PART ONE

Chapter ONE

I HADN’T been in Manolo’s Bar five minutes, when Paul Juden, head of Central News Agency, blew in.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” I thought and tried to duck out of sight, but he was too quick for me. He came towards me like a herd of buffalo on the last lap home.

“Why, hul-lo, P.J.,” I said, like I was glad to see him, “How are you? Sit down and rest your brains. You look as if I needed another drink.”

“Never mind the funny stuff, Millan,” he said, waving to the waiter. “I’ve been hunting all over the place for you. Where the hell have you been? I’ve got something for you.”

He didn’t have to tell me. When the boss of C.N.A. runs across a bar room floor, looking like he’d swallowed the overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s chowder, it doesn’t mean he’s glad to see me, it means he wants me to work.

“You’ve got something for me?” I repeated bitterly. “That’s what they say to a dog. Then they feed him poison.”

The waiter came up and Juden ordered two large whisky sours.

“Now, listen, P.J.,” I said, when the waiter had gone away, “I want a little peace. I’ve stuck around the Mexican desert for six months with a string of vultures waiting to pick my bones. I’ve had more cactus needles sticking in me than a porcupine has quills. Every time I blow my nose, sand flies out of my ears. Okay, I’m not squawking, but I want a little relaxation and, brother, am I going to have a little relaxation.”

Juden wasn’t even listening. He had taken out his wallet and was fiddling with a bunch of cables. “Maddox’s has a job lined up for you, Millan,” he said. “I had a cable this morning. It looks like a copy of ‘Gone with the Wind.’”

“Maddox?” I sank further into my chair. “You don’t have to worry about him. He’s just a fallen arch in the march of time. Tell him I’m sick Tell him you can’t contact me. Tell him anything, but give me a break, will you?”

Juden sorted out a bunch of flimsies as the waiter brought the drinks.

“Well, here’s a clot in your bloodstream,” I said and lowered twp-thirds of the whisky sour.

“Here we are,” Juden said, waving the flimsies at me. “It certainly looks like a swell assignment to me.”

I waved them right back at him. “I don’t want ’em,” I said. “I want a little relaxation. I’m catching a train for New Orleans to-morrow. I’ve had enough of Mexico to last me a lifetime. Tell Maddox to send some other stooge out here.”

“Not a chance,” Juden said. “This is a rush job. Now, don’t waste time, Millan. You know you’ve got to do it, so why make things difficult?”

Of course, he was right. Was I getting tired of this newspaper game, or was I? I’d been chasing bandit stories for six broiling months and in this country, bandits were a dime a dozen. Ever since Zapata had started the fashion, every damn Indian who could grow a six-inch moustache had turned bandit. It had taken all my time to coach them how to do the job so that I could give the great American public a story worth reading. Well, I had had enough of it. Besides, one of these amateur Dillingers had tried to shoot me. It got so I began to think some other punk would get the same idea.

But Maddox was my bread and butter. If I turned him down, he’d become a piece of toast. You couldn’t argue with Maddox. He had the kind of nature that made snakes cross the street when they saw him coming.

“What’s the story?” I said. “Don’t ask me to read those cables. I want the news broken gently.”

Juden dug into his whisky sour. Now, there’s a guy who’d landed a sweet job. All he had to do was to open envelopes and pass the baby to someone else.

“Okay, here it is,” he said. “The story is entitled ‘A Blonde Among Bandits,’ or ‘Get Up Them Stairs.’”

I finished my drink. “You don’t have to be funny,” I said, firmly. “All I want is the unvarnished truth. When I want to laugh, I’ll tune into the Bob Hope programme.”

“A fella named Hamish Shumway called in to see Maddox a couple of days ago,” Juden went on. “He’s lost his daughter, last heard of in Mexico City. She’s vanished into thin air. Shumway thinks she’s been kidnapped by bandits. Maddox wants you to find her.”

“Well, go on,” I said. “What does he want me to do?”

“He wants you to find her,” Juden repeated patiently.

“Well, all right, it’s a good gag. Remind me to laugh next time we meet. But, what’s the assignment?”

“Don’t start that stuff, Millan,” Juden said, looking like a hunk of chilled beef. “I’m telling you. He wants you to find this girl.”

“You mean he wants me to search the whole of Mexico for one particular girl who’s stupid enough to lose herself?” I said slowly, hardly believing my ear.

“Something like that. I don’t care how you do it so long as you find her.”

“You don’t care?”

“No… I don’t care a damn.”

“Oh, well,” I stared at him thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t like to cut my throat and save a lot of time, I suppose?”

“Now, wait a minute. It’s not as bad as that. Let me explain,” Juden said hurriedly. “The stuff you’ve been turning in recently is enough to make a dog vomit.”

“Can I help it if your dog’s got a weak stomach?”

“Never mind about the dog. Maddox wants to cover your expenses, so he’s thought up this stunt. It’ll be a great newspaper story. Look at it this way. A poor old guy without a dime comes to the New York Reporter and asks their help. His daughter’s missing. He wants to know if they’ll find her for him. What does the Reporter do?”

“Kick the old guy’s teeth out and toss him down the elevator shaft after taking his socks off to make mittens for Maddox,” I replied promptly.

“The New York Reporter says, “All right, brother, we’ll find her,” Juden went on, frowning at me. “They put the story on the front page with a photo of the girl. They print a photo of the old man as well, just to show there’s no catch in it: ‘Blonde Kidnapped by Mexican Bandits. 25,000 Dollars Reward. Father of Missing Girl Grief Stricken. New York Reporter Begins Nation-wide Search.’ Get the idea? Then you find the girl, write the story and bring the girl back to New York. Maddox has the father waiting at a civic reception and you hand the girl over to the father. The Reporter gets the credit. It’s a swell idea.”

“So poor old Maddox’s gone nuts at last,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “Well, it doesn’t surprise me. I always thought his rivets would shake loose in time. How’s Mrs. Maddox reacting? It must be a big shock for her. And his daughter. The nice looking one with the squint and pimples. That reminds me, has one of her best friends had a little chat with her yet?”

Juden finished his drink and lit a cigar. “Well, Millan, that’s the job. You can be as funny as you like, but there’re no two ways about it. Maddox says if you don’t find her within a week you’ll be working for someone else or not working at all.”

“He said that, did he, the puff adder,” I returned, sitting up. “Well, you can tell him what he can do with this job. If he thinks he can threaten me, he’s mistaken! Why, I could get any of the plum jobs in this game just by asking. I wouldn’t even have to ask. I only have to pass a newspaper office and the publishers come running after me. Maddox! Everyone knows the kind of rat he is. Telling me that I can quit! That’s a laugh! Where would he get another guy with my brains— well, how the hell do I find this girl, anyway?”

“It shouldn’t be difficult,” Juden said, grinning. “I’ve got a picture of her, she owns a big, dark green Cadillac, she is a magician by profession and swell looking. Her name is Myra Shumway and she was last heard of right here in this town.”

“Now look, P.J.,” I said earnestly. “There must be hundreds of girls in New York who’ve got themselves mislaid, why not let’s find one of them? I want to get back to Broadway.”

“Sorry, Millan,” he returned. “You’d better make up your mind about it. The story hit the front page this morning.”

I took out my notebook wearily. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s have it. Name, Myra Shumway. What did you say she did?”

“Magician,” Juden returned with a broad grin. “That’s unusual, isn’t it? She worked the Vaudeville circuit with her father until they quarrelled. Then she went off on her own. Now, she works night clubs so I understand. Her pa says she’s pretty good at the job.”

“I never believe what parents say about their children,” I returned coldly. I made a few more notes and then put my notebook away. “What makes Maddox think bandits have got hold of her?”

Juden shrugged. “That’s his story. You’ve got to play this properly, Millan, if they haven’t got hold of her, it’s up to you to see that they do. Haven’t you any tame bandit who’d do the job for a few bucks?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, stating at him.

“Well, she may be enjoying herself some place and forgotten to send her old man a line. We can’t afford to let this flop, you know. If she isn’t kidnapped, you’ve got to get her kidnapped. I don’t have to draw you a map, do I?”

This began to worry me. “If I thought you were serious, P. J.,” I said, “I’d have someone examine your head.”

“There’s nothing the matter with my head,” Juden said shortly. “But there’ll be a lot wrong with your job, if you don’t get some action and get it soon.”

“Do you honestly mean that if this girl’s just having a good time, I’ve got to fix some greaser to kidnap her?”

“Yep, that’s the way it is. It shouldn’t be difficult. We’ll cover the expenses.”

“You’ll do more than that,” I said. “You’ll send me a signed statement. If I get picked up there’s a bell of a rap tied to kidnapping.”

“You won’t get a statement, but someone’s got to win the 25,000 dollars reward.”

“You mean I stand to pick that up?” I asked, interested for the first time.

Juden closed one eye. “It depends if you claim it,” he said. “Maddox doesn’t expect you to, of course, but if you jumped him at the civic reception, I guess he couldn’t very well back out of it.”

And I was thinking Juden was a two-faced grafter and he turns out to be a real pal.

“I’ll remember that,” I said “Have another drink?” He shook his head, “I’m off home. It’s the children’s night out and I’ve got their nurse to look after.”

I laughed. It didn’t cost me anything and if the guy thought he was funny, who was I to discourage him?”

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll get after Myra Shumway. What kind of a name’s that, anyway? And, where’s her picture?”

He took a print from his briefcase and tossed it on the table. “If there was a fire in that dame’s bedroom,” he said, “We’d take a firemam five hours to put it out and five strong men to put the fireman out.”

I picked up the print. By the time I’d got my breath back, he’d gone.

Chapter TWO

BEFORE I go any further, I want you to know how Myra Shumway first met Doc Ansell and Sam Bogle, and as I wasn’t there at the time, I’ll just tell the story as I heard it later.

Doc Ansell and Bogle were in Lorencillo’s café. Have you ever been there? It’s a little place hidden behind immensely thick stone walls. The patio is a fine example of the old Mexican régime, so the guide bock tells me. If that means nothing to you, it also means nothing to me, so what the hell?

In the centre of the patio is a carved stone fountain around which stand iron tables and benches. Overhead a canopy of leaves from the ancient cypresses and banana trees blot out the sky. You can imagine that it’s a pretty nice spot. There are a number of wooden cages along the verandah which house various coloured parkeets who squawk and whistle at you and if you’re new to the country you get a great kick out of the typical Mexican atmosphere.

Well, these two guys, Doc Ansell and Bogle, were sitting at a table drinking tepid beer when Bogle glanced up and spotted an egg-yolk blonde who had suddenly appeared from behind a bunch of Indian peddlers. He had one quick gander before she disappeared in the crowd again.

“Sam!” Doc Ansell said sharply. “Do I have to keep telling you women are poison!”

“Was that a mirage?” Bogle asked scrambling to his feet and gazing anxiously into the dimly lit shadows. “Did I see what I thought I saw?”

Doc Ansell laid down his knife and fork. He was a wizened little man with a shock of untidy white hair. “You’ve got to watch your glands, Bogle,” he cautioned. “There’s a time and place for everything.”

“You’re always shooting your mouth of about a time and place for everything. What time do I get? And when in hell do we stay in one place long enough to do anything?” Bogle returned, sitting down again.

“The trouble with you—” Ansell began, but Bogle raised his hand.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said, pushing his plate away in sudden disgust. “I know. It’s getting so I’m imagining things. How much longer are we stickin’ in this country? I’m sick of it. What’s the matter with grabbing a train and getting the hell out of here? Couldn’t you do with the smell of Chicago for a change?”

“It’s a little too soon yet for you to go home,” Ansell reminded him gently.

Bogle frowned. He was a big, powerful man and his dirty drill suit fitted him badly. In the past, he had been a gunman, working for Little Bernie during the prohibition period. After repeal, he went to Chicago and tried to pick up a living as a heistman, but he was not smart enough to organize anything big enough to pay dividends. Then one night, he was involved in a gun battle with the police. Two of the police officers were hurt and Bogle did a lam act. He did not stop running until he reached Mexico. There, he felt comparatively safe. For the past six months he had been working with Doc Ansell, selling patent medicines to the Maya Indians.

Ansell and Bogle made an incongruous couple. They lived in different worlds. Bogle was always yearning for the fleshpots of life. He found Mexico insufferably dull after Chicago. He hated the food, the dust and the heat. The native women appalled him. Both socially and financially the small colony of American and English women were out of his reach. Even the whisky was bad. He hated Mexico nearly as much as he hated the police.

On the other hand, Ansell was happy in any country. So long as he was able to sell his various remedies to the gullible he did not mind where he lived.

Before Bogle became his partner, Ansell often had trouble with his patients. Sometimes, he even found it dangerous to return to the same town. But with Bogle at his side, he had no qualms in facing irate patients or going to the lowest native quarters in the various towns he visited. Bogle was an excellent bodyguard, as Little Bernie had discovered.

One look at his massive fists and hard little eyes was enough to cool any hasty temper. So it was then, that Ansell and Bogle had worked together for six months. They drifted from place to place, spending their morning dispensing coloured water in mysterious looking green bottles and, in the afternoons, selling them by quickfire sales talk to anyone foolish enough to listen.

Ansell represented the brains of the concern and Bogle the brawn. It was Bogle who set up the small tent and the collapsible platform. It was Bogle who set out the green bottles in neat rows and beat a small drum to attract attention.

The drum was Bogle’s own idea and in some districts it produced considerable dividends. Ansell would sit inside the tent, smoking a battered pipe, until Bogle’s hoarse whisper: “A big bunch of suckers waitin’” brought him to his feet. Then he would sweep majestically from the tent, his eyes blazing with fanatical enthusiasm and, cast spells over the bewildered audience.

Bogle would display his gigantic muscles, built entirely by Doctor Ansell’s Virile Tablets (a box of fifty for three dollars). Pictures of a drearily scraggy woman would be passed round the crowd with a comparison picture of the same woman equipped with a figure that made the natives’ eyes grow round. Doctor Ansell’s Bust Developer (a box of twenty- five pills for two dollars fifty) was responsible for this attractive transformation.

Ansell and Bogle preferred Lorencillo’s café to any other eating place. Few Americans came to the café and after the noise and bustle of the City, it was somewhere to pass a peaceful evening.

Bogle swished the last two inches of beer round in his glass. “The cops’ll have forgotten me by now,” he said. “It’s nearly a year ago. That’s a long time. Besides, you never saw those two guys. I was doing the State a service.”

“Talk sense,” Ansell returned. “How do you think we’d live? Can you imagine anyone buying my Virile pills in Chicago?”

Bogle was no longer listening. He was stating with eyes like organ-stops at the egg-yolk blonde who had come out of the café and was standing on the steps looking round the crowded

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he said, clutching at the table. “Take a look at that!”

Ansell sighed, “She’s certainly nice to look at, but she’d begin by stroking your hair and wind up with your scalp. You’re moving out of your class, Bogle.”

Bogle paid no attention. “Holy Moses!” he exploded suddenly. “She’s on her own, Doc. Get her over here before some greaseball snaps her up.”

Ansell regarded the girl doubtfully. She was slight. Her hard little face was full of character. Her eyes and mouth were large and her nose, Ansell decided, was her best feature. Her silky blonde hair fell to her shoulders and gleamed like burnished copper in the hard light of the acetylene flares. She was dressed in a neat white tailored suit over a dark red shirt.

Bogle was whispering with hoarse urgency in Ansell’s ear, “Get after her, Doc. Didja ever see such an outline? It’s like a blue print for Coney Island’s roller coaster!”

Two well-dressed Spaniards, sitting near them, were also showing interest in the girl. They had been muttering to each other the moment they had seen her and now one of them pushed back his chair and stood up.

Bogle whipped round, “Don’t get yourself in an uproar, pal,” he snarled. “Repark your fanny! I gotta date with that dame… so lay off!”

The Spaniard stared at him blankly, hesitated, then sat down again.

Ansell, anxious that there should be no trouble, rose to his feet.

“Watch your blood pressure,” he said sharply.

“To hell with my blood pressure. Get after that dame before I wreck this joint.” Ansell approached the girl rather self-consciously. Everyone in the patio watched him.

The girl leaned against the verandah rail and watched him come. Her eyes were watchful, but friendly. As he came up to her, she suddenly smiled. The large crimson mouth showed white teeth.

“Are they?” Ansell said, a little bewildered himself.

“I think so.” She met Bogle’s unwavering stare coolly. “Have you a tendency to hernia?” she asked him abruptly.

Bogle screwed up his face. “What’s she talking about?” he asked feebly.

“Maybe I’m being too personal,” she said. “Let me put it this way. During an arboreal existence in the Miocene epoch of the Tertiary era, man, or I should say, pre-historic man lost his tail. He acquired an upright gait and a tendency to hernia. I just wanted to see how far you’d got. Think nothing of it. It’s only idle curiosity.”

Bogle’s face went a dull red and his eyes flashed viciously. “So you’re a smart dame, eh?” he snarled. “We had a flock of ’em in Chicago. But, get ’em in a corner and they yell murder.”

“I’m fussy who I take in corners,” the girl replied briskly. Then she smiled at him. “Don’t get mad. I was just fooling. What’s your name?”

Bogle looked at her suspiciously, but her frank smile disarmed him. “Sam Bogle,” he said.

“And listen, sister…”

“That’s a lovely name,” she broke in. “Was your mother Mrs. Bogle?”

Bogle blinked. “Yeah,” he said. “What of it? Who else do you think she’d be?”

“I just wanted to make sure. Some of the funniest things do happen.”

“Well, nothing funny happened to me,” Bogle said angrily. “So don’t go putting ideas into people’s heads.”

She laughed, raising her shoulders and glanced over at Ansell, “Never mind,” she said.

“You mustn’t take me seriously. And who are you?” she went on to Ansell.

He introduced himself.

“A real doctor?” she-seemed quite impressed. “Well, I’m Myra Shumway. How do you do, Mr. Bogle? How do you do, Doctor Ansell?”

Bogle sat back heavily. “I don’t get this,” he sdid. “She must be crazy.”

“Don’t be a churl, Bogle,” she said sharply. “Just because you don’t understand my appeal, you don’t have to be rude. Who’s going to buy me a drink?”

“What would you like?” Ansell asked, slightly dazed.

“I think a Scotch might be nice.”

Ansell signalled a waiter. “Now, we’ve got to know each other,” he said, “suppose you tell me what you are doing here?”

The waiter came and took the order for drinks. He seemed to know Myra Shumway. They smiled and nodded to each other.

When he had gone, Myra opened her handbag and took out a silver cigarette case. She lit the cigarette, and leaned back, looking at them thoughtfully. “Would it interest you?” she said. “I wonder. Still, I am accepting your hospitality. I’ve no secrets. Until yesterday, I was foreign correspondent to the Chicago News. I’ve been cast aside like a worn-out glove.” She turned on Bogle. “Do I look like a worn out glove?”

“Not a glove,” Bogle said heavily.

Myra absorbed this. “I think I asked for that,” she said to Ansell, “I led with my chin.” Bogle was pleased with himself. “I can be funny too, sister,” he said.

She nodded, “You can, but you don’t have to try.”

“All right, all right,” Bogle said hastily, “we won’t fight. I know something about newspaper guys. They’re poison if you cross ’em. I recollect once I didn’t fix one of ’em with a case of Scotch. Did that guy turn sour? He smeared my mug right across the front page. Got me into a helluva jam.” Bogle scratched his head mournfully, “Mind you, that’s some time ago, but these guys don’t change.”

“It could be that,” she returned. “My boss kept silk-worms. You wouldn’t believe the number of girls he interested. I guess they thought the silk-worms were going to give them silk stockings, but it turned out to be a modem version of the Etching gag.”

The waiter came with the drinks.

“He lost interest in me when I told him I was allergic to silk-worms. Maybe, that’s why I’ve been tossed out.” She picked up her drink, “Here’s gold in your bridge work!” she said and drank.

The others drank too.

“Well, you can’t be interested in me,” she went on. “What do you do for a living?”

Ansell fiddled thoughtfully with his glass. I’m a healer,” he said simply. “I’ve studied the secrets of herbal medicine for years and I have perfected several remarkable remedies. Bogle is my assistant.”

She looked at him admiringly, “Isn’t that cute,” she said. “And what are these remedies?” Ansell had an uneasy suspicion that she was laughing at them. He looked at her sharply, but her admiration seemed genuine enough.

“Take my Virile tablets for instance,” he said. “If you’d seen Bogle before he had taken a course of these pills you wouldn’t have believed that he’d been alive to-day. He was thin, weak and depressed…”

She turned and regarded Bogle with interest. Bogle smirked. “Well, he certainly looks like he takes his daily dozen with a knife and fork now,” she said. “He’s a credit to you.”

Ansell pulled his nose thoughtfully. “Then there’s my bust developer,” he said and exchanged a quick glance with Bogle. “That in itself’s a remarkable invention. It’s brought happiness to hundreds of women.”

Myra looked at him in astonishment, “Psychologically, I suppose?”

“What’s she say, Doc?” Bogle asked, looking blank.

“In a way,” Ansell returned, ignoring Bogle. “But a good figure’s an asset to a woman in any country. I’ve some remarkable testimonials.”

Bogle leaned forward, “You ought to try a box, sister,” he said hoarsely. “Two bucks fifty. It’s dynamite!”

Ansell broke in hastily, “Now come, Bogle, that’s not complimentary. I’m sure Miss—er— Shumway’s a very nice figure.”

Bogle sneered, “She got tossed out of her job, didn’t she?”

“That would have nothing to do with it,” Ansell returned. “Of course, I’m not saying it wouldn’t make a big difference, but I’m sure Miss Shumway is quite satisfied with her figure as it is.”

Myra looked from Ansell to Bogle in bewilderment. “Up to now,” she said, “I thought it was pretty good…”

“Don’t be over confident,” Bogle said. “You can’t stand still these days. Progress, that’s what you gotta am for. Look at the way they’re developing the land.” He produced a pill box from his pocket and slapped it down in front of her.

“You’ve got to think and plan big, sister. Look at the pyramids. The guy who built them had a big mind. A box of this stuff and you’re way out front. You get confidence, see? The other dames get left in the cold. If you’ve got what it takes, it don’t matter if you have dandruff. You’re okay. And this is the stuff that’ll make you okay. It’ll take more than a silk-worm to louse up your job. Get figure conscious. Here, take the box. It’ll cost you two bucks. I’ll give you a fifty cent discount because I like you.”

Myra shook her head, “But I don’t want them,” she said.

“That’s what you think now,” Bogle persisted. “You’re young. Salt it away. It lasts for ever. You may never see us again. Wait ‘til you’re old. Wait ‘til some guy gives you the air.

She lifted her hands to her nose and made a little grimace. “Mind if I wash?” she said. “I’m all over beer.” She smiled brightly at them and swept away to the café.

Bogle watched her go. “What do you make of her, Doc?” he asked. “She came over here as tough as rusty nails, then she fell for my line like, a stupid native dope. Think there’s anything to her?”

Ansell was puzzled. “I don’t know,” he said frankly. “She’s too nice looking to be on her own. That’s what makes me suspicious. She’s too good to be true.”

Bogle said: “I don’t think I’d make that dame. She’s got a tongue like a razor. Suppose we blow before she comes back? I know her type. A dame who turns a guy down with silkworms ain’t going to play with me.”

Ansell signalled a waiter. “You’re improving, Bogle,” he said, looking pleased. “There was a time a good looking young woman could tie you in knots. Yes, I think you’re right. I see no reason why we should stay here. Anyway, we have work to do.” He groped for his wallet. “I’m quite sure that she can look after herself—” he broke off and stared wildly at Bogle.

“What’s the matter?” Bogle asked sharply.

“My money!” Ansell spluttered, going through his pockets feverishly, “It’s gone!”

“Gone?” Bogle repeated stupidly. “What do you mean gone?”

His eyes suddenly darkened and he began to search in his own pockets. The two dollars that Myra had given him for the box of pills and the five dollar bill he had saved were no longer to be found.

The two men stared at each other.

“The oldest, hoariest trick in the world,” Ansell said, trembling with rage. “And we fell for it. She knocked beer over me and shook rne down for what I’d got. That wasn’t enough for her. She frisked you as well.”

“What the hell are we waiting for?” Bogle snarled, kicking back his chair. “We’ve gotta nail that dame.”

The waiter came up with the check. He glanced at Bogle’s congested face and a look of alarm came into his eyes. “Is anything wrong, tenors?” he asked.

“We’ve been robbed,” Bogle snarled. “Get out of the way.”

“But the Senorita has gone,” the waiter said. “She has never robbed our clients before they settled their check. That is very bad of her.”

Bogle and Ansell stared at each other. “What do you mean?” Ansell demanded. “Do you know this girl?”

“Why, yes.” The waiter smiled, “she is very beautiful and she has very clever fingers. She comes here often. It is good for her line of work.”

Bogle clenched his fists. “What about us?” he said furiously. “Don’t we get any protection?”

The waiter lifted apologetic shoulders, “But the tenors asked her to their table. I thought you knew her.”

“Let’s get out of here, Bogle,” Ansell said. “We asked for it.”

“But, there is the question of the check,” the waiter said, looking distressed.

“Take it off the blonde when she’s in next time,” Bogle said. “And tell her from me that if I ever meet her again I’ll take her apart and find out what makes her tick.”

The waiter’s face darkened. “That is bad business, senor, she may not come back.”

Bogle didn’t quite like the look in his eye. “I don’t want you to lose by it,” he said. “Tell me, buddy, have you a girl friend?”

The waiter’s face brightened. “I have a very fine girl,” he said, flashing his teeth. “There is no other woman like her in the country.”

Bogle took out a pill box and gave it to him. “Make sure of that,” he said. “That’s worth two bucks fifty. I’ll make you a present of it.”

The waiter examined the box. Then he sneered. “She has had them before,” he said disdainfully. “The last time she took them she came out in a rash.”

“So what?” Bogle said, pushing him aside. “It gave her something to do, didn’t it?” and he walked across the patio with Ansell out into the street.

Chapter THREE

BEFORE I tell you how I came to meet Myra Shumway, I’d better give you her background, then we can go straight ahead without interruption.

Myra Shumway had not been telling the truth when she described herself to Doc Ansell as a newspaper correspondent For the past five years she had been a “dip.” If you don’t know what that means, just stand on any street corner and flash a fat bank-roll. Before long some dame will take it off you and you’ll know nothing about it until hours later. That dame was a dip.

Myra’s father was a magician who worked small-time vaudeville without much profit. Myra trailed along with him. When she reached the age of fifteen, her father decided that she should be his assistant. That was all right with Myra and she really worked at the job. By the end of the year there was no one on the Coast to touch her for speed, style and smoothness of execution. She could palm six cards with the speed of light. She could take a man’s vest off his back without him knowing it. That went for his suspenders too. In other words, she was good.

One evening something happened which was to change her immediate future. As she was preparing to leave the theatre her father came with a young fellow who wanted to meet her.

He was a travelling salesman who had looked in on the town with the hope of drumming up some new business. In the evening he went to the theatre. He saw Myra, was dazzled by her looks and came round the back intending to dazzle her with his money.

Hamish Shumway was agreeable that this young man should take Myra out to dinner. He knew that she had her head screwed on the right way and that if there was to be any funny business she could take care of herself.

The young man’s name was Joe Krurmm and he seemed a pleasant enough young fellow. Myra went with him to a restaurant and had an expensive dinner. During the dinner, Krumm did a fatal thing. He showed her the size of his bankroll. It measured an inch and a half round its waist. Myra had never seen so much money in her life. He bragged about it. He told her that he had stacks of dough in the bank. So Myra thought she’d give him a scare and she lifted his roll. It was the easiest job she had ever done. When the time came for him to pay the check, he found his roll had vanished. He nearly had a hemorrhage.

The manager of the restaurant and a couple of waiters stood around watching. They could see the price of an expensive dinner dissolving into smoke.

Myra got scared. People were staring at them. Krumm was nearly crazy and the manager was muttering about the police. She couldn’t work up enough courage to produce the roll and tell everyone that it was a gag.

She sat there, her face the colour of a beet, praying that the ground would open and swallow her.

It never crossed Krumm’s mind that he’d been whizzed. No one except the waiter had been near him. Myra’s acute embarrassment established her alibi. He was too excited to reason that a magician would be just the person to lift his roll. Besides, a nice looking kid like Myra just wouldn’t do such a thing.

Then an elderly man who was dining across the room got to his feet and came over. He had his eye on Myra the moment she had come into the restaurant. Egg-yolk blondes were his weakness and he couldn’t let such an opportunity pass him by.

He had a few scathing words to say about young puppies who shook restaurant managers down for the price of a meal. He expressed his sorrow that the young lady should be subjected to such an embarrassing situation. Then he produced a bulky wallet and paid the check.

“My car’s outside,” he said to Myra. “Let me run you home. This young fella’s no fit companion for a little girl like you.”

Myra never knew to this day how she got out of the restaurant. It was only when the fresh night air was beating on her face as the big car swept her through the dark streets that she began to get over her scare.

The elderly guy introduced himself as Daniel Webster. He asked her who she was. Although Myra was only sixteen, she had kicked around. You don’t work vaudeville for a year without learning that A.B.C. is invariably followed by D. She knew that she was going to have a little trouble with Daniel Webster. He hadn’t parted with seven dollars just to make the restaurant happy. So she told him her name was Rose Carraway and that she was staying at the Denville Hotel Both statements were essentially untrue.

Since the Denville Hotel lay in the opposite direction to the one they were going she thought this would be an indication of Webster’s intentions. If he stopped the car and turned around, then she was misjudging him. If he carried straight on, then she would know he was on the make. He carried straight on.

When Hamish Shumway realised he was going to have a very attractive daughter on his hands he decided to equip her with means for self-defence. He knew that in his profession attractive young girls wouldn’t remain attractive for long unless they went around with their eyes wide open. At an early age Myra was told the facts of life and taught a trick or two. She was perfectly confident, as she sat by Webster’s side, that she could handle anything that might come her way.

Daniel Webster saw no reason why he shouldn’t extract payment for the restaurant bill at the earliest convenient moment. Once clear of the town, he ran the car on to the grass shoulder and stopped the engine.

Myra was in no way flustered. In fact, she was most anxious to find out whether the advice bet father had drummed into her for the past four years really worked. As Webster eased himself away from the wheel and made a grab at her, she swung her arm and hit him squarely under his nose with the side of her hand. She had been advised by her father never to pull a punch. The chopping blow she handed out to Webster had all her young strength and vigour behind it.

The side of her hand landed accurately. The blow broke Webster’s bridge-work, made his eyes water and sent a thousand red-hot needles into his brain. He slumped back in his seat like an inflated balloon.

Myra opened the door of the car, stepped on to the grass shoulder and ran, without panic, into the darkness. It was only after several minutes, when she paused to look back, that she realized she was holding Webster’s wallet tightly in her hand. She had no idea that she had taken it. It was obviously unwise to go back and return it, as Webster might not take kindly to such a gesture. So she added the contents of the wallet to Krumm’s roll and began her long walk back to the town.

In the secrecy of her bedroom she went through Webster’s wallet. She found that the evening’s entertainment and car ride had netted her four hundred and seventy dollars.

She didn’t sleep at all that night. There was much to think about. She made her plans before the cold dawn light filtered round the window blind.

Fortunately, they were to move on to another town that day so there was little chance either of Krumm or Webster ever seeing her again. She hid her first earnings as a dip in her suspender belt, assisted her parents to pack and caught an early train to Springville which was their next port of call.

For two more years she worked with her father. Then without any warning she packed her bag and left. She had no misgivings and no regrets. Myra Shumway was ready to carve her initials on opportunity’s door.

During those two years she had not ceased to pilfer. She had been cautious but consistent. It had been ridiculously easy. That was the trouble. To acquire money so easily was too great a temptation.

She had made all the necessary plans. Her first move was to buy a second-hand Cadillac. She had fourteen hundred dollars in hand and the Cadillac didn’t even dent the roll.

She left a note for her father. It was curt and to the point. She told him that she was tired of living the hard way and he wasn’t to worry about her. She didn’t think he would, but he’d worry plenty about himself.

She put her bag in the back of the car and headed south. She wanted to get as far away as she could from the dreary little towns they had been touring. She had seen pictures of Florida and she wanted to go there. Now, there was nothing to slop her.

For the next two years, she stood on her own feet. She travelled in the Cadillac. Sometimes she worked in night clubs, but most times she just travelled. Her bank was the wallets of chance acquaintanceships. When she ran out of money, she found a sucker and picked his pocket. She was always carefull. Her swift fingers were never detected. She could take a wallet, remove a few hundred dollars and put the wallet back without the owner noticing. More often than not the money was never missed.

She came to Mexico because she wanted a complete change of scenery. She liked variety. Mexico seemed to be the right place for her present mood. She had no roots. Her parents and her past were forgotten. The big Cadillac was her home.

When she left Lorencillo’s café, she decided to head for Vera Cruz. She slipped out the backway where the Cadillac was parked and drove rapidly towards the centre of the town. When she felt that she had put enough space between herself and the café she drew up in a quiet side street, stopped the car and glanced in the mirror above her head.

Satisfied that no one was following her, she opened her bag and felt for a cigarette. When she had lit it, she leaned forward so that the light from the dashboard fell directly on her hands and bag. She took from the bag a small roll of money and counted it carefully. She had a hundred and twelve dollars.

“Not bad,” she said, under her breath.

She separated the notes into two even packets. One packet she put back in her bag, the other she folded neatly and slid down the top of her stocking. Then she took a large scale road map from the dashboard locker and spread it on her knees.

And that was how I found her.

I left Manolo’s a few minutes after Juden had gone with the idea of talking to the police. If they hadn’t a record which way this Myra Shumway had headed, then I was going to have a tough job finding her.

I spotted a big Cadillac standing in the shadow of a building and noticed that it was painted dark green. All right, I admit that I jumped a hail a foot. It seemed almost like black magic. I crossed the street and approached the car quietly.

There she was, with her blonde hair hiding her face, staring at a road map. One look at that hair told me all I wanted to know. I didn’t have to look any further for Myra Shumway. She was right here in front of me.

I didn’t rush up and grab her like an amateur sleuth. I stood back and gave the problem a little thought. Here she was as free as a bird, not a bandit in sight, and ready to take a powder at any moment. She was no good to me unless she was kidnapped. I toyed with the idea of talking things over with her and getting things fixed the easy way. Then I thought if she heard about the reward, I should have to split it with her and 25,000 dollars doesn’t look half as nice cut in half. Besides, maybe she was tired of her old man’s face and wouldn’t go back to New York anyway. No, there was only one way to play this. She had to be foxed.

I wandered up to the car and putting my arms on the door I leaned in. “Do you favour straw hats for race horses?” I said. “Or do you think they’d eat them?”

She looked up calmly, stared at me with big eyes and then returned to her map. “Go jump down a well,” she said. “If there isn’t one handy, anyone will help you dig it if you tell ’em what it’s for.”

That set me back a trifle. I was never much good with a smooth wisecracker. Myra Shumway was that and then some.

I tried again, “I’m just trying to break the ice,” I said. “Seeing the car and the map I figured I could hitch a ride.”

She looked up again, “This isn’t a bus, brother,” she said. “I don’t take passengers.”

“You mean you don’t take strangers,” I corrected her. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Ross Millan.”

“You may be a power-house to your mother,” she said carefully, “but to me, you’re a blownout fuse. Good night,” and she turned back to her map.

I let my blood pressure settle down, then I wandered around to the other side of the car, opened the door and climbed in. “It’s a grand feeling to get the weight off one’s puppies, ain’t it?” I said.

She stiffened. “I hope for your sake that I’m not going to have any trouble from you,” she said, putting the map away with quiet determination.

“None at all,” I assured her. “All I need is a lift to wherever you’re going. I’m tired of Mexico City and I want a change of air. I always hitch hike because I’m mean about money.”

“Your repressions fascinate me,” she returned. I may be wrong but I fancied she sounded annoyed. “But if you don’t get out of this car, I’m going to surprise you.”

I made myself comfortable, but I kept an eye on her. I’ve been mixed up with a few tough babies in my time and I wasn’t taking any chances. “Before I came to Mexico,” I said, “I was a professional strong man. One of my favourite acts was carrying a dame across the stage in my teeth. That’s how tough I am.”

“Oh?” She seemed startled. “And you gave that up?”

“It gave me up,” I said sadly. “The dame was the trouble. You see she was just a dumb kid with a temper like a dentist’s drill. She got on my nerves. You know, I kept having to fight a temptation not to bite her. You can see how easy it’d have been. Well, one night I couldn’t stand her any longer.” I shrugged. “I only meant to nip her, but I guess I got carried away.”

Well, that held her for a moment. I could see she didn’t know what to make of me. Finally she decided to try a new line.

“I think you’d better go,” she said, at last. “Or else I’ll scream.”

“I wish you would,” I returned, twisting round so that I faced her. “It’d give me a chance to smack you. I’ve always wanted to smack a beautiful blonde, but I’ve never found an excuse for it.”

She suddenly leaned forward and jabbed the self-starter savagely. “I hope you’ll end up in jail,” she said and engaged the gear.

“Don’t get agitated,” I said. “It’s bad for the complexion. Where are you going… Vera Cruz?”

“I suppose so,” she returned, pushing the car down the dark, dusty road. “That is, if it suits you, of course.”

“Anywhere suits me just so long as it’s away from this dump,” I returned. “Just relax, sister. You don’t have to be scared of me. I wouldn’t do this only I want to get out of town and it’s nice to travel free. When we get to Vera Cruz I’ll leave you and you’ll just have your dreams to remember me by.”

“I’ll say you’ll leave me,” Myra returned. “What do you expect me to do? Marry you?”

“That depends on how old fashioned you are,” I said. “Me… I don’t make social gestures. Tell me, peach blossom, what did you say your name was again?”

“If you don’t remember what I told you, I can’t be bothered to tell you again.”

“So what do I call you?” I said. “Hi you or Hey, sister?”

“I wouldn’t lose weight if you didn’t call me anything,” she replied indifferently. “Just give your larynx a vacation and I’ll pretend you’re not here.”

I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It showed 11.15.

“Before I accept those terms,” I said coldly, “tell me one thing. You’re not going to tackle the whole trip to Vera Cruz to-night, are you?”

“Chalco’s a few miles on,” she returned, “I’ll stop there, hand you over to the police and then find myself a hotel.”

“On the other hand, if we take turns driving,” I said carefully, “we could reach Orizaba first thing in the morning. I know a swell hotel in Orizaba where you’ll have every luxury in the world—if the world goes no further than Mexico.”

She thought about this. “Well,” she said at last, “I wouldn’t like to sleep in this car and let you drive. You might get ideas.”

“Well, of course, if you’re scared of me,” I said, shrugging.

“Who said I was scared of you?” That seemed to annoy her, “I haven’t met anything on two legs that could scare me.”

“That sounds like famous last words. But, if that’s how you feel, Apple pie, give me the wheel and take a nap,” I said grinning at her.

She hesitated for a second, then stopped the car. She looked at me hard and then a smile came into her eyes. This dame was certainly something to see. Apart from the fact that she represented 25,000 dollars to me, she looked good. When I say good I mean there wasn’t another woman in the country who could get within a mile of her. I like blondes. They may be a little dizzy, but they rest my eyes. That’s my only form of recreation.

“Listen, brother,” she said. “If there’s anything coming from you that’s not strictly off the top deck, I’ll cut your lights out.”

“Would you let me see them before I die?” I asked anxiously. “I’ve always wanted to make Ripley.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she returned and got out of the car.

I slid over and took the wheel.

“There’s more room in the back for sleeping,” she said, getting in and leaving me by myself. “Besides, I’ve got a tyre lever here and I’ll bounce it on your head if you get off the main road. And I won’t send you a telegram before I do it.”

“To hear you talk,” I said, starting the car, “no one would know you had a sentimental streak. “But, seriously, Angel skin, you could trust me with your life.”

“If I did that,” she said, “I’d swap my girdle for a straight jacket.”

After a while, I guess she must have gone to sleep. I sent the Cadillac tearing into the night. It was certainly’ a fine bus and the miles kept clicking up on the dashboard. I expected her to wake up after an hour or so and take over, but she kept on sleeping. I guess the kid was tired. She didn’t wake up until I was bumping over the cobbles that led to the outskirts of Orizaba. Then I heard a little gasp and she said, “Why it’s daylight. Have I been sleeping all this time?”

“Well, someone’s been snoring in my ear,” I returned, as I swung the Cadillac into the main street. “If it wasn’t you, we’ve got a stranger on board.”

“I don’t snore,” she said coldly and I could hear her hunting in her bag for the inevitable powder and puff.

“Think nothing of it,” I said. “You don’t have to be shy with me.” I pulled up outside a small hotel in pink stone.

“I liked the sound. It made me homesick.”

“Homesick?” she asked as I twisted round to look at her.

“Sure,” I said. “At one time I used to live on a farm.” Then I got out of the car hurriedly.

“Just wait here and I’ll fix things. Do you want a room or just a bath and coffee?”

“No room,” she said firmly.

It only crossed my mind after I had dug out the hotel manager and had introduced myself, that I was crazy to leave her out there in the car. But I need not have worked myself into a lather, because she was still there when I came out.

“I’ve got it all fixed,” I said, opening the car door. “Bath first and breakfast on the verandah. Eggs, fruit and coffee. That suit?”

She got out of the car with a small grip in her hand. “It certainly does,” she said, and for the first time she gave me a friendly smile.

I felt I might be getting somewhere with this dame. “Join me for breakfast down here in about half an hour,” I said.

“Then we’ll both let our hair down and confide in each other.”

She shook her head. “I enjoy my own company,” she returned. “I’ve given you a lift as we agreed, now I think I’ll say goodbye.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, taking her firmly by the arm and leading her towards the hotel. “Who’s going to pay for my breakfast, if you run out on me?”

Chapter FOUR

As Mexican towns go, Orizaba could be worse. From Mexico City it is a long drop to Orizaba. In sixty odd miles you go down six thousand odd feet. That makes a lot of difference in atmosphere. The air thickens and the heat takes on a fiercer strength.

Sitting on the verandah overlooking the square where some small Indian soldiers in their grubby uniforms watched us with blank expressionless eyes, I felt pretty good. The bath had been just right and I was glad to get outside for some food.

On the far side of the square was the flower market. Although it was still early, Indian women were already at work, binding, sprinkling and sorting all kinds of flowers. The heavy scent came across the square and hung round us. “I’m glad we came here,” I said. “I feel this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Myra was sitting with her feet on a chair. Her eyes were closed against the hot sun. She had changed into a simple, well-cut linen frock which fitted her figure like it was painted on her.

“We part at Vera Cruz,” she said without any finality in her voice.

“Do we want to go there?” I asked. “Let’s stay here. You can tell me a story every night and when I want a change you can dance for me.”

“That sounds awfully nice of you,” she said, stretching lazily. “But, I can see no future in it for myself.”

“Don’t you ever get away from your hard veneer?”

She opened her eyes and reached for the coffee. “No. It’s much more than skin deep and it never cracks.” She refilled her cup and then stared across at the mountains that seemed to press in on the town.

“That’s an awful shame,” I said, fumbling for a cigarette. I found I’d used my last Chesterfield and glanced hopefully at her. “You must miss a lot of fun that way, sister.”

She gave me a cigarette from her case. “Oh no,” she said, “I’ve no time for play. I’ve got ambitions.”

“You certainly have,” I said. “But you don’t want to overdo it. What did you say your name was again?”

She laughed, “Myra Shumway,” she returned.

I didn’t need the confirmation. I knew I hadn’t made a mistake, but all the same I was glad to know. Besides, we were getting on a more friendly footing and that was important.

“That’s a beautiful name,” I said.

A small party of Mexican labourers passed, carrying guitars. They crossed the little ruined square and sat down with their backs against the wall of an opposite building. Two of them began to play very softly.

“That’s nice,” Myra said. “Do you think they’ll sing?”

“They will if you ask them to,” I returned. “If you give them some money, God knows what they’ll do.”

While I was speaking, a truck came rumbling into the square, blotting out the thin music of the guitars. As it swept past the hotel, two men slid off the tailboard. A small wizened man and a big fat man.

Myra suddenly pushed back her chair, made to rise, then settled herself again.

“Something bite you?” I asked, watching the two men approach. “We’re going to have company. Americans by the look of them.”

“You ought to go into vaudeville,” Myra returned. Her voice was so acid that I glanced at her, surprised.