfortably aware of her youth.

�If I ever attack you, you�ll know who did it. And I bet if you were to attack me...�

�I�m not going to.� Her cheek was resting against my chest and I was looking over her head.

She moved and I looked down to see her lips drawn back tightly from sharp white teeth. There was something in her eyes that I had never seen in a woman�s eyes before. I was shaken and repelled... yet I felt something inside of me responding to the hot glitter that was in her gaze.

She was working herself up into another frenzy and I didn�t know how to cope with it.

I said: �So, you didn�t?�

�Didn�t what?� She expelled the words huskily through clenched teeth.

I stood up suddenly, lifting her in my arms. She came alive, writhing, to press the length of her body against me.

I held her away and started carrying her back to the house.

She kicked bare legs in the moonlight and started cursing me. I smothered the vicious phrases with my hand and carried her back into the drawing room that way, striding past a battery of amazed eyes and dumping her down into the chair where she had been previously. I turned away, wiping sweat from my face.

Michaela got up and went to Desta as I turned away. Though the Mexican girl couldn�t have been much older than Desta, there was a look of maternal solicitude on her features as she bent down and touched Desta�s arm; a grave madonna-like expression of understanding that radiated softly from her eyes.

�Come,� she said gently, �I will take you to your room.�

Desta rose submissively, like one who had no will of her own. Michaela linked the girl�s arm in hers, and spoke a low word to Pasqual that brought him to his feet and to the other side of Desta. Supporting her between them, they led the American girl from the room.

A long shuddering sigh came from Myra�s lips when they went out the door. In the moment of intense quiet following, Burke grinned briefly at me, then turned to her and asked:

�What about Hardiman?�

She stared at him a moment, then answered in a strained voice: �Raymond was half asleep and his room was dark. He said Mr. Hardiman had been there but left about half an hour ago.�

Burke crossed to the table and rang for a servant, a brooding look of worry on his face. When a man answered his ring he said brusquely:

�Have the butler get all the servants together in the hall where I can question them about Mr. Hardiman.�

The man nodded shakily and hurried out. Jelcoe edged forward and asked: �What�s this about Mr. Hardiman? Has he disappeared?�

�For the moment at least,� Burke admitted. He paused, chewing on the stem of his pipe. �Baker was slugged at his home and that telegram stolen from him. If Hardiman did the slugging...� Jerry paused with an expressive shrug of his heavy shoulders, then went on: �Exactly what did the telegram say, Jelcoe?�

Chief Jelcoe�s right eyelid twitched as he wrinkled his forehead in thought. �Just about what I told you over the phone. I glanced through it hurriedly and realized it was in reply to an inquiry you hadn�t seen fit to discuss with me so I thought perhaps it was private.�

Jerry paid no attention to the accusing tone Jelcoe used. He nodded and said: �Let�s go out and interview the servants. We�ve got to locate Hardiman.�

Myra Young jumped up from the divan and beat her hands together as they went out. �This is getting me down. It�s worse than a wake. Let�s have some music or something to snap us out of our dope.�

I mixed myself another drink while she went to an ornate console radio and pushed some buttons. A blast of static came out, then a blare of music. She tuned it down to a soft wailing of brasses and came swaying toward me with her arms outstretched, a set smile of determined gaiety on her face.

�How about a dance?�

I shook my head without saying anything, and she swayed away in rhythm with the music, snapping her fingers. Senor Rodriguez sat quietly in a chair in one corner, puffing on a small black cigar and watching Myra with about the same expression on his face that I might wear if I were suddenly confronted by a visitor from Mars.

I didn�t blame the Mexican for looking at her like that. There was something macabre about her dancing. I had a feeling that she wasn�t letting herself think... that she was afraid to be quiet with her thoughts... that she was driven by some inner compulsion to put on this act for us.

Burke and Jelcoe came back into the room. Jerry came to the table to mix himself a drink, and Jelcoe stood just inside the door, watching Myra, with his Adam�s Apple bobbing up and down.

I asked Jerry if he�d had any luck, and he grimaced and said: �I don�t know. The butler is positive that Hardiman�s telephone call was from Laura Yates... that he went outside to meet Laura on the side lawn half an hour ago. He hasn�t been seen since.�

Out of the corners of my eyes I watched Myra sway up to Jelcoe and undulate invitingly before him. He backed away from her in flabbergasted fright, and I began wondering if her sanity had snapped under the strain.

I plopped more soda into my glass, and at that instant Myra screamed. She was standing in the middle of the floor staring at us wildly, both hands held up for silence:

�What? Oh my God! what was that?�

�What was what?� Burke and Jelcoe sprang forward and I froze with my glass half-way to my mouth.

�I... thought I heard something. Didn�t you hear it? A... it sounded like... a shot. Sort of faint and muffled.�

�You must have heard my shot of soda,� I said, for it was at that instant I had seen her stop and listen.

Burke shook his head, looking from Jelcoe to me. �I didn�t hear anything. But that blasted radio is making so much noise...�

�I�m sure I did,� she broke in shrilly. �I... I�m sure!�

He turned away from her and made it to the door in long strides. Jelcoe and I trotted after him, caught up with him as he went up the stairway. Blank silence cloaked the upper floor of the house.

The butler came panting up the stairs after us as we reached the top. Burke whirled on him and asked: �Which is Dwight�s suite?�

�Right here, Sir.� Morrow was trembling and his face ashen. He stepped past us and turned the knob of a door opening into a living room dimly illuminated by light streaming through an open inside door.

Burke stepped past him, calling, �Dwight!� as the butler pushed a wall switch. Brilliant light flooded the room, and we saw the squatty figure of Raymond Dwight lying on his side on a leather couch across the room.

The stubby fingers of his left hand trailed down against the floor and he seemed to be relaxed in peaceful slumber, but I knew he was dead before I crossed to Burke�s side and looked down at the small, powder-marked hole in his forehead.

We all whirled about at the sound of rushing water from the bathroom where the light had come from, and Jelcoe sprinted toward the open door on his toes, drawing a Police .38 as he ran.

He stopped as the tall figure of a man stepped into the lighted doorway. It was Rufus Hardiman... and he faced us with a saturnine smile on his ascetic face.

It was a smile of triumph. Of supreme, exultant triumph. He glanced down at Jelcoe�s pistol and shook his head slowly. �You don�t need that,� he protested. �Really, you don�t. You can do anything you wish with me... now.�

Burke took three slow steps toward them, a frown of great annoyance and indecision on his face. �What did you just flush down the sewer?�

�That... you will never know.� Rufus Hardiman folded his arms and moved aside to let Burke enter the bathroom.

Jelcoe kept Hardiman covered until Jerry came out with half a dozen tiny scraps of paper in his hand and nodded to the chief. �Go over him for a pistol. And be careful. A .25 doesn�t take up much room.�

A dry chuckle came out of Hardiman�s throat and he lifted his hands high, coatsleeves sliding down from bony wrists. �Go over me by all means. I�m not a gunman, you know.�

Burke stepped over and stood by me while Jelcoe energetically searched the diplomat for a weapon.

�He certainly doesn�t seem to be worried about getting caught red-handed,� I said, low-voiced; and Burke shook his head. He went past me then and looked down at the stiffening body of our erstwhile host.

The room was large and rectangular with French doors opening out onto the balcony. An open door beyond the foot of the leather couch led into a bedroom.

Jelcoe�s disappointed voice brought us both around toward him. �No gun on this fellow. He must have ditched it with the other stuff.�

�I really don�t know why you think I should have a pistol,� said Hardiman with cold austerity. �I am not a man of violence. I admit putting knockout drops in Dwight�s highball, and that I secured something of my own from his bedroom safe and destroyed it. I�m perfectly willing to pay whatever price the law may wish to exact for those acts.�

Burke was rubbing his chin, a habit he had when supremely annoyed, studying Hardiman with his chin down and his eyes up. Jelcoe sucked in his breath and started to reply to Hardiman, but Burke stepped into the breach before he could speak.

�Wait! Let me get this straight. You admit doping Dwight�s drink?�

�I do.� Hardiman was perfectly composed. �I�ve had the drops in my possession for days, awaiting an opportunity to administer them. My opportunity came when he brought me up to his suite this evening. I went to my room and gave them time to take full effect, then came back and secured certain documents from his safe... and destroyed them.�

Sweat stood out on my forehead as I gradually realized that Hardiman was implying that he didn�t know Raymond Dwight was dead. I glanced over my shoulder to reassure myself, and for a moment the position of the body gave the illusion of nothing more dreadful than drugged slumber. Then I remembered the pistol shot... the small hole in his forehead which I had seen with my own eyes.

Burke was asking: �Who else has been in here during the last few minutes?�

�No one.� Hardiman seemed very positive. �It took me at least ten minutes to work the combination on the safe... a few minutes more to tear up the documents and dispose of them.�

Burke said: �Come over here,� grimly, and went to stand beside the leather couch. Hardiman went to him with Jelcoe following, and stared down with what seemed to be blank amazement at the evidence of death.

�But I... I...� Hardiman took a step forward, one bony hand going to his throat as his Adam�s apple bobbed up and down uncontrollably. The color drained from his face, giving him a startlingly corpse-like appearance. �I... I didn�t know...� he whispered throatily. �He was lying like that when I returned and I thought, of course, that it was merely the effect of the drops. Someone must have... slipped in and shot him while I was in my room.�

Burke shook his head. �That won�t wash, Hardiman.� It seemed to me there was a note of pity in his voice. �We heard the shot and came up immediately... within a few minutes.�

Hardiman�s tall taut body suddenly went lax. He sank into a chair, shaken and unnerved. �You... heard the shot?� He wet his lips, put his glasses on, took them off. �Then... you know when he was killed?�

�Within a couple of minutes.�

Hardiman sat up straighter, with a certain measure of dignity. �Very well. I... didn�t realize you had heard the shot and would know when it happened. I... thought I could pretend I didn�t know he had been killed. The truth is, I was opening the bedroom safe when the shot was fired. I hurried in seconds too late to see the murderer. When I realized what had happened, I knew I had to get certain documents from the safe. I got them... and had only time to destroy them before you appeared.�

Burke didn�t appear to be paying the slightest attention to the diplomat�s halting recital. He was staring down at the body and when Hardiman ended he leaned down and gingerly lifted a small object from where it had been partially hidden by Dwight�s palm. Light was dully reflected from a small cross... with double cross-bars... of pounded silver.

A cross. Identical with the symbol sketched at the end of Michaela O�Toole�s letter, and the mark smeared upon Leslie Young�s dead cheek with a woman�s lipstick.

Jerry Burke held the curious cross before Hardiman�s eyes and asked harshly: �Where did this come from?�

Rufus Hardiman shook his head blankly. �I don�t know. I never saw it before.�

The door banged open suddenly, and Desta Dwight came barging in, followed closely by Marvin Moore, who stopped just inside the door and stared at Dwight�s body with bulging eyes.

Desta glided forward like a sleepwalker, staring solemnly at her father. I moved close to catch her if she keeled over, but I should have known she was made of sterner stuff. She stopped and looked down at the evidence of death as though it didn�t really mean anything to her, then nodded her head solemnly without speaking.

Her utter lack of emotion was ghastly and unreal. At a nod from Burke I took her arm and led her back to the door where Marvin was making a manful effort to be casual about it all. Pushing them both outside, I told the butler to keep everyone outside the death room until the police arrived, and turned back just as a telephone in the room birred softly.

Burke moved to the stand swiftly and scooped up the receiver, said �Yes?� and listened for a moment with puckered brows.

Then he said: �I�m sorry, but it will be quite impossible for me to disturb Mr. Dwight at this time.�

Another pause, then: �I�m afraid I will have to be the judge of that. I assure you I have complete authority. Either tell me what you want or hang up.�

There was a longer wait while Burke listened intently. Jelcoe and Hardiman stood by silently. Finally, Burke spoke into the mouthpiece:

�No. I advise you not to print that item. I can assure you emphatically that Mr. Dwight will not verify it... nor will he be available to discuss the matter with you tonight or any other time.�

He hung up with a shrug. �The Free Press,� he said, watching Hardiman closely. �They have information that Raymond Dwight has a secret hold over Mr. Hardiman and is forcing Hardiman to use his official influence to make a private deal with Mexico for payment of Dwight�s oil claims. They hesitate to print the story without verification.�

Rufus Hardiman met Burke�s gaze with his chin lifted defiantly. �The story will never be verified... now.�

Jerry Burke nodded. �I had an idea that�s what you got rid of in the bathroom. I suspected all along that you hated the role you were playing.�

He hesitated, then picked up the telephone again and called police headquarters. With Homicide on the wire, he told them that Raymond Dwight had been murdered and ordered a detail out immediately; then directed that a guard be placed at the mouth of the canyon and at a spot above the Dwight house, with orders to allow no person to pass in either direction. He then hung up and nodded to Jelcoe:

�You can take charge of your experts when they arrive. I�m going to start checking the stories of every person in the house.�

The chief�s eyelids fluttered toward Hardiman. �Do you need to look any further?�

�I don�t know.� They both spoke as though they were discussing an absent person. �We�ll have to hold Hardiman, of course, until we see what develops.� He walked toward the door, adding: �Bring him down to the study. I want to get the rest of them rounded up.�

A group of servants was congregated in a frightened huddle in the upstairs hall outside, while Michaela, Pasqual, and Senor Rodriguez stood together quietly near the head of the stairs.

Burke singled out the butler and asked: �Where are Miss Dwight and her friend?�

�Mr. Moore went with her to her room, sir. She was not quite herself, if I may say so.�

�I�ll want both of them in the study presently. And all of the servants. No one is to leave the house. The canyon road is blocked in both directions. What�s become of Mrs. Young?�

�She went back downstairs, I believe, sir.�

Burke nodded and went to the group of Mexicans who remained close together, silent and watchful. Pausing in front of them, Burke said:

�You, Senor Rodriguez, are the only one who doesn�t need to account for himself. You and you,� the stem of his pipe stabbed at Michaela and Pasqual in turn, �stayed upstairs after bringing Miss Dwight to her room. That puts you on the list of suspects. I�ll see you in the study first, Miss O�Toole.�

He went on down the stairs and Jelcoe followed with Hardiman, while the rest of them came stringing along slowly.

Passing the library with Burke, I glanced in through the open doors and saw Myra Young sitting alone on the divan staring vacantly at an empty cocktail glass in her hand. Her heavy features were relaxed and flaccid, as though she had been wound up too tight and her main-spring had parted under the strain of too much emotional stress.

Dwight�s private study adjoined the library. It was a small comfortable room, fitted with a round center table, a desk in one corner, deep chairs and smoking stands.

Jelcoe hesitated in the doorway with Hardiman, while Burke and I went in. I could almost see Jelcoe�s mouth watering at the hope of being in on the questioning, but he waited stiffly for orders in that subservient way of his that carried a sneer with it.

�Suppose you go into the library and wait there,� Burke said to the diplomat. �And you can bring Miss O�Toole in, Chief.�

Jelcoe hurried to get her while Jerry sank down into a deep chair and began loading his pipe. He looked worried and uncertain, and shook his head when I asked:

�Isn�t it pretty nearly cut and dried, Jerry? Hardiman had a perfect motive and a swell opportunity.�

�I can�t forget his seeming surprise when he looked down on Dwight�s body and saw the bullet-hole.�

�But he admitted that was simulated,� I argued. �After he found out we had heard the shot and he couldn�t make his first story stick.�

Burke sucked the flame of a match into his pipe and nodded, still with that look of frowning uncertainty on his face. �I know,� he muttered, �but...�

Chief Jelcoe came in with Michaela O�Toole and shut the door behind him. She stood poised and unafraid before us, but there was a light of vengeful gladness in her blue eyes.

Burke said, �Sit down,� and she sat in a straight chair, primly erect with slender hands clasped in her lap.

�What did you do after taking Miss Dwight to her room?�

�Pasqual and I went to the end of the hall to a little balcony for fresh air.�

�And were there when Dwight was shot?�

Michaela shook her head. �I do not know when he was shot. We stayed until everybody came upstairs and there was much noise and excitement. They told us Mr. Dwight was dead when we came inside to ask the cause.�

�Do you mean to tell me you didn�t hear the shot fired?� Burke demanded.

�We heard nothing.� Michaela�s voice was soft and liquidly vibrant.

�It isn�t a very good thing to tell even one lie during a murder investigation,� Burke shot at her. �It throws a shadow on all your testimony.�

�But I have not lied.� She didn�t sound wholly convincing to me but I couldn�t tell whether Burke believed her or not.

�Where have you seen this before?� Jerry suddenly produced the silver cross and held it up before her eyes.

A tremor passed over her mobile features, then they became wholly composed. But I looked at her hands and saw the fingers clasped together tightly.

She asked in a sudden throaty tone: �Where did you get it?�

�Dwight�s murderer left it on his body for us to find,� Burke said bluntly.

She shook her head slowly and I would have sworn there was puzzlement in her eyes. �I have not seen that before.�

�What is it?�

�But, it is a cross.� Her fingers came unwound and she spread out her hands.

�A peculiar sort of cross. What is the meaning of the extra bar?�

�Why do you ask me this question?� Her eyes were wide and childlike.

�Don�t evade the issue!� Jerry Burke�s heavy fist pounded on the table in front of him. �There was a picture of this same cross on the note you wrote to Leslie Young. Why?�

Michaela said: �I know nothing,� in a tone that plainly said she had no intention of telling us anything.

�You don�t deny tracing this identical symbol on the note you sent Young?�

�But no,� Michaela said serenely. �I would be foolish to deny what you know.�

�Then you must have seen this cross before... or one exactly like it!� Burke exploded.

�But yes.� She used the patient tone of one who was dealing with a child or a fool. �How else could I put it on my letter?�

�What message did it convey to Leslie Young?�

�Did it give some message to him?�

Jerry wiped sweat from his forehead and got rid of a disgusted, �Oh, hell.� He glared at his cold pipe, then laid it down and said to the girl:

�I�ll put my cards on the table. Mr. Hardiman has admitted Dwight was holding something over his head, forcing him to use his official position to negotiate for a private settlement from your country on Dwight�s oil claims. I�m not interested in any of that except as it pertains to two murders. You can help a lot by explaining how Leslie Young entered into the situation.�

�I have not said I wanted to help,� she reminded him.

I thought Burke was going to explode, but he didn�t. He used up a couple of minutes getting hold of himself, then said resignedly to Jelcoe:

�Take her out and bring in Pasqual, the young Mexican.�

As Jelcoe opened the door, we heard the tramp of feet, and voices arguing with the butler in the hall. Jelcoe paused to report: �It�s the homicide squad, sir. I�ll get them started to work, and bring the Mexican in.�

Burke sat staring across the room, rubbing his stubby gray hair from front to back. I caught myself thinking about Laura Yates as we sat there silently. The whole thing was too hopelessly mixed up for me to do more than a spot of fitful thinking. Jerry hadn�t asked Hardiman about the telegram... nor about the telephone message which the butler had thought came from Laura. Had Laura met Hardiman on the side lawn by prearrangement to warn him about the telegram, forcing him to take the desperate step of obtaining certain papers from Dwight�s safe?

I came out of my brown study as the door opened and Jelcoe roughly pushed Pasqual inside. The young Mexican appeared sullen, but defiantly unafraid. He answered Burke�s questions in curt monosyllables, corroborating Michaela�s story of their presence on the outside balcony when the murder took place, and emphatically denying that they had heard a pistol shot.

He had perfect emotional control or had been forewarned about the cross, for his dark face showed no emotion whatsoever when Burke produced the silver symbol of death and questioned him about it. He denied knowing anything, denied ever having seen or heard of such a cross before. And he insisted that he knew nothing about Michaela�s mission to El Paso, and refused to throw any light on the connection between Michaela, Senor Rodriguez, Dwight, and Hardiman.

Burke gave up after a time, and had the servants brought in one by one. They proved to be singularly devoid of helpful information. Indeed, I received the distinct impression that they had hated their employer and wouldn�t have given any evidence pointing to his murderer if such evidence had been in their possession... though that feeling on my part may have been merely a subconscious reaction to my own dislike of Raymond Dwight.

Myra Young was next. She answered Burke�s probing questions in a tone of disinterested finality. All she knew was that she had stepped into the dark outside room of Dwight�s suite and called to him. He had answered her from the bedroom which was also dark. He had said only that Mr. Hardiman had left his room a short time before. When pressed by Burke as to the tone of Dwight�s voice and the manner of his speaking, she hesitantly admitted that he had sounded peculiar, perhaps as a result of the first effect of the drug Hardiman had administered before leaving the room.

When Burke finished with her, he had Marvin Moore and then Desta brought in. The youth�s air of truculent sophistication had deserted him and he was apparently only a frightened young man, completely awed by being a central figure in a murder investigation.

He testified that his guest room was next to Desta�s, down the hall from her father�s, directly across from the room now occupied by Hardiman. He and Desta had both gone to their rooms early, and he had dozed off into a half-drunken stupor from which he had not aroused until hearing the tumult in the hall occasioned by our discovery of Dwight�s body.

Desta Dwight held herself erect with tottering dignity when Burke wearily had her brought in. She looked at us blankly as though she had never seen any of us before. Burke was strangely gentle with her, and only questioned her about the movements of Michaela and Pasqual after they took her back to her room.

There again, he encountered a blank wall. She dazedly told him she didn�t know where they went or what they did after leaving her room.

After Jelcoe had let her out, Jerry looked at both of us and shook his head slowly. �Taking Hardiman�s story for what it�s worth, we have at least four people, exclusive of the servants, who were upstairs at the time of the murder and had access to Dwight�s suite. None of them have the semblance of an alibi unless we count Pasqual and Michaela alibi-ing each other... which doesn�t count.� He sighed and said:

�Let�s have Hardiman again.�

Jelcoe went out looking pleased, as though the investigation was finally getting down to cases and he was ready to take a hand.

The tall diplomat showed signs of strain when he came in. He dropped into a chair without waiting for an invitation, and beads of moisture stood out on his high pale forehead. Burke swung around in his chair to face him, while Jelcoe stood a little back, poised on the balls of his feet as though expecting Hardiman to make a break for it through the nearest window.

�It looks bad for you, Hardiman,� Burke opened up conversationally. �Every other person in the upper part of the house has satisfactorily accounted for his whereabouts at the time of the murder.�

Hardiman leaned forward with a bony hand laxly clasping each knee. �Not every person, I think. If you persist in accusing me of murder, I owe it to myself to disclose certain facts upon which I would have preferred to remain silent.�

�He�s had half an hour to think up a different story,� Jelcoe snarled.

Burke nodded agreement and said to Hardiman: �You weaken your position each time you start hedging. I�ll go a long way for a man that comes clean with me but the law has a way of dealing with those who obstruct justice.�

Hardiman nervously lifted his nose-glasses and then replaced them. �I had no desire to involve another, perhaps innocent party, in a situation for which I am at least morally responsible. But someone slipped in that room and killed Dwight after I had drugged him. You�ve questioned everyone except... Miss Laura Yates.�

I jerked erect and swallowed hard while Jelcoe�s eyelids fluttered up and down. Burke tamped tobacco into his pipe with a thick forefinger and asked with that damned stolidity of his:

�Was Miss Yates around? I understood she had left the grounds.�

�She returned.� Hardiman spoke with stony harshness. �She telephoned me that she had a matter of importance to discuss with me, and I arranged to meet her privately outside the house... at her suggestion � because she intimated she did not want to be seen by you.� He paused, twiddling with the ribbon of his nose-glasses.

�And you met her?� Burke prompted him.

�I did. She wanted a personal signed interview for a news story in the Free Press. I refused... naturally. I... was upset and angry, and she left me with the avowed intention of getting a statement from Mr. Dwight. I watched her slip in the side door where she could have gone upstairs unobserved, but when I went to Dwight�s room soon afterward he denied having seen her. Where she disappeared to... where she may have been in hiding... I do not know. But I do know she is one person whose movements you have not checked.�

�No one else seems to have seen her,� Burke told him with a puzzled shake of his head. �We have only your word for it that she was even here.�

Hardiman inclined his head austerely. �I realize that. However, I feel you would do well to locate the young lady and question her.�

�We�ll find her,� Jerry promised. �In the meantime... I�m afraid we�ll have to hold you.�

�I quite understand.� Hardiman got up and turned to Jelcoe with a certain dignity that somehow touched me. The door came open as Jelcoe reached for the knob. It was a uniformed policeman and he held his hand out with palm upturned, a pearl-handled .25 automatic pistol lying atop his grimy handkerchief so no fingerprints would be spoiled. It had been fired once.

�I just found this, sir,� he reported excitedly to Chief Jelcoe. �In front of the house under a shrub in the grass right where it might�ve landed if it was thrown out of that window where the killing was done. And Doctor Thompson says it was a twenty-two or twenty-five that did the job.�

�Fine work,� Jelcoe exulted, with a triumphant glance at Burke to indicate that he had been getting results while Jerry stalled around. �Check the fingerprints,� he ordered, �and have the doc get that bullet out and see if it came from this gun.�

�Better have ballistics check it against the bullet that killed Leslie Young also,� said Burke quietly.

Jelcoe�s head bobbed up and down irritatedly. �Of course, of course. That�s merely routine.� He went out with Hardiman and his human bloodhound, and Burke and I followed along behind.

We found the cops had all the guests crowded into the library. Jerry stopped in the doorway and was the recipient of an assortment of glares when he coolly announced that a guard would be placed around the house to prevent any of them from leaving the premises until the murder investigation was completed.

Senor Rodriguez bristled up with a vehement protest, but Burke waved him back with the flat statement that Michaela and Pasqual were both suspects, and Rodriguez�s connection with them made it necessary to detain him for the time being.

Myra Young, however, followed us out into the hall and raised so much hell that Burke finally gave in and admitted that he had absolutely no case against her, and detailed a man to drive her home when she refused his offer of a downtown hotel room at the city�s expense.

I heaved a deep sigh of relief when we at last stepped out into the night air. My stomach felt empty and forlorn, and I told Burke I had some dog-meat at home in the refrigerator that would make swell sandwiches.

He didn�t even smile. �What�s good enough for Nip and Tuck is good enough for me,� he agreed. �Let me drive ahead to the police barrier at the mouth of the canyon... and I�ll trail you on to your place after getting you through.�

He got in his car and I got in mine. It had been one of the longest evenings I ever lived through... and it still wasn�t ended.

Jerry Burke�s plate was empty. He took a sip of beer, heaved a satisfied sigh and leaned back to fill his pipe. I was still eating. Scrambled eggs and hamburger are pretty fine eating for a bachelor at one o�clock in the morning.

It was peaceful and quiet in the living room of my bungalow. A shaded floor lamp stood near the table and the two Scotties lay on the floor just beyond the bright circle of light.

Blackmail and murder seemed awfully remote. I had a queer good feeling of impersonality about the whole business. Here, with the two of us to think it out, I felt we were going to hit on a solution.

I finished my eggs, and let the dogs scramble for the last bit of the meat which was rightfully theirs. Burke grinned as he watched Nip eagerly licking at a grease mark on the rug. He said:

�It�s easy to see why you haven�t married, Asa.�

�Why?� I was draining my glass of beer.

He gestured toward the dogs. �No self-respecting spouse would put up with them.�

�Who the hell,� I jeered, �wants a self-respecting spouse?�

�That�s just it,� he said patiently. �Obviously, you prefer the dogs.�

I set my glass down and thought about Laura Yates for no reason at all.

Then I lit a cigarette and looked at the cross of silver with its extra cross-bar which lay on the table. Burke had brought it along in his pocket after the experts failed to find any prints on it.

I picked it up and studied it. It was about two inches long, and heavy.

�How does this fit into the pattern of murder, Jerry?�

He sprawled his long legs out and blew a volcanic blast of smoke toward the ceiling. �I don�t know, Asa. But I�m convinced it�s an important part of the picture. If we knew what the damned thing meant we might have the answers to a lot of other questions.�

�Do you think the same person killed both Young and Dwight?�

He hesitated over that, then said soberly: �Yes. It wouldn�t make sense otherwise.�

�Hardiman?�

Burke shook his head, his eyes wary. �I don�t know. We certainly can�t eliminate him. But he just doesn�t add up for me... yet.�

�It seems to me he�s the only one who does,� I protested. �He had the opportunity and certainly the motive for tonight�s job. He as good as admitted he had found and destroyed whatever documentary evidence Dwight was holding over his head.�

Burke nodded and said:

�There were five others with a possible motive and opportunity. Desta, Marvin, Michaela, Pasqual... and Laura.�

�I believe Hardiman lied about seeing Laura sneak into the house,� I stated emphatically.

�Possibly.� He gave me an odd glance, and I had an idea that in some little corner of his mind that wasn�t chock full of serious contemplations, he was laughing at my vehemence. �However,� he resumed, �we know she was on the grounds at about the right time. Just as she was in the Young case.�

�Good God!� I exclaimed. �Can you sit there and tell me you believe a woman is responsible for two cold-blooded murders in succession?�

He smoked his pipe placidly. �Study the annals of crime,� he drawled. �There�s a lot of truth in the old axiom that the female of the species is more deadly than the male. They have a way of going to extremes once they start something.�

�I can�t believe it of any woman who was there tonight.�

�There�s Desta. Don�t you have a feeling there�s something queer about her?�

�Plenty,� I agreed emphatically. �Though I don�t know whether you�re thinking of the same connotations as I.�

�U-m-m. Something unnatural and abnormal. Why, for instance, did she fly at Myra Young so fiercely on those two occasions?�

�A daughter naturally resents having her father carry on with another woman,� I said lamely.

�Nonsense. You�re forgetting the sort of crowd that kid travels with. You can�t actually believe she was shocked by a thing like that.�

�It did seem peculiar,� I admitted. �Which is just what that gal is if you ask me. What do you think she did when I took her outside to question her?�

�Don�t tell me that she... er... took advantage of you?� A wide grin spread over his face.

�I was practically raped before I could get her back in. And it wasn�t a normal sort of passion. I don�t know how to put it, Jerry, but she�s got a screw loose.�

He nodded. �Nymphomania... and maybe something else. Something we don�t want to lose sight of. A father complex...� His voice trailed off uncertainly.

I went to the liquor cabinet and came back with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. Burke watched approvingly as I poured two drinks. He took an appreciative sniff and said:

�It�s good to get something like this after the fancy mixed stuff I drank out at Dwight�s.�

I sat down and said: �We�ve gotten sidetracked away from the cross. It intrigues me, Jerry.�

�Crosses,� he corrected. �Three of them. One on Michaela�s letter... one daubed on Young�s cheek... and this.� He picked the silver cross up and looked at it.

�Does it look like the one you said Young showed you once?�

�Very much. An exact duplicate, as nearly as I recall. There must be some particular significance attached to the double bar.�

�The symbol of the double-cross,� I suggested jokingly.

�Maybe you�ve got something there.� He spoke seriously. �Could the symbol on Michaela�s note been a warning for Leslie not to double-cross her? Or, had he already double-crossed her, and was the symbol a subtle warning?�

I said: �I still like Hardiman for a suspect.�

�Let�s get down to earth and see exactly where we stand.�

�You said in the beginning that if you knew why Young was invited to the hacienda, you could deduce who wanted to keep him from going... and would know the murderer.�

He nodded stubbornly. �I still maintain that the invitation and the telephoned threat contain the vital clue to the entire affair. Let�s examine what we know about the meeting at the hacienda. Why was Young invited?�

�Because Michaela wanted him to meet Dwight and Hardiman there.�

�Assuming the only connection between them was through her father, she would know Young�s Communistic leanings and might reasonably expect him to bitterly oppose a crooked deal being put through � by a hated capitalist � at the expense of a government which is striving desperately toward socialism.�

�From that, you might infer that she asked Young to come because she thought he might throw a monkey wrench in the works... which further infers that she wanted to spoil the deal.�

�Exactly. That�s perfectly in line with what we know of her political convictions.�

�But she�s been helping to get Dwight and Rodriguez together,� I protested.

�Wait a minute. That�s merely been an assumption. That�s what she appeared to be doing. How do we know she hasn�t been secretly working against it all along? Look at it this way: Hardiman puts the pressure on Rodriguez in Mexico City. Mexico is determined to avoid a quarrel with us over the oil payments. If a payment to Dwight will appease our State Department (as represented by Hardiman) it would be sensible for Mexico to accede to the demand on the promise that a single payment would suffice.�

Burke paused to sip some brandy.

�All that makes sense,� I agreed. �Mexico is torn by internal dissension and certainly wants no serious quarrel with us. Yet, it�s physically impossible for her to pay for all the property she�s expropriated. If paying Dwight�s claim would satisfy our State Department, they would likely do it. But I still don�t understand how Michaela fits into it.�

�She could have learned of the impending deal in Mexico City... and determined to prevent it if possible. By pretending to act as a go-between and getting into Dwight�s confidence, she would be in a good position to break it up. She could make a pretence of helping him while all the time she waits for a chance to stick a knife in his back.� He paused abruptly, got up and paced back and forth.

It did make sense. It explained the hitherto inexplicable message to Leslie Young. It supplied, by God, a perfect motive for Dwight�s murder.

�But it doesn�t,� Burke said as though reading my mind, �explain Young�s death... with the double-cross emblem marked on his cheek.�

I sighed and poured myself a little more brandy.

�Nor the shot Myra heard tonight,� Burke added.

�Do you think she actually heard a shot, Jerry?�

He looked puzzled. �I don�t know. She must have heard something.�

�No one else did.�

�U-m-m.� He came to the table rubbing his jaw. �Perhaps she was listening for a shot... expected one. That would explain her hearing it while no one else did.�

�Or she might have had some foreknowledge of Dwight�s impending murder... without knowing what method the killer would use. With her husband�s death vividly in her mind, she would expect a second murder to also be committed with a pistol and her subconscious mind would magnify some slight sound into the shot she expected to hear.�

He said, �Maybe.�

�You�ve got something else on your mind,� I charged. �Don�t hold out on me.�

He picked up his glass and sniffed the brandy. �It isn�t anything I can explain. A feeling... a hunch...� He lapsed into silence, staring at the floor.

�What about Laura Yates?� I asked, after a short interval.

�I don�t know, Asa. Damned if I can figure her.� He shot me a keen glance. �You... could go for her, couldn�t you?�

I tried to answer honestly. �I don�t know. That is... well, I don�t know. If things were different... but I can�t help thinking and wondering... that lipstick on Young�s mouth and the lipstick daubed on his cheek...�

�Everything points to the feminine motif,� Burke agreed calmly.

�Maybe... maybe that�s what we were meant to think,� I said excitedly. �Maybe the killer took pains to give it the feminine touch. That is...� I paused to straighten out my sudden thought, then went on: �Laura practically admitted kissing him just before he was killed. That accounts for the lipstick on his mouth. If the killer saw that... mightn�t he heighten the impression by marking the cross on his victim�s cheek with lipstick... just to confuse the issue and throw us off the track.�

�The only thing wrong with that theory,� Burke pointed out gruffly, �is that male murderers aren�t likely to have a lipstick handy.�

�Still,� I insisted, �it�s possible. And you always contend that we mustn�t disregard any possibility no matter how remote.�

�Right you are.� Burke emptied his glass, stood up and slapped me on the back. �I have an idea tomorrow... or today, rather... will answer all our questions.�

He picked up the silver cross and stared at it with puckered forehead. �The double-cross! Could Young have been a double-crosser? And Dwight? We know Dwight would double-cross his grandmother for a Mexican peso. In fact, this deal with Hardiman as the goat was nothing more than a gigantic double-cross on all the other oil firms whose property was expropriated along with his... and on both governments. Dwight fits in all right. Not Young, though.� He shook his head, dropped the double-barred cross with a thump.

�It�s late for an old man to be up, Asa. If we write finis to the case tomorrow we�ll have to do a lot of stirring around. The brandy, beer, and the dog-food were excellent. Particularly the dog-food. You�re a lucky pair of critters.� He bent to pat the dogs.

I went to the door with him. �Don�t cross any bridges until you reach them,� he advised with his hand on my shoulder. �And don�t make Jelcoe�s mistake of believing things are what they seem. So often, things aren�t.�

He sighed and I had a feeling that he was worried about the outcome of the case. Not about his ability to solve it... but what the ultimate solution would be, and (I was afraid) how the solution would affect me.

Which could only mean he hadn�t wholly dismissed Laura from his mind as a suspect.

I stood in the lighted doorway and watched him stride down the path, get in his car and drive away. By God, I envied him his one-track mind and his utter lack of sentiment. He was like a machine while on a case. An intelligent, highly rational machine, but with no more human emotion inside of him than if he was actually made up of cogs and gears.

I wished to God I knew how to acquire his impersonal aloofness. It seemed to me it would be swell to be like that.

I was disgusted with myself, but I couldn�t get Laura off my mind. I whistled to the dogs and took them over to the park. I wasn�t sleepy. I felt as though I�d never be sleepy again. At least not until the case was ended and written into a book where I could forget it.

It was Hardiman of course. It had to be Hardiman. I pitied the poor devil and wished I could see some out for him... but there aren�t any outs for murderers. I had no idea what he had done in the past to give Dwight a hold on him, but I was pretty sure he�d paid for it a hundred times, no matter what it was. Dwight was the kind of man who would have exacted the last pound of flesh from such a situation.

But there was some connection between Laura and Hardiman. Much as I hated to admit it, I knew there had to be. I knew Burke realized it, too...

Tuck broke into a trot as we went up the walk. He leaped up the steps and over the threshold with a joyous little yap, while Nip hung back at my side, her neck hair rising.

I stopped in the open doorway and stared at Laura, who sat comfortably at the table with a glass of my brandy in her hand.

She appeared perfectly at ease, sipping my brandy and waiting to welcome me into my own home. I wasn�t at all sure she wasn�t a double murderess, yet her very coldness had a physical allure that did funny things to me.

Nip and I went in together and I heard my voice saying: �Oh, it�s you?�

She nodded. �The front door was open so I just walked in and made myself at home.�

I circled her and poured a drink of brandy which I put down in one gulp. It didn�t help very much.

I pulled out a chair and sat down, muttering: �Do you know Jerry Burke is combing the city for you?�

She laughed. �That�s one reason why I�m here. He isn�t likely to come back tonight, is he?�

�How did you know he has been here?�

�I�ve been crouched out behind the hedge waiting for him to leave for the past hour.�

My fingers went to the lump on my head. �You�ve done a lot of crouching behind my hedge tonight, haven�t you?�

She asked: �What are you talking about?�

�You know damned well,� I flared. �You can�t deny you slugged me or had me slugged to get Jerry�s telegram.�

�I do deny it,� she said pleasantly.

I didn�t actually believe her, but I let it go at that.

I took a sip of brandy and set myself to pull a fast one such as you read about in the best detective fiction. As I set my glass down, I asked:

�Why did you kill Raymond Dwight?�

I meant to put it so casually that she�d be caught off-guard and answer truthfully before she had time to collect her thoughts.

I�m afraid I didn�t put it over very well. She was surprised, all right, but not enough to be caught napping. She sucked in her breath sharply and said:

�So, that�s what all the rumpus was about? The cops guarding the canyon exit wouldn�t tell me anything. Who killed him? How and when?�

�I�m asking the questions, damn it!� I scowled at her. �How did you get past the police cordon?�

A low chuckle came from her red lips. �I told them I was Mrs. Eloise Pelham on my way to a city hospital to give birth to my first baby, and I pulled a fake faint that had them embarrassed for fear I was going to do it right there. They didn�t even make me get out of my car to check up on my silhouette, but gave me a motorcycle escort to the hospital and were awfully kind about the whole thing.�

There you are. What can you do with a woman like that?

�Why did you slip back to see Hardiman secretly?� I asked.

�I wanted to get his side of the thing. I thought he might break down and spill something important.�

�Did he?�

�No. He denied everything. But there was a gleam in his fishy eyes that boded ill for Dwight. Do you suppose Hardiman could have...�

I cut her off brusquely. �He says he stood there in the yard and watched you sneak in the side door and go up to Dwight�s room about the time murder was committed.�

�He lies.� She was coldly unemotional about it. �He stood there and watched me go down the slope to where I had parked my car.�

�If you left the house when you say you did... you wouldn�t have been caught by the police blockade. Dwight�s body wasn�t discovered for at least half an hour.�

She had an answer for that, too. �I had car trouble. A clogged gas line. I had to hail a passing motorist and get him to blow it out for me.�

�The Free Press phoned the house to ask if Dwight would verify the blackmail story. How did they get it if you didn�t steal the telegram from me after I was knocked out?�

�I imagine whoever took it from you must have given them the story,� she suggested, with a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

I gave her a cigarette and took one myself, lit them both with the same match. Leaning forward to get a light, she spotted the silver cross lying there where Burke had dropped it. Her eyes widened perceptibly and there was a swift rush of terror to her face. She pointed with a trembling forefinger and asked:

�Where... did that come from?�

I felt superior and upper-handish for the first time since walking in the door. I leaned back and puffed nonchalantly on my cigarette.

�You seem to recognize it?�

�Of course. There was a rough sketch of it on the note Michaela O�Toole wrote Leslie. It excited him strangely but he wouldn�t tell me what it meant to him.�

I held my breath, waiting to see if she would say anything to betray the fact that she knew about the same mark being found on Young�s cheek in death. It hadn�t been mentioned publicly and we thought no one knew about it except the authorities, Mrs. Young, and the murderer.

When she didn�t mention it I wanted to believe it was because she was unaware of it, but I couldn�t rid myself of the thought that she was a fast-thinking female and wasn�t likely to give herself away like that.

She was still looking down at the cross, and I finally answered her original question:

�It was found on Dwight�s body... left there by the murderer, I suppose.�

She looked at me with dilated eyes, and there was a sudden flash of understanding in them. She started to speak but checked herself before a word came out. I felt balked, thwarted. I sensed that she had hold of something important, the clue to everything, perhaps... and that she was going to hold out on me.

I felt desperately like slapping the truth out of her. Instead of that masterful course, I prompted her with a weak: �Well, what are you going to tell me about it?�

She wet her lips and smiled enigmatically. �It brings up an interesting speculation.� She held out her glass.

I poured her another drink. I didn�t take any more. I knew I needed all my faculties to cope with her.

As she drank, I asked her: �What did you do with Burke�s telegram from Washington?�

She looked at me innocently. �I told you I haven�t seen it.�

�And I don�t believe you. You can get yourself locked up for stunts like that.�

�I imagine Mr. Burke keeps a nice clean jail.� She leaned both her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in palms. �Are you going to swear out a warrant for my arrest?�

I tried to avoid her eyes but I couldn�t. There was a warm glow in their depths. The palms of my hands were clammy and my heart was pumping absurdly fast.

I said, �No,� and then suddenly I was standing up. I felt lightheaded. �But I can�t harbor you. Jerry would never forgive me if he found out you were here and I didn�t hold you.�

�In that case... why don�t you hold me?�

She was standing, too. She moved around the table and stood very close to me.

I don�t know much about women but I knew she wanted to be kissed.

Nip and Tuck sat there on their haunches with their ears tipped forward in surprise and (I think) approval.

Jerry Burke woke me the next morning, standing over me and shaking my shoulder. I stared up at him stupidly, blinking in the bright sunlight streaming in my east window. He was cleanly shaved and his eyes had a bright alertness that was disgusting so early in the morning. I sat up in bed and muttered:

�This is a hell of a time to come visiting.�

He sat down on the edge of my bed and grinned at me. �It�s a guilty conscience that�s keeping you abed, Asa. Harboring wanted women isn�t in your line.�

�I didn�t harbor her very lon...� I began, then broke off with a curse. �How do you know Laura was here?�

�A couple of my men picked her up as she drove away last night. I sent them here as soon as I got home.�

�But how... what made you think she�d come here?�

He laughed out loud with an exuberant cheerfulness that told me he felt the case was tightening up. �It was the one place I knew she�d come. That gal has designs on you, Asa, whether you know it or not.�

I worked up a good imitation of a yawn and avoided his probing eyes. �I suppose you�ve got her locked up in a cell next to Hardiman,� I grunted.

�Not yet,� he drawled. �Either she or Hardiman lied about her going into the house last night. I checked her story about passing the barricade with her story of expectant motherhood, and released her for the time being, at least. But I�ve got a good man tailing her and I can put my finger on her any time I want.�

I got up and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. Coming back to get dressed, I asked:

�What are the latest developments? I suppose you�ve been up for hours and hours running down clues.�

He ticked them off on his fingers while I dressed: �No fingerprints found on the pistol. Ballistics positively identifies it as the gun used to kill both Leslie Young and Raymond Dwight. Confronted with it, Myra Young tentatively identified the pistol as the one given to her by Leslie... which she claims disappeared from the house immediately after Laura Yates� last visit there. The serial number positively identifies it as one purchased by Leslie Young from a downtown sporting goods store. Laura Yates denies ever having seen it.�

The way he said that last line made it sound very much as though he suspected Laura might be lying. I blurted out:

�You�ve only got Myra�s word that she ever did.�

�True enough. But, so far as we know, Laura is the only one of the possible suspects who might have gotten hold of that gun. None of the rest of them had any chance to steal it from the Young home.�

�How about Dwight?� I asked belligerently. �He admitted keeping assignations with Young�s wife while he was away from home. He might have picked it up on one of his visits. If I were getting into deep water with a married woman, one of the first things I�d do would be to inquire about firearms around the house... and make some arrangement to get rid of a pistol in case the husband came home unexpectedly.�

Burke rubbed his chin thoughtfully. �That�s psychologically correct,� he agreed. �But, Myra would have known...�

�And would have lied about it if she did know,� I interrupted excitedly. �There�s been something fishy about that dame all along. She was throwing suspicion off Dwight by accusing the first person who came into her mind... Laura Yates.�

�Possibly. But, are you theorizing that Dwight killed Young... then carried the pistol home and shot himself with it and threw it out the window?�

�I�m not theorizing,� I growled. �I�m simply pointing out one way by which that pistol could have gotten out of the Young house into the possession of some one other than Laura Yates. If Dwight took it home with him for safe-keeping... any one of the others might have picked it up at Dwight�s. Desta, Michaela, Hardiman... any of them.�

Jerry Burke nodded and said mildly: �I haven�t accused Laura Yates of having stolen the pistol. I was merely stating the latest developments at your request.�

�Here�s another angle,� I exclaimed, warming up to the subject. �Why couldn�t Leslie Young have stuck that pistol in his pocket when he rode away from the cabin? His murderer could have taken it away from him and done the shooting... then carried it on away to use on Dwight later.�

�All right, all right.� Burke held up his hand in resignation. �You convince me that anyone might have gotten hold of that particular pistol and done murder with it. What next?�

�Coffee,� I told him, going toward the kitchen. �Will you have a cup with me?�

He followed me to the doorway, shaking his head. �I haven�t time. I stopped by to ask you to attempt a research job that I thought might be in your line. I want to get a definite line on that silver cross.�

I turned to stare at him, still blinking sleep from my eyes. �What about it?�

�I don�t know. That�s what I want you to find out. Anything. Everything!� His doubled fist pounded the palm of his left hand. �It has to mean something. As our friend Jelcoe points out, there has to be a reason for everything... even a cross with an extra bar. You�re supposed to know something about books and research. I want to know where such a bastard cross popped up from... what significance it carries.�

I put water on to boil, shaking my head doubtfully. �Damned if I know where to start looking,� I confessed. �Of course, there are all sorts of different-shaped crosses... all with certain symbolic meanings, I suppose. I don�t know whether I can turn up any dope on this one or not.�

�I�m betting you can.� Jerry slapped me on the shoulder and turned away. �You�ll know what to look for if you find anything at all. I�ll be at my office.�

He paused at the front door to turn and warn me: �I consider this damned important, Asa. Don�t stop digging until you exhaust every avenue of information. Here�s your dogs. I let them out when I came in.�

He opened the door and Nip and Tuck trotted in with red tongues lolling. The door closed behind him and I measured coffee into the dripolator, wondering where to start looking for what he wanted.

I kept on wondering, while I made coffee, and decided against trusting any food in my stomach on top of the dog-food I had eaten not so many hours earlier.

It seemed pretty hopeless to me, with nothing at all to go on. If I could just find a starting point... find out what it was called...

I finished a cup of coffee and was half-way through a cigarette when I guiltily realized I was just killing time... and Jerry was depending on me.

Without much hope, I went into my study and opened Webster�s New International dictionary at �cross.�

The first thing I saw was a plate showing pictures of twenty differently shaped crosses.

And number three on the list was an exact reproduction of the silver cross lying on my living room table.

With the blood tingling in my veins I read the descriptive phrase beneath the plate:

That was all, and that didn�t help much. Disappointed, I skimmed over the small type on the subject of crosses, and gathered that those pictured were formerly used as emblems in heraldry.

Tucked away in my book case was a seldom-used set of �The Americana Encyclopedia� which a fast-talking book agent had sold to me years before on the premise that no author could hope to be successful without a reference set in his home.

I dragged out the �H� volume and brushed off the dust, looked up �Heraldry� on the off-chance that I�d run onto something. At the beginning of the article on Heraldry I was coldly advised to see �Crosses and Crucifixes� if that was what I was interested in.

So I laid �H� aside and dusted off �C.� Under �Crosses and Crucifixes� I found an entire plate of various-shaped crosses, and there again was my old friend with the double bars. The caption this time informed me that it was a: �Patriarchal or double cross.�

I already knew that. Which is my chief argument against wasting money on an encyclopedia. I�m always looking something up and discovering I already know what they tell me.

But I buckled down and read through the text on the subject of crosses in general, finding one paragraph relating to my cross:

That was all of that. Not much help yet, but at least it wasn�t a dead-end. Turning back to the beginning of the information on Crosses I began reading every word carefully until I was brought up with a start by the hidden and seemingly insignificant statement: �...Prescott says that when the first Europeans arrived in Mexico, to their surprise, they found �the Cross, the sacred emblem of their own faith, raised as an object of worship in the temples of Anahuac...��

I read that over and over, trying to decide whether it meant a great deal, or nothing.

Mexico!

I don�t know why it excited me. Modern Mexico is predominantly Catholic. There are crosses and shrines all over Mexico. But the idea of a cross before the advent of Catholicism stimulated my imagination. I supposed Prescott didn�t mention a double cross, but...

I have a well-thumbed three volumes of Prescott�s �Conquest of Mexico.� I dug them out and went to the index in Volume III.

On page 484 I found: �Cross, the common symbol of worship, i, 267 note. See Crosses.�

The note on page 267, Vol. I, gave the following not particularly relevant information:

That wasn�t much help. Checking through the various other references in Prescott, I gathered that the presence of a cross as a symbol of worship superseding Christianity had been most prevalent on the Island of Cozumel (just off the coast of the Yucatan Peninsula) and in Yucatan itself.

I laid Prescott aside thoughtfully. There was a possible lead. Geographically, Yucatan is situated so as to be almost an island, set off from the rest of the continent by an almost impassable barrier of jungle, swamp, and low hill ranges. The home of the Maya Indians; the seat of one of the most astounding of ancient civilizations � the Mayan; Yucatan has been the object of intense archeological research during the last few decades... considered by scientists as an almost perfect �laboratory case� for such study because it is so isolated that outside influences have been reduced to a minimum.

And Mike O�Toole, renegade Irish adventurer, had settled in Yucatan, where Leslie Young had met him!

Not much of a tie-up. Far-fetched and fantastic, of course. But, a beginning. Something to start on.

Jerry Burke had told me I would know what to look for if I found something. Was this what he had in mind?

My next port of call was the public library. I hardly knew what I was looking for, nor how to go about finding it, but Yucatan was a lead that stuck in my mind.

The cross-reference filing cards of the library were peculiarly productive. Because of El Paso�s proximity to Mexico, I suppose, the reference shelves of the library contained more than their share of scientific research into the ancient Mayan civilization.

Choosing at random, I took a crack at Cheese-borough�s six volumes of �A Study of Mayan Antiquities.�

The numerous color plates fascinated me... Tinted photographs, mostly, of reliefs sculptured God knows how many centuries ago on stone walls and the arches of ancient temples.

I flipped the pages rapidly, looking for a two-barred cross. I found crosses, dozens of them, but all were the conventional single traverse type.

I was half-way through the second volume before I thought to consult the index.

And... there it was! I had a crawling sensation in my belly as I stared at the words:

�Stone Crosses in Architecture: ...Latin, Double Patibula, IV, p. 432...�

My fingers trembled as I opened volume IV to page 432. There they were. Two of them. Flanking the entry of a teocalli near the fabled metropolis of Chichen Itza.

Stone crosses, rudely hewn from the solid rock by the copper instruments of a people unacquainted with iron.

Beneath the photograph of the two crosses was the caption:

Back I went to the reference files, praying that the library would have a copy of Mr. Jenson�s book.

A brown-eyed girl wearing a smock and a friendly smile was hovering around the filing cabinet when I reached it. She asked if she could help me, and I let her because she seemed so anxious to help somebody.

�I wonder if you have a copy of Martin Jenson�s �Modern Mexican Mythology�?�

I noticed a little frown pucker her forehead, and was surprised by her prompt answer:

�Yes. I know there is a copy. But I�ll have to look up the number. It�s rarely asked for and I can�t tell you exactly where to find it.�

She turned her back and drew out the �J� drawer of cards. As her fingers flipped through them, I asked curiously:

�How do you happen to remember the name of that particular book? Don�t tell me you go in for Mexican mythology.�

She tossed me a professional smile over her shoulder. �I don�t, as a matter of fact. It just happens that I had another inquiry for the same book a couple of days ago.�

I stiffened like a bird dog on a point. It couldn�t be a coincidence. It had to mean something. Someone else running down the same dope.

�I wonder if you could recall who it was,� I said as casually as I could.

�She didn�t tell me her name.� The girl was copying some numbers down from the file.

�I wonder if you could describe her to me,� I said desperately. �I�m doing a feature article on Mexican Mythology and I�ve an idea...�

�Why, that�s what she was doing, too. I remember she was particularly interested in the origin of a cross with two bars... and I helped her chase it down to this book you want to see. But I don�t believe I can describe her at all. So many people are in and out all the time.�

�Can�t you remember the color of her hair?� I asked. �Whether she was fat or thin? Young or old?�

�She wasn�t old. Moderately tall and slender... I think.�

�When was this?� I asked her tensely. �It�s... important.�

�Day before yesterday.� She was very positive about it. �Just before noon, day before yesterday. I was off yesterday, and I remember distinctly.�

I muttered my thanks and followed her to a shelf where she instantly found Mr. Jenson�s book and handed it down to me.

I sat down with it at a table, my mind in a whirl. Day before yesterday at three o�clock, Leslie Young had been murdered. At noon of that day... three hours before the murder occurred... Some woman had looked up the symbol which was later found marked on Young�s cheek with a woman�s lipstick.

I tried to quit thinking, and opened the heavy volume to page 341. A section titled: �DO THE DEVOTEES OF HUEXCHIPATLAN STILL WORSHIP AT THE SHRINE OF THE DOUBLE-CROSS?� read:

I had read enough to know Jerry Burke should immediately see what I had found. Carrying the book under my arm, I went to the desk with my library card, waited impatiently until it was duly stamped to allow me to take the book out, then hurried to Burke�s office with my find.

When I hurried into Jerry Burke�s private office at police headquarters a few minutes later, I found him sitting at his desk loosing a lurid string of oaths that would have made an army mule-skinner blush.

He glanced at me and kept on cursing, paying no attention to my excited face nor to the heavy volume I slammed down in front of him.

I waited until he began repeating himself, then interrupted to ask what it was all about.

�These dumb flatfeet the city furnishes me and calls detectives,� he growled. �Can�t even tail a woman a few hours without losing her.�

�Laura Yates?�

He nodded disgustedly. �Not that it makes a hell of a lot of difference, now, for it�ll soon all be over. But it�s the principle of it. That fool I had tailing her just telephoned that he lost her an hour ago in a downtown crowd.�

I had an empty sick feeling inside of me as I realized that what I was going to tell him might make him consider the disappearance of Laura Yates more serious than he thought. I pointed to the book and said:

�You haven�t asked me what I dug up on the cross you were so curious about.�

He glanced at the book with a disinterested frown. �Oh, that. I�m sorry, Asa. I don�t believe it�s important after all. I tried to call you a while ago to tell you not to bother. You were out so I sent a man over to your place with a note...� He paused gloomily.

�You don�t know what I dug up.� I opened the book at page 341 and shoved it under his nose.

He began reading where I indicated. A flicker of interest lighted his face and he leaned closer. He nodded his head when he finished.

�This is something, sure enough. The cult of the double-cross.� He arose excitedly and paced up and down with blue smoke from his pipe swirling in the air behind him.

�Yucatan! That�s where Leslie Young met Mike O�Toole years ago. Young must have learned about the cult... got hold of one of their crosses... remember, I told you he showed me one of them he brought back? From her father, Michaela knew about him and his sympathy with the objectives of the secret society. By tracing that symbol on her letter, she told him what the meeting at the hacienda was all about. Then: Why the hell did she kill him and mark that same symbol on his cheek? It doesn�t make sense, Asa. It�s more mixed up than ever, now. Just when I thought I had the whole case neatly solved. God help me if I ever trust a deduction again.�

I leaned back and wet my lips. �There�s one other thing I haven�t told you yet, Jerry.�

He didn�t hear me. He was walking up and down, thinking aloud: �The Dwight death points directly at O�Toole. Leaving the cross on the body... everything...� He paused, shaking his head.

�I�m trying to tell you, Jerry...�

He still didn�t hear me. He was striding up and down pounding his fist into his palm. �If you�ll just listen to me!� I yelled.

�What�s that? I have been listening to you, Asa.�

I gritted my teeth and said: �Does it mean anything to you that a young, medium-tall and slender woman looked up this same stuff at noon of the day Young was murdered?�

�At noon?� He sank down into his chair while he digested that information. He rubbed his chin and muttered, �Before Young was killed, eh?�

He stared at me, and I knew he must be thinking the same thing I was... about Laura Yates. There was a knock on the door before he could speak, and he lifted his head to bark, �Come.� A cop stuck his head in and said:

�I delivered that note, Chief. The feller wasn�t there but I gave it to his wife and she said she�d see he got it...�

�His what? You what? Come in here and say that again.�

The cop entered nervously. �That man, Baker, wife she said she�d take it and tell him.�

Burke glanced sharply at me. I had a sickish feeling deep in my belly. I said: �Describe Mrs. Baker.�

He described Laura Yates. �She was right there with the dogs,� he ended defensively. �I thought it�d be all right...�

Burke snarled, �Get out,� and reached for the phone again. I sat there numbly while he asked for my number, waited a minute, then hung up savagely.

�She doesn�t answer, Asa. That note I sent you... Good God... if she reads that note and goes out there...�

�She�ll read it,� I assured him between clenched teeth. �No question about her reading it. What... did it say, Jerry?�

�It said, God forgive me, that you needn�t go on with your research because I already knew who killed Dwight... that I want you to call me as soon as you get in and we�ll go out to ask Myra Young one question that will prove my theory without a doubt.� He paused to lick his lips.

�You didn�t mention any names?�

�None.� He shook his head, then was suddenly galvanized into action.

�That�s where she�s gone, Asa. We�ve got to beat her out there or there�ll be another murder.� He was running out through the crowded corridor and I was following him.

I knew what he must mean. If Laura was guilty the note would give her the idea she was on the verge of being found out, and that Myra Young had some proof against her. A woman guilty of two murders wouldn�t hesitate at a third.

And it was my fault. Mine for not suspecting her... for letting her become familiar with my house and giving her an opportunity to get hold of Burke�s note...

We were in Burke�s car and he was splitting downtown traffic with his screaming siren. I hung on and was sick at my stomach. I didn�t care whether we crashed or not. If we didn�t get out to the canyon in time I�d feel I was guilty of murder.

I�ve been on wild rides in Jerry Burke�s official car before, but nothing to compare with this one. We went screaming into Texas Street, and traffic got out of our way. It had to.

Burke leaned forward with big hands gripping the wheel, eyes glued to the narrow lane of asphalt which kept miraculously opening out in front of us.

Somehow, there was always an opening through which he contrived to twist the thundering car.

He skidded around the half-turn into Piedras at seventy, and I would have been sick if I hadn�t been too busy wondering how long we could possibly avoid a crash.

He got it up to ninety after we put the car tracks behind us, and made the turn into the canyon with the speedometer needle flickering just below the sixty point.

The rest of the ride was nightmarish. I was past caring whether we crashed or not. Looking back, I think I almost wished we would. I couldn�t let myself think about what we might find at the Young cottage.

My fault! The woman had played me for a fool all along. My fault, not the cop�s, that she had been able to dupe him into delivering Burke�s note to her instead of waiting for me. It was a pretty ghastly business.

Burke cut his siren as we approached the turn leading up to Young�s cabin. I leaned far out, straining my eyes up the slope, hoping against hope that we were in time.

We weren�t.

I knew we were too late when I saw Laura�s car parked in front of the cabin.

I hit the ground running when Burke slammed on brakes. It took me seconds to go up the path and through the front door... to see Myra Young stretched out on the floor with Laura Yates bending over her... and there was the gleam of steel in Laura�s right hand.

I yelled and lunged forward, hitting Laura with my shoulder as Burke came into the room with a .38 in his hand.

Laura tumbled back and her pistol went spinning. I scrambled for it, came up with it in my hand. It was an ugly little .32.

Laura was on her hands and knees facing me when I stood up with her pistol in my hand. She sank back on her haunches and said coolly:

�Nice to see you again. Keep her covered while you�re being heroic.�

She jerked her head sideways and I followed the gesture to see Michaela O�Toole standing against the wall with folded arms and a set smile on her perfect lips.

I backed away, menacing them with Laura�s stubby .32. I muttered, �Stand back... both of you,� and over my shoulder I choked out to Burke: �How... is she?�

�She�s still breathing.� Burke came up off his knees from beside the inanimate form of Leslie Young�s widow. �Keep both those hell-cats covered, Asa. I�ll get a pan of water.�

I took another backward step while he trotted to the kitchen for water. Glancing sideways, I could see Myra�s face, white as death. Could see her nude torso the color of old ivory where her blouse had been savagely ripped aside... and I shuddered as I saw blood flowing from a long scratch leading downward from the bottom of her breasts to her navel... with two shorter scratches right-angled across near the top of the vertical one...

The deadly symbol of the double-cross cruelly marked on her still-living flesh!

I saw all that in one swift glance, then I didn�t look any more. I turned back to face Laura and Michaela as Burke came hurrying back with a pan of water.

Michaela hadn�t moved from her position against the wall, and the smile hadn�t left her lips. Laura had sunk into a chair and was fumbling in her handbag. I started forward with an exclamation which died to a mumble as she calmly brought forth a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches.

�You�re being frightfully melodramatic,� she murmured with a puff of smoke. �Wouldn�t you just as leave point that thing away from me? It�s loaded, you know.�

There was a splash behind me as Burke dumped the water in Myra�s face. The splash was followed by gurgling and watery gasps, and Burke�s voice soothingly telling her to take it easy.

I began breathing again. Perhaps my stupidity hadn�t resulted in a third murder after all.

I took another backward step and saw Myra sitting up on the floor with Burke�s arm supporting her. She was staring around wildly, making funny noises, ineffectually pulling at the torn front of her dress.

�Everything�s all right,� Burke was assuring her. �No one is going to harm you. Just get your breath and tell us all about it.�

�I can tell you,� came Laura�s cool voice. �Miss O�Toole was in the act of ripping her open when I busted in and spoiled the party.�

�You lie!� the O�Toole lips hissed. �I came and found her on the floor like that. When I would have aided her you ran in and pushed me away with your pistol. You were hiding outside where you fled when you heard me coming... before you could finish your work.�

Jerry Burke was rocked back in his heels looking from one to the other as they contradicted each other. �Hold everything,� he growled. �We�ll get the straight of it when Mrs. Young gets her breath back enough to talk.�

There were angry sparks in Michaela�s incredibly blue eyes, and a contemptuous twist to Laura�s too-red lips, but both were silent as Burke leaned over Myra and asked:

�Do you feel well enough to tell us exactly what happened?�

She looked up at him with a shudder. �I... I don�t know. She,� nodding toward Laura, �had phoned me that you were ready to arrest Les�s murderer and were coming out to ask me just one question that would settle the case and she wanted to come first and hide where she could listen so she could get the story to print in her paper and scoop the others. I told her all right and I was sitting here waiting for you when... when something hit me on the head from behind and that�s all... all I know.�

Burke�s fingers touched the top of her head. He nodded. �You got a good bump. But haven�t you any idea who attacked you? Didn�t you hear or see anything?�

Myra gulped and shook her head. �No, I... I didn�t.� Then, faintly: �I... don�t feel very well.�

�No wonder.� Burke slipped his arm about her waist and helped her to the lounge, where she collapsed.

Turning away from her, Burke confronted the two girls and said: �I�ll have the straight of this now. Which one of you got here first?�

Simultaneously, they pointed at each other and said: �She.�

Folding his arms grimly, Jerry Burke walked close to Michaela. �All right. One at a time. Let�s hear your version of it. How did you escape from the Dwight estate in the first place?�

�Those gringo policemen,� she told him scornfully, �are fools. When Mrs. Young telephoned me and said you were coming and she would tell them a secret she knew, I...�

�I didn�t telephone you,� came chokingly from Myra behind us. �There�s some mistake.�

�I phoned Miss O�Toole and said I was Myra Young,� Laura admitted with twisted lips. �I had the bright idea that she would tip her hand by rushing over here to shut up Myra�s mouth if she was the murderer. Well, she did just what I expected... so I guess she is.�

My knees got too weak to hold me any more and I sank down into a chair. I�ll be damned if it didn�t look as though Laura was going to be able to lie herself out of that mess.

�I came to talk to Mrs. Young, not to hurt her,� came the indignant denial from Michaela. �I know now I heard someone running when I came to the back door and knocked. There was no answer and I came in and found her... Mrs. Young... lying on the floor just like when you came. When I tried to help her, she came in with her pistol and pushed me away.�

Laura Yates swung lithely to her feet as Burke shook his head in bafflement. She moved toward Michaela, saying between clenched teeth:

�This might as well be the showdown. I wanted to pull it off for myself and get the jump on all of you, but...�

She lunged forward without warning and her clawed fingers caught the top of Michaela�s gown, ripping it downward before Burke could interfere.

Michaela shrilled out a Mexican curse and her hand darted to her garter with the speed of light. A thin-bladed dagger gleamed in her hand as it came away.

Burke leaped forward and caught her wrist, bent it back cruelly; straightening her and bending her back so that the torn edges of her gown fell apart... revealing a two-barred cross tattooed into the white flesh beneath.

�There you are,� panted Laura Yates. �The secret symbol of the cult of the Double-cross. Try to deny that, you murdering Irish-Mayan. Though I still don�t know why you shot Leslie Young.�

Michaela backed away against the wall as Burke took the deadly little garter-knife from her fingers. She seemed contemptuously unaware of her exposed flesh and of the incriminating symbol just beneath. There was a fanatical flame in her eyes, but her features held the composure and stolidity of an Indian�s.

There was a loud commotion outside before anyone else could say anything. A shrill angry woman�s voice, and the gruff tones of Chief Jelcoe.

We all turned to look at the perspiring face of the chief of detectives as he came marching in the back door dragging the wriggling form of Desta Dwight with him.

�I missed this hell-cat and have been hunting her,� he panted. �Just found her hiding in the brush outside the back door.�

When he saw Desta, Burke said, �goddamn,� five times in rapid succession and with great feeling.

Jelcoe, meanwhile, was standing there staring stupidly around the room, his eyes darting from the lax figure of Myra Young on the couch, to the triumphant attitude of Laura, and then to the defiant Mexican girl. He drew in his breath sharply as he saw the tattooed cross.

�Just a little family gathering,� said Jerry Burke, intercepting Jelcoe�s gaze. He stood in front of Desta with spread legs and his hands on hips.

�All right. What are you doing here? What do you know about all this? Speak up!�

Her gaze went past him to rest malignantly on Michaela. �I followed her. I saw her slip away and head over here. Your cops were all guzzling beer, and asleep on the job. I wasn�t going to let her get away if I could help it. I think she killed Pops. I�ve been remembering that night when she took me to my room and I believe I heard a door open and close down the hall when she left my room. That�s when she did it.�

�All right. That�s what you think. Maybe she did.� Jelcoe�s eyelids went fluttering up at this admission but Burke disregarded him and went on to Desta:

�What do you know about her?� He gestured to Myra on the lounge behind him. �Which one of these wenches was here first and had the opportunity to carve her up?�

Desta�s eyes widened as she took in the details of Myra�s condition.

�I... I don�t know,� she hesitated. �I wasn�t very close behind Michaela. I heard them both inside here arguing when I came up to the back... and I hid outside to see what was going to happen.�

�Are you sure,� asked Michaela, �that it was not you who was here first and who slipped out to hide when you heard me coming?�

�I said I followed you,� Desta began, and Burke shut her up with a growled:

�I�ll ask the questions around here.�

�That�s right.� Jelcoe tightened his grip on Desta�s wrist and jerked her back.

Jerry Burke planted himself solidly in front of Michaela and said:

�Let�s start at the beginning. You�re from Yucatan and your father was Mike O�Toole... a friend of Leslie Young many years ago. You hadn�t met Young, but knew about him through your father. Right?�

Michaela O�Toole nodded with dignity. I don�t know how she managed it but she faced Burke with more poise than anyone in the room, though practically stripped to the waist.

�When I came on this journey to prevent the betrayal of my country by Raymond Dwight my father told me Leslie Young would help if I appealed to him in the name of the Sacred Cross. One who is not of Maya descent cannot be a blood member of our society, but many of the secrets were passed on to Leslie Young, who was thought worthy, and he was presented with the cross of silver as a token of trust. When I saw my task was difficult, I wrote the note to Leslie Young, marking upon it the symbol he would understand. That is all.� An intense silence held us as her sing-song voice was silent.

Burke broke it harshly: �All right. You wanted Young�s help. Why did you kill him?�

�I have told you I did not.�

�You told me you didn�t kill Dwight, too.�

�I have killed no one.�

�Then how did that silver cross get on his body?�

�I do not know,� Michaela responded disdainfully. �You should ask whoever killed him.�

Burke drew in a deep breath and muttered: �Thank God, something begins to make sense.� He turned slowly away from her, taking out his pipe. His fingers were steady as he tamped tobacco in the bowl.

The whole thing made less sense to me now than it had before. And as for poor Jelcoe, I think he thought we were all nuts. He just stood there, staring, with a funny look of blankness on his face.

When Burke got his pipe going he half-faced toward Laura Yates and asked casually:

�What communication did you have with Young the day he was killed?�

�He telephoned me about noon and arranged the afternoon meeting which I�ve already told you about.� Her voice was cold and flinty.

�And told you about the note he had received from Michaela?� Burke�s pipe went out and he puffed on it unsuccessfully.

Laura answered without the slightest hesitation: �He mentioned the note... yes. He knew I would be interested.�

�And described the symbol of the double-barred cross?�

�Yes.�

�So you went to the library and checked up on the hidden meaning of the symbol.� Burke walked slowly toward Laura, each word pounding out like a bludgeon: �You realized it was a whale of a story... too big to split with anyone. And by marking that symbol on his cheek with lipstick you saw a swell chance to get him out of the way and throw suspicion on the writer of the note. So you shot him through the head...�

�If you believe that,� Laura interrupted him icily, �You�re a bigger fool than I thought, Jerry Burke.�

Unexpectedly, he chuckled. �You don�t bluff worth a damn, do you? I was just trying to satisfy Asa�s suspicions.�

My face got red when Laura turned and glared at me.

Burke was sauntering over to Myra, who was still reclining on the lounge.

�I still want to ask you that one question, Mrs. Young. I�m quite sure I know who killed both your husband and Mr. Dwight, but you can help me prove it. Where did Leslie keep that box of curios he brought back from Mexico?�

�In the bedroo...� Her head jerked up suddenly. �What box do you mean?�

Burke shrugged. �I think the one in the bedroom will do.�

He turned away from the widow and went through a side door. We could hear him rummaging around, and he returned presently with a small box of polished ebony which he carried to the center table and turned upside down, spilling out a conglomeration of curious trifles which Young had brought back from the tropics.

Pawing through them, Burke nodded with satisfaction. �It isn�t here. That silver cross found on Dwight�s body wasn�t merely a duplicate of the one Young had... it was Young�s. Do you suppose Laura Yates stole it the same time she stole the pistol, Mrs. Young?�

�She didn�t have to steal it. He gave it to her! That�s how she got it. I remember now. Of course that was the same cross.�

�I�m sorry,� Burke said gently, �but I�m afraid that won�t do, Mrs. Young. You see, there�s that shot you spoke of hearing... just before we dashed up and found Dwight dead.�

He paused and there was intense silence in the room. Into that silence, he said softly: �I�m exceedingly curious about that shot you heard, Mrs. Young. Please try to remember exactly how it sounded... where it seemed to come from. It�s very important, I assure you.�

Myra Young sat rigid, staring at him. A queer pallor spread over her face as she made herself answer him:

�I�ve told you all I can remember. It was just a... a shot.�

Burke nodded cheerfully. �Don�t wear yourself out trying to remember. I think I know exactly what you heard. A sound which you heard above the radio, yet was heard by none of the rest of us in the room... nor, in fact, by any of the five living persons who were upstairs at the time. A ghostly sound, wasn�t it? The echo, shall we say, of the bullet fired by you into Dwight�s head a few minutes previously � while you were in his room pretending to hold a conversation with him.�

It took me some seconds to realize what Burke was saying. The others were struck as dumb as I by Burke�s surprising accusation, for the only sound in the room was Myra Young�s horrified, �No, no!�

Burke said: �I�m sorry, Mrs. Young, but that�s the way it has to be. None of the rest of us heard a shot because there wasn�t any shot at the time you pretended to hear it. It made a perfect alibi for you. When we rushed upstairs and found him shot through the head no one suspected you could possibly have fired the shot. Clever. The perfect alibi. Just too damned clever, Mrs. Young.�

�No, no, no!� Her voice rose to a scream. �I didn�t. I don�t know...�

�Yes you do. And I should have known. Leaving the silver cross lying on his body was another clever touch. The silver cross that your husband brought back from Yucatan. Again... it was too clever. It marks you without question as the one who put that same mark on your husband�s cheek after shooting him through the head.�

Myra Young�s face was horribly contorted. �I had an alibi for that. You heard what Mr. Dwight said...�

�And you killed Dwight to preserve that alibi,� Burke broke in grimly. �You traded him your body for his alibi, and then repented the bargain. You killed him to avoid final payment... and so he couldn�t retaliate by telling us the truth... that he watched you through his telescope when you slipped down the hill to murder Leslie.�

Myra lifted her head and laughed shrilly. It was an awful sound. She jerked the torn edges of her dress apart to expose the three scatches on her belly.

�And I suppose you accuse me of doing this, too. And hitting myself on the head. You might as well. It�s just as sensible...�

�I do accuse you of exactly that.� Burke�s big hand caught her wrist, dragged her hand up close to look at her fingers while she writhed ineffectually.

�How else did you get these particles of skin and blood under your fingernails? It was a last desperate expedient to throw suspicion on someone else when Laura�s telephone message warned you I was close to the truth.�

He dropped her hand and she cowered away from him like a whipped animal.

He turned to Jelcoe and said conversationally: �Here�s something in your line, Chief. Take a look over there near where she was lying and see if you can�t find a place where she bumped her own head on something.�

Jelcoe let go of Desta�s arm and moved toward the mantel, talking to himself in a strange gibberish.

Laura came over to me and put her hand on my arm just as Jelcoe dropped to his knees on the hearth and peered up at the under-side of the projecting concrete mantel:

�Here it is, all right enough. Here�s where she banged her head up against the edge. There�s a couple of hairs and...�

�All right.� Myra Young swayed to her feet. �I killed him. I killed them both. I loved Les too much to stand it when he slipped away to kiss another woman. I... I... Oh God, I l-l-loved him.� Sobbing, she fell forward on her face.

It was all over and an atmosphere of peaceful tranquillity hung over my living room. Burke was sprawled out in a comfortable chair, with his pipe emitting clouds of noxious smoke, and Laura Yates and I had companionable cigarettes going. There was an open brandy bottle on the table; Nip and Tuck lay quietly in their corner; and newsboys on the streets were selling Extras of the Free Press carrying the story of Myra Young�s arrest for double murder.

�When did you first really begin to suspect Myra?� I asked Burke.

He emptied his lungs of smoke and looked apologetic. �Not until this morning. Not until I finally thought to ask Hardiman the name of the sleeping potion he administered to Dwight, and learned from Doctor Thompson that the dose would have had almost immediate effect. I then realized that Mrs. Young must have lied about Dwight talking to her when she went into his room.�

�Which ruined a perfect alibi,� Laura put in from across the table.

Burke nodded. �I immediately reasoned there had to be some reason for that lie. When I looked at it from that angle, it all clicked into place perfectly.� He shrugged and took a sip of brandy.

�Wait a minute,� I protested. �It�s all pretty foggy to me. If she killed him when she went up and pretended to ask him about Hardiman... why did Hardiman tell the story of hearing the fatal shot fired while he was in the other room just a few minutes before we came in?�

�That,� Burke admitted, �was one of the queer detours a case like this sometimes takes. Unwittingly, by changing his story to fit what we believed, Hardiman was actually substantiating Myra Young�s carefully built-up alibi.�

�Then... Hardiman told the truth in the first place?�

�Exactly. He left Dwight to let the drug take effect, and Myra slipped in and shot him while Hardiman was gone. Returning, Hardiman found him slumped down on the couch and naturally supposed he had just passed out. He went in and got what he wanted from the safe, totally unaware that Dwight had been murdered. His look of surprise when he looked down at the death-wound was genuine.�

�Then why did he change his story?�

�He was confused and frightened. He had no time to think it over and he was in a tough spot. He knew we thought his first story was a lie, and he tried to think up something that would appear to fit what we believed to be the truth. That�s the explanation he gave me at headquarters when we released him... and it sounds logical.�

Laura nodded. �A man is likely to say anything to avoid being charged with murder when he is innocent.�

�You�re not going to press any charges against Hardiman?� I asked Burke.

�He has suffered sufficiently for an indiscretion. He wasn�t actually going to sell out his country. Senor Rodriguez assured me that Hardiman gave him to understand yesterday afternoon that he would suffer personal disgrace for that one indiscretion of his youthful days rather than force the issue as Dwight demanded.� Burke was silently thoughtful for a moment, then he said: �If we all had to pay for the folly of youthful days, we�d have to build more jails and penitentiaries to hold us. Hardiman has paid in full for whatever breach he made.�

�Look here,� I said, �did you know Myra was the murderess when we made our wild dash out to the canyon?�

�Of course. Everything fitted perfectly once I realized that Hardiman had changed his story to fit our ideas.�

�Then why,� I asked irritably, �did you try to kill us getting out there?�

�Because I was afraid Myra might kill Laura if she went snooping around after reading that note I sent to you, and I knew Laura would go snooping.� He gave one of his rare chuckles.

I stared at him and made a funny noise in my throat.

�What did you think?� Burke asked with twinkling eyes. �That Laura was guilty and I was afraid she�d put Myra out of the way if she got there first?�

I took a drink and didn�t answer, but my face must have given me away, for Laura laughed delightedly and patted my arm. �What a shock you must have gotten when you dashed in heroically and saw me leaning over Myra with a pistol in my hand.�

�I don�t mind saying I was plenty confounded,� Burke admitted. �I began wondering if all my theorizing was wrong when it looked as though any one of you three wenches might have carved Myra up.�

I changed the subject hastily. �What about just one shot having been fired from the pistol that killed two men?�

�Myra reloaded it after killing Leslie.� Jerry was relaxed and talkative after the strain was over. I had a queer feeling that he felt the need to justify himself, to justify the system which he represented and which was going to demand the death penalty against a woman who had killed because she loved too well.

�If she had kept a tight hold on her nerve,� he said moodily, �she might have gotten away with the first murder. I didn�t actually suspect her when I first put the pressure on. But I felt something strange about her reactions, a shade too much defiance.�

Laura and I remained quiet while Jerry Burke groped for words to express what he hadn�t allowed himself to think while the chase was on.

�She loved Leslie deeply and sincerely. I knew it from the times I had seen them together. That�s why I couldn�t quite stomach Dwight�s alibi, which was a complete tissue of lies. I knew her for the sort of woman who might openly take a lover in defiance of her husband but I couldn�t see her sneaking around behind Leslie�s back and signaling a man like Dwight to come visiting by way of the back door.�

�If I hadn�t kissed Leslie...� Laura began in a low stricken tone, but Burke silenced her with a shake of his head.

�It went back beyond the kiss... beyond you. Leslie Young was a born philanderer. Their marriage was a tragic mistake from the beginning... culminating in tragedy.�

I changed the subject again by asking: �How did Myra happen to think of using Dwight to alibi her?�

�Her signed statement explains that. He had been watching her through his telescope that afternoon and he saw her slip away and follow Leslie down into the canyon. When he heard about the murder he realized he had a hold on her and he hurried over to threaten her with exposure unless she... er... agreed to his proposal. She defied him to do his worst, but when it looked as though we might pin the murder on her she decided to use him for an alibi and then get rid of him.�

�He deserved what he got,� Laura flared angrily.

Burke nodded, that drawn look of conflict on his face again. �Which makes it... not so nice to carry around the thought that she might be free if I hadn�t...� He broke off, poured himself a drink and put it down straight.

�She�ll plead the unwritten law,� said Laura in a cool voice which concealed her real feelings. �With me for the �other woman� at whom the finger of scorn can be pointed no jury of Texas gentlemen will convict her.�

�Probably not.� Jerry shook himself as though to shed the depressing train of thought and got up.

�Wait a minute,� I said. �There�s still that anonymous telephone call warning Young to stay away from Dwight�s.�

�Oh, that?� Burke smiled. �There wasn�t any telephoned warning. Myra threw that in for good measure to make her husband�s death appear to be tied up more definitely with the note from Michaela and the secret negotiations between Dwight and the Mexicans. Just as she marked the cross on his cheek, and later left the silver cross on Dwight�s body after shooting him. Simply to becloud the issue and make things seem what they weren�t... in which she succeeded admirably.�

He yawned and picked up his hat. �Being a salaried slave of the taxpayers instead of an indolent fictioner, I�ll have to run along. Think you can make a yarn out of it, Asa?�

�I�m going to give it a whirl.�

�Good luck. What�ll the title be?�

�There�s only one appropriate title,� I told him. �The Kissed Corpse.�

Burke chuckled and glanced at Laura, then went out.

�So, it was you who slugged me?� I asked accusingly, taking a shot at random.

�Of course... that is, I had a Free Press reporter do it for me. I had to have that telegram for my exclusive.�

I took a sip of brandy and didn�t look at her. After a little time of silence she asked, low-voiced:

�You hate me, don�t you?�

�No,� I told her honestly, �but somehow I wish I did. It would simplify matters.�

I didn�t know whether she would understand what I meant or not, but I guess she did... for she refilled both our glasses and didn�t say anything.

�Mum�s the Word for Murder,� published December 1938.