Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 111, No. 4, June 12, 1937

Chapter XXI On to El Paso

Traffic was heavy on the Houston highway. Long lines of automobiles were moving toward the Mardi Gras in New Orleans. But there was little traffic going west from the Mississippi ferry, where the highway for miles skirted the high grassy levee bank and then struck off to the left through the low bayou country.

Gradually Savage was able to drive faster. Briggs was back in the trailer with his short-wave set. Over the telephone Briggs had managed to wring a promise from one of the local short-wave “ham” operators to remain at home and keep a wireless channel open between Clancy’s office and the speeding trailer.

An hour passed... and then two hours. Clancy had not returned to his office.

Sixteen cylinders under the broad gray hood of the car poured out their power with deceptive smoothness. Tony Savage fixed his eyes on the unreeling ribbon of highway, let his thoughts race over the problem of young Jack Goddard and Anne Teasdale.

Savage had confessed to Clancy and Hanson, the detective, that finding those two together had stumped him. He was still groping for an explanation of that amazing rendezvous in the New Orleans French Quarter.

True enough, New York had relayed information that Goddard had boarded a train for New Orleans. Goddard had caught the Jacksonville plane in the middle of the night, changed at Atlanta for New Orleans, saved a day — and gone straight to Anne Teasdale!

The two had known each other well. They had been living for weeks at the same Palm Beach hotel. Anne Teasdale had introduced Goddard to his fiancée, Joan Bellamy. But nullifying all that, Anne Teasdale had tried to place the blame for Bellamy’s murder on Goddard!

Her story this morning about hastening to New Orleans to view the Mardi Gras was a lie. Plainly a lie, after the gunman had been traced from Larnigan’s house to her house.

Jack Goddard’s surprising visit to that same house was important. But how? Was Goddard behind Bellamy’s murder after all, for the heavy insurance Joan Bellamy would inherit?

The idea had possibilities.

Grant that — and what about James Larnigan, who had just stripped Bellamy of his wealth before the murder? Would Larnigan, wealthy, successful, triumphant in his personal feud with Bellamy over the Hollywood actress, Lorette Armond, let himself be involved in a cold-blooded murder plot backed by young Goddard?

“He wouldn’t. He’d be a fool!” decided Savage. All the facts were at odds. Cool reasoning couldn’t bring them together.

“One hell of a mess if I ever saw one!”

He put a cigarette between his lips, held the glowing lighter to it, and lifted the telephone off the bracket at the corner of the windshield.

“Any luck, Briggs?” Savage spoke back to the trailer.

“Half a minute, chief,” Briggs replied. “Mr. Clancy’s in his office. Jordan’s catching something off the telephone to pass along.”

Savage continued to drive, holding the receiver to his ear. In a moment Briggs said:

“Mr. Clancy has been at Headquarters. His brother-in-law, the Lieutenant, was called to question the two prisoners. Neither prisoner would amplify their first statements. They’ll be held — but there’s apparently nothing against them. Two headquarters men are in the house. Fingerprints are being taken in the house for a checkup. Houston hasn’t reported yet. Mr. Clancy wants to know what you’re going to do?”

“Drive and try to keep awake,” said Savage. “Keep open to New Orleans, Briggs. That Houston plane is in by now. I want the report as quickly as possible. Tell Clancy that report will determine what I’ll do.”

Savage yawned as he hung up the receiver. The long wakeful night was pulling leadenly at his eyelids. The distance to Houston was better than three hundred miles — and hard to tell what he’d have to do on arrival.

Savage passed a trailer... Shortly another trailer. He scanned both closely. Neither trailer was red. Neither was drawn by a small dark car. Neither had New York tags or a visible man with a broken nose.

The telephone buzzer sounded.

Clancy had another report.

“Houston’s reported, Chief. The subject left the plane alone. Checked bags at the airport, taxied into town and is shopping. Bought an air ticket to Ft. Worth and made inquiries about the Ft. Worth air connections for El Paso. Is apparently going to El Paso. The Houston plane leaves at 2:25 for Ft. Worth. Makes a connection there with another airline — and gets to El Paso at 4:30 in the morning.”

Savage whistled sharply with surprise.

“She’s going that far west, eh? Larnigan’s making a long jump before he stops. Tell Clancy we’ll go on through to El Paso. Sometime tomorrow will be the best we can do. We’ll go by Del Rio, Texas. Ask Clancy if his agency has an El Paso office.”

“No,” said Briggs a moment later. “But Clancy says he can get you service at El Paso.”

“Good,” said Savage. “Someone had better ride that plane from Houston to Fort Worth, in case the lady changes her itinerary. Ask Clancy what Miss Carstairs is doing.”

Clancy’s reply was succinct.

“Telephoned Miss Carstairs at her hotel. She came to Headquarters, talked unofficially with the prisoners. Told them she was in New Orleans writing up Larnigan’s death. Prisoners professed surprise at Larnigan’s death. Denied previous knowledge. Miss Carstairs left Headquarters, saying she’d telephone the agency office later. But no call has come through from Miss Carstairs.”

“Tell Clancy you’ll contact him again in two hours.”

Briggs took the wheel. Back in the trailer Savage was asleep in his narrow springy bed within five minutes after they rolled on.

Two hours later Briggs shook him awake. The short-wave generator was whining. The trailer quivered as another automobile flashed past a few feet away. Briggs was excited.

He said breathlessly:

“I’m working New Orleans again, Chief. Here’s news for you. A second-hand automobile dealer telephoned that Bourbon Street house to see if the trailer purchased yesterday was satisfactory.”

“What’s that? Trailer? Yesterday?” Savage came to his feet, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Who bought a trailer yesterday?”

“A man. A second-hand trailer. He took delivery at once. Said he had a license tag. Gave that house as his address.”

“What else?”

Briggs returned to his set. Clancy’s relayed message came out of the loudspeaker.

“The buyer was tall, clean-shaven, wearing a single-breasted blue suit. He paid cash. The trailer was on a second-hand auto lot. The fellow came back in about an hour with a Ford equipped with a trailer hook-up, and hauled the trailer away. He was alone. Said he was going to Georgia. The trailer was covered with aluminum paint.”

“That’s something,” said Savage. “I don’t want those two prisoners at Headquarters to know we’re aware of this second trailer. Has Miss Carstairs telephoned in?”

Miss Carstairs had not.

Briggs ended the contact with New Orleans, and in ten minutes had soup and sandwiches set out. In fifteen minutes more Briggs was driving again and Savage once more was drifting off to sleep.

Sometime after 3 P.M. Savage waked, vastly refreshed. The trailer was in city traffic. Savage used the telephone.

“Where are we, Briggs?”

“Beaumont, Texas,” said Briggs.

“I’ll take the wheel as soon as we’re out of town. I want you to pick — up the report on that Fort Worth plane. How about an aluminum-painted trailer pulled by a Ford — or that red trailer, Briggs?”

“I’ve seen a dozen trailers,” said Briggs. “All the red ones were heading east. Nothing we wanted.”

Tony heard Briggs sigh.

Houston was not far ahead when Briggs got the report. Moira Sullivan had boarded the El Paso plane at Fort Worth, some 250 miles to the north. In Houston Savage filled the oversized gasoline tank, had the oil checked and followed the setting sun through the last of the low damp country along the Gulf Coast.

El Paso was some eight hundred miles away — long miles, lonesome miles. San Antonio, about two hundred miles farther on, would be the last city of any size. And somewhere ahead, Savage was convinced, was one trailer — perhaps two — and two men at least he must find. Larnigan and the short man with the broken nose!

Bevond San Antonio Savage took the south road through Del Rio, on the Mexican border. Savage held the wheel until ten, dozed in the front seat beside Briggs until an hour after midnight. Briggs went back in the trailer to sleep. Daybreak found Savage holding the speedometer at sixty-five on the straight stretches.

Chapter XXII The Friendly Stranger

A wilderness of thorny mesquite stretched in all directions. Green beds of prickly pear cactus sprawled over the ground. The lush green grass of the coastal country had vanished. The tall trees were gone. This was a dry country, a harsh country, rising mile by mile toward the semi-deserts farther west. At no time during the night had a suspicious trailer been sighted.

At seven-thirty Briggs telephoned that breakfast was ready. They ate with the horizon at least forty miles away through the clear crisp morning air. A dozen varieties of cactus, Spanish bayonet, and other desert plants were visible from the trailer doorway. But no life. A little later while Savage walked up and down outside in the bright sunshine Briggs tried to get New Orleans. His voice was audible through the open doorway.

“W2ZXYZ calling New Orleans — W2ZXYZ calling W5RPLS. Are you on the air, W5RPLS?” A pause while Briggs listened, and again Briggs’ call: “W2ZXYZ calling W5RPLS. W2ZXYZ calling New Orleans. Calling any New Orleans station. Give me an answer, any New Orleans station. I want W5RPLS, but I’ll take any station. Any New Orleans station give W2ZXYZ a call.”

Savage paused near the door as he heard a voice in Briggs’ loudspeaker.

“W5OXCT calling W2ZXYZ. What’s on your mind, W2ZXYZ, up there around New York this early in the morning?”

“Hello, W5OXCT,” said Briggs. “Thanks for coming in. I’m working a portable, in BT5 right now. I’m over here in West Texas near the Mexican border, in the middle of enough cactus to stop your Mardi Gras parade today. I want W5RPLS. How about giving him a buzz on your telephone? His name is Barton — Bill Barton, out on Fontainebleau Drive. Go ahead W5OXCT.”

The answer:

“I’ve worked Barton a lot. Always in the evening, though. I’ll give him a ring and see if he’s around. Hold it open.”

Savage spoke through the doorway.

“If you get Clancy’s office find out if the El Paso report has come in. Ask about fingerprint reports. And what about Miss Carstairs?”

The loudspeaker said:

“All right, W2ZXYZ — are you there, W2ZXYZ?”

“O.K.,” said Briggs. “W2ZXYZ waiting.”

“I got Barton on the telephone. He was at breakfast. He’ll be on the air in a couple of minutes.”

A few minutes later a thin fast-speaking voice came in from the air.

“W5RPLS speaking, W2ZXYZ. Sorry I wasn’t looking for you this early in the morning. What’s on the cuff today? I hear you made plenty of miles last night. My wife’s telephoning your office right now... Wait a minute — she’s got ’em... There’s something for you. Just a minute—”

After a pause, the rapid voice resumed:

“All right, W2ZXYZ?”

“Shoot it,” said Briggs.

“Here you are — there’s quite a bit of it. Fingerprints went off yesterday evening to FBI in Washington and to the State Identification Bureau. Answers expected today. The two prisoners were released yesterday evening. They had retained a crack criminal lawyer. Nothing was said to them about trailers. The man took the train for Memphis. The woman closed the house and boarded a California train. No one else had called at her house. Neighbors state no sign of a trailer was seen around the house. Got all that? There’s more coming as soon as I get to the telephone again.”

“Waiting for it,” said Briggs. He lighted a cigarette while he waited and looked at the doorway. “Memphis,” said Briggs. “And California. Goddard and the Teasdale dame split fast, didn’t they?”

“The Fort Worth-El Paso-California planes go through Memphis first,” said Savage. “Goddard is up to something.”

“He might,” Briggs suggested, “be heading back to Cleveland to join his fiancée.”

“Why did he leave her? The decent thing would have been to escort Miss Bellamy to Cleveland with her father’s body.”

“You had a chance in New Orleans to ask him why,” reminded Briggs.

“It would have only aroused his suspicions. I wish I’d told Clancy to send a man after Goddard, to Alaska if necessary. The fellow needs—”

New Orleans cut in: “Are you still getting W5RPLS?”

“Let’s have it, W5RPLS,” said Briggs in the peculiar and often monotonous jargon of the short-wave brotherhood.

“Here you are — Cohatchie, Florida, long-distanced the New Orleans insurance office last night, as follows: ‘Torrington, Florida, sent two bullets to FBI in Washington. Cohatchie sent one bullet out of Clark’s corpse to FBI. They don’t match. The Torrington bullets were from a .32 Colt automatic. The Cohatchie bullet was from a rifle. Torrington wanted Cohatchie to know the bullets found in accident victim’s body were not from the exploded rifle cartridges in the back seat. The automatic bullets indicate murder, instead of accidental death.

“The police here got two bullets out of the house wall and on recommendation of agency office have sent them to FBI in Washington for check against the two automatic bullets from Torrington. Miss Carstairs not yet heard from. The El Paso report says the lady got off the plane and went to Del Monte Hotel. Asked at the desk for mail, telegrams or messages, and received nothing. Apparently is asleep now. Tri-State Agency in El Paso will have further details, and are expecting your arrival. That’s all. Have you got anything? And will you be sending later today? I want to take in some of this Mardi Gras.”

“Nothing more. We’ll be in El Paso some time this evening. I’ll telephone back long-distance,” said Savage.

Briggs signed off, ducked out of the low trailer door, stretching, grinning.

“It’s old stuff by now,” said Briggs. “But I still get a kick out of putting something through from a forsaken spot like this. It’s like using the whole country for a backyard, with the cities for rooms, and one yell reaches everything.”

Tony Savage chuckled.

“You’re acquiring the soul of a poet, Briggs. Let’s get going. This next stretch of our backyard covers a lot of ground. Take the wheel while I get some sleep. I don’t want to be a wreck when we arrive.”

Briggs was a skillful and a fast driver. Time after time during the day Savage was jolted into partial wakefulness as the racing trailer slammed over some rough spot in the road. Those times Savage was aware that Briggs was driving as fast as the road would allow.

Briggs relinquished the wheel at Van Horn, Texas. The sun was hanging over the horizon. Briggs’ hands were shaking from the strain of the grueling day’s drive at furious speeds.

“About a hundred and twenty miles more,” said Briggs as they watched the gas tank being filled and the oil checked. “Good road. We ought to make it in time for some enchiladas and tequila over in Juarez. Texas looks big on the map — but it’s four times as big when you drive across it.”

“Enchiladas and tequila it is,” Savage smilingly agreed. “We’ve earned that much at least.”

Savage’s wrist watch marked off two hours and a half before he took his foot off the accelerator and let the throbbing motor fall into a leisurely purr through Isleta, a few miles from El Paso.

Briggs telephoned: “I’m bathed and dressed, Chief. Want me to take it in while you change?”

“You might as well,” Savage agreed, and pulled over to a stop under tall cottonwoods that lined the road.

They were rolling smoothly on the El Paso city pavement, passing the first neon tourist camp signs, when Savage finished dressing.

He was adjusting his cravat when an automobile horn sounded alongside. A man shouted something. Briggs pulled over to the curb and stopped. Savage slipped on his coat and stepped out.

The red tail lights of an automobile were at the curb just ahead of their outfit. A tall man wearing a broad-brimmed Western hat had stepped back and was speaking to Briggs. He turned as Savage came to him.

“Mr. Savage?”

“Yes. Who is it?”

Savage could see the stranger’s tanned angular face smiling. He thrust out a hand. The stranger’s grip was strong.

“I’m Van Duesen, from the Tri-State Agency,” the man said. “I’ve been waiting along here for two hours for you to show up. Clancy, in New Orleans, gave me a description of your car and trailer.”

“Glad to know you, Van Duesen. I was going to call your office as soon as we had something to eat across the river.”

“I was afraid you’d do something like that,” said Van Duesen. “I thought you’d rather have me head you off. The lady checked out of the hotel about dark, taking her suitcase. A car was waiting for her at the side entrance of the hotel.”

“Damn!” exclaimed Savage in disappointment. “So she got away again! Where did she go?”

Van Duesen chuckled.

“We followed her. She didn’t go far. Only to a small cottage just beyond the city limits on the Alamagordo road. The last report I had, about twenty minutes ago, had her still out there. I thought you’d want to rush out there and check up, since she seems to have left the hotel for good.”

“Quite right. Decent of you to catch me on the road this way. Briggs, I’m afraid the enchiladas and tequila will have to wait.”

“I can take you in my car,” offered Van Duesen. “I take it you don’t want to run this heavy outfit out there, or wait to get unhooked.”

“Your car by all means,” assented Savage. “My man can get this outfit parked while we’re gone. Do you know of a good place?”

“The vacant lot behind our office building should do. Matter of fact I meant to suggest it to you. Mrs. Van Duesen is with me. She can show your man where the lot is, while we cut across town from here.”

“By all means.”

Van Duesen stepped to his car, returned in a moment with a small demure looking young woman who smiled rather shyly at her husband’s introduction.

“We shouldn’t be gone more than half an hour, darling,” said Van Duesen. “But if we should be gone longer, you can drop in to that movie you wanted to see.”

“Be careful, don’t get hurt, dear!” Mrs. Van Duesen cautioned as her husband opened the car door to seat her beside Briggs.

“I’ll get a gun and a pair of handcuffs, just in case,” decided Savage, turning back to the trailer.

“Never mind. I have both,” Van Duesen assured him.

“I’ll feel better with the gun anyway, in this instance.”

In the trailer Savage slipped off his coat, buckled on a shoulder holster, and did feel better when he joined the detective in the front car. It was hard to tell what might happen if Larnigan was in that house.

“Did Miss Sullivan have any visitors?” he asked as Van Duesen drove briskly across town.

“We didn’t see any. She was in her room all day.”

“Waiting for a telephone call, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t know. What sort of a case is this anyway, Savage?”

“Murder.”

Van Duesen whistled softly. “Murder, eh? Making an arrest tonight?”

“I’ll know better after I see whom the lady is with.”

Chapter XXIII Trapped

They sped through the El Paso outskirts, on the north. An air beacon on a low mountain off to the left swept a finger of light rhythmically around the sky. The street lights ended. The black-surfaced highway lay straight and smooth ahead through a tangle of desert plants, with only an occasional house light visible beside the road.

“How far is it?” Savage asked.

“A couple of miles. It’s off the road a little. We have a couple of men out there,” said Van Duesen heartily. He was a hearty man, a big man; he began to whistle cheerfully between his teeth.

And Savage was conscious of rising excitement. The break was coming. The Sullivan woman must be with Larnigan. Once that knot was unraveled, other things would fall in line. This was more luck than he’d hoped for.

Van Duesen slowed the car, turned off the highway into two sandy ruts that wound out of sight through the tall desert plants. The highway was almost a quarter of a mile back when a man appeared in the road ahead of them.

“One of our men,” said Van Duesen cheerfully. He switched off the headlights.

But the lights went dark a second too late. The indistinct figure in the road had registered on Savage’s mind with an explosive shock. The shadowy indistinctness itself had released that explosion of memory, clearing thoughts back to the lower hall in Larnigan’s house in New Orleans, where a shadowy figure had dodged out of the dim flashlight beam and vanished.

Savage grabbed under his coat for the automatic. And realized at the same instant that Van Duesen was watching him in the faint dashlight glow.

“No you don’t!” Van Duesen rasped violently, lunging against him and snatching at the gun hand.

Van Duesen was as powerful as he was big. But Savage fought with a fury he had never before experienced. Like a tyro he had fallen eagerly into a trap — and he would get no more mercy than a trapped animal.

But Van Duesen had a steel grip. His weight jammed Savage back in the seat corner. Van Duesen was using both hands to hold the gun harmless in the armpit holster.

The struggle was silent, save for their quick gasping breaths.

Van Duesen could not get to his gun. Savage tried to hurl him back. He might as well have shoved at a stone wall.

Abruptly Savage relaxed, thumbing off the safety catch of his gun as he did so, trying to twist both holster and gun far enough around to bear on his assailant.

Van Duesen sensed the danger. He jammed an arm in against the holster. And Savage pulled the trigger again and again for what good it might do.

The crashing shots smashed at the eardrums in that closed space. They seemed to hammer and tear at Savage’s side as the blasting muzzle gasses burned through to his skin. The bullets passed harmlessly between their two bodies and into the seat.

A moment later the door behind Savage was jerked open. A torch poured light over the seat. Savage expected a shot — he couldn’t see what was coming — couldn’t have dodged it anyway.

He received a blow — a blow that seemed to smash in the crown of his head, to rob him of reason, will and strength. It was like a black powder explosion before his eyes; his vision saw the flashing light as vividly as if it had occurred before his eyes. Then blackness closed in. He felt inert, leaden, helpless, and the voices in his ears were muted and far away.

He was aware, however, that there were voices. He knew when he was roughly shoved over in the seat, his gun taken away, his person searched, his own handcuffs snapped on his wrists. And all the time he was fighting threatening unconsciousness.

Head pains ripped through the pall. He could see again, and think. The automobile was lurching ahead. Savage twisted his head dizzily, made out the angular silhouette of Van Duesen’s head at the wheel. And above the top of the seat, where Savage was uncomfortably crumpled, a voice said: “Keep that head down an’ stay quiet or I’ll slug you again!”

Van Duesen cursed.

“Go ahead and slug him anyway, Sam! I owe him a few for trying to drill me the way he did!”

“You should’a watched him closer,” said Sam. “You ought’a know by now he’s dynamite. Why didn’t you sap him as soon as you turned off the road?”

Van Duesen grunted:

“How did I know he was going to get wise? Ten seconds more and I’d have been ready for him. He must have recognized you, Sam!”

Sam! The “Sam” of the telephone call to Larnigan’s house. The gunman beyond the hall door — the man who had fled to that Bourbon Street house of Anne Teasdale’s where Jack Goddard had come.

From a dry, painful throat, Savage asked:

“What the devil were you doing in Larnigan’s house?”

“Shut up!” said Sam, and there was a calm viciousness in the order that needed no additional threat.

Van Duesen swung the car off the road and killed the motor. “Get him out, Sam,” said Van Duesen, opening the door on his side.

Savage staggered as he stood up beside the car. Hammers were pounding inside his head. The car lights gleamed against the aluminum-painted side of another trailer that was hidden from the road here among the tall Spanish bayonet.

This must be the trailer that had been purchased in New Orleans! Like a bullet it, also, must have raced across the state of Texas.

Van Duesen cut off the car lights and spoke from the other side of the car.

“Here it comes. Get your rod ready, just in case. And watch out that mug doesn’t try to make a run for it.”

“I hope he does,” said Sam with the same calm viciousness. Small as he was, he was the more dangerous man, Savage guessed.

The headlights of another car were approaching from the highway. Savage was not surprised, when the car arrived, to see the long gray hood of his own automobile, the bulk of the big silver-sided trailer looming behind.

Van Duesen’s meek lady spoke irritably from the open window.

“Get this clunk outa here, Buck, before I shoot him! He burns me up!”

Briggs’ reply was sarcastic.

“Now lady, is that any way to talk? I drove you out here, didn’t I? Never mind showing me you’re a tough little torpedo. I knew that as soon as you shoved that gun in my side.”

Van Duesen had gone to Briggs’ side of the car.

“So he’s a wise guy?” said Van Duesen. “Well, I’ve got what it takes right here. Come outa there, fellow!”

A moment later Briggs cried out a dazed oath of protest. He stumbled around through the lights of the gray sedan, blood pouring from an ear mangled by a blow from Van Duesen’s gun.

“Sam,” ordered Van Duesen, “bring that guy in here as soon as Jessie pulls this outfit off the road.”

Savage stepped into his own lighted trailer with Sam’s gun poking at his back. Briggs was already in. Jessie — her lips were bolder with rouge, her face harder here in the light — went from window to window pulling the curtains close.

“Don’t we travel swell?” she asked, looking about the interior. “I wouldn’t mind a wagon like this for myself. How about it, Buck?”

“Want this one?”

“Why not?”

“I thought you’d be fool enough to want it!”

“Don’t start riding me!” flared Jessie angrily. “I came through tonight, didn’t I?”

“So what? Get outside there and keep watch.”

She went out pouting angrily.

Briggs was wiping blood off his cheek with a red-splotched handkerchief.

“I wasn’t looking for it, Chief. I thought she was the McCoy until she jammed a gun in my side. I tried to laugh it off, but she seemed to mean business. She sounded mighty jumpy with her trigger finger.”

Sam grinned. He did have a broken nose. His forehead was high and wide, his face came down past the broken nose to a point at the chin, and his lips were thin and more on the bluish side than red. The sharp, bloodless effect was unpleasant.

“You should’a tried to find out,” said Sam.

“You’re a bloodthirsty devil,” growled Van Duesen. “Some day you’ll burn for it. Now then, which one of you two runs this short-wave radio? You, I guess. Your voice sounds familiar.”

“What’s so familiar about it?” said Briggs, glaring at the bloody handkerchief, and then at the speaker.

“I’ve been listening to it enough,” said Van Duesen. “Get on that radio and get through to New Orleans. They’ll be expecting that long-distance telephone call from Savage this evening. Tell ’em he decided to come in over the radio.”

“You seem to have a short-wave receiver,” Savage guessed.

“And a good one,” said Sam. “The best we could buy — just to catch what you were batting back and forth through the air.”

“I see you’ve been well-informed about us.”

“Plenty,” Van Duesen answered curtly. “You’ve been talking yourself into this over the air. Now tell that mug of yours to get New Orleans fast. Sam will stand over him, and the first yip he makes for help, Sam will blow the top of his head all over the set.”

Briggs shrugged, sat down at his set and turned on the generator. A gesture from Van Duesen directed Savage to sit down on the couch. Van Duesen stood by the door, gun in hand, and Sam stood behind Briggs. There was silence in the trailer while Briggs reached out across the country once more.

“W2ZXYZ calling W5RPLS, at New Orleans. W2ZXYZ calling W5RPLS...”

Chapter XXIV Death Threatens

Several minutes of that, broken by pauses to listen, and Barton’s familiar rapid voice came with startling clarity out of the loudspeaker.

“W5RPLS answering W2ZXYZ. I was wondering if you’d be on the air tonight. How’s everything going now? Did you make it through today?”

“Wait a minute!” Van Duesen snapped before Briggs could cut himself in. “Remember, Sam gives it to you if you make one crack! Tell him you’re at El Paso, and you’re heading back to Chicago tonight!”

The loudspeaker said:

“Did you get me, W2ZXYZ? I’m waiting for you.”

Sam had his gun muzzle against the back of Briggs’ head as Briggs cut in and spoke huskily.

“I got you, W2RPLS. Yeah, we made it in to El Paso. And we’re heading back to Chicago in the morning. Can you get the office?”

“Hold it open,” said Barton cheerfully. “Back to Chi tomorrow? Are you trying to run a cross-country marathon? Hold it open...”

A faint sheen of perspiration was on Briggs’ face as he sat stiffly with the gun muzzle against the back of his head.

“Don’t get careless with that,” Briggs suggested through stiff lips.

“Just don’t make me nervous,” Sam grinned.

“Ask that office if they got the fingerprint reports from the G-men,” Van Duesen ordered. “Tell them the situation is under control here and you’re heading for Chicago. Ask them about the Carstairs woman.”

Briggs licked his lips and nodded.

“Are you there, W2ZXYZ?”

“Waiting on you, W5RPLS,” said Briggs.

“Here it comes... Reports from Washington. The bullets found in the Torrington body match the bullets out of the house wall. Same gun. Same man, evidently. A whiskey bottle sent in by Cohatchie sheriff from trailer camp had fingerprints of Daniel Van Drake, alias Buck Clark, alias Big Tom Carson, with record of four years, Atlanta, on narcotic conviction, and numerous previous arrests without convictions. Just a minute — I’ll get some more.”

Van Duesen cursed softly and scowled as he met Savage’s narrow look. The pointed, bloodless grin spread over Sam’s face.

“That’s what whiskey does for you, Buck. Why didn’t you heave that bottle into the water?”

“Dry up, you grinning ape! D’you know what it means?” Van Duesen asked.

“This Sunday School dick is wise to you.”

“T’hell with him! It means the G heat’ll be on me!”

“Better head over the border and work for Limey down south.”

“Yeah,” muttered Van Duesen, and snapped up his head as New Orleans came in again.

“Here it is, W2ZXYZ... Fingerprints taken out of the Bourbon Street house includes the prints of John Black, alias Bob Mutton, who did three years at Leavenworth for possession of counterfeit currency, and the prints of Rudolph Coston, alias Soapy Jones, alias Sam Jenkins, wanted by San Francisco police for murder of a detective four years ago. The office wants to know why you’re going to Chicago.”

“Tell him,” ordered Van Duesen, “that all the business leads to Chicago, and to hold everything until further orders. And ask about the Car-stairs woman.”

The report came back: “No word from the lady. The office wants to know if attempt shall be made to rearrest the two prisoners that were freed.”

Van Duesen said: “Tell them there’s nothing against those two, and to hold everything.”

The generator died. The silence of the desert night outside closed down. Van Duesen sneered at Sam.

“So you rubbed out a cop four years ago? I didn’t know you were that hot. I wouldn’t have touched you with a pole with that bent nose. Limey wouldn’t either.”

Sam’s face was a livid death’s head. He pushed Briggs’ head roughly with the gun muzzle and then stepped back, pocketing the gun. The gun looked to Savage like a thirty-two calibre Colt automatic. The same gun, probably, which had killed that man in Larnigan’s car.

Grinning, Sam said:

“Never mind how hot I am. I’ve gotten away for four years. I’ll do it for plenty years more. And don’t make cracks about my bent schnozzle. It suits me. Let’s get going. Bob ought to have his end cleaned up by now.”

“He’d better!” growled Van Duesen. “This starched shirt dick here has stirred up enough dust. We’ve got to work fast and fade. Savage, is there another pair of handcuffs in here?”

“I’m wearing the only pair we had,” said Savage, lifting his shackled wrists. “By the way, what is Larnigan doing?”

“You won’t have to worry about Larnigan,” said Van Duesen colorlessly. “Sam, stop cuddling that rod in your pocket and get something out of the other trailer to tie this fellow.”

“Why not leave him here?” suggested Sam.

“Damn you, no! He might be found. Get some cord. Tell Jessie to start driving.”

Sam came back with a coil of strong cord. Van Duesen tied Briggs’ wrists, jerking the knots so tight Briggs winced. The other trailer pulled out toward the highway. And with Van Duesen guarding Briggs and Savage, the bigger trailer followed some minutes later.

Savage noted that they turned north. The trailer began to lurch and sway as the speed rapidly increased. Van Duesen balanced with wide-spread legs and glanced in some of the cabinets. He found a bottle of the Chateauneuf-au-pape, knocked the neck off the wine bottle into the sink, slopped a glass full of wine, and drank half of it.

“No kick,” he decided.

From the couch, Savage inquired: “Where are we going?”

Van Duesen shrugged. “That won’t worry you two.”

Briggs licked his lips. “Chief,” said Briggs huskily, “these rats are going to kill us.”

“Of course,” said Savage thoughtfully. “I’m merely wondering where and when. And being glad Miss Car-stairs isn’t here.”

“She’s looking for trouble,” said Van Duesen surlily as he lifted the glass again.

The trailer was swaying more violently as it raced into the north. Savage recalled this road from the maps as a long empty stretch of some ninety miles to Alamagordo, New Mexico. The semi-desert behind was probably a fair sample. A vast, dry, empty country. No water, probably, except at an occasional windmill or ranch house out on the range. Mountains many miles to the east and west, and the mountains themselves barren, dry, devoid of life.

In such country murder could be casual, leisurely, undiscovered. There was law, of course. Law in El Paso. Law in Alamagordo ahead and the little towns scattered over the huge state of New Mexico. But they were all tiny spots on the map. Between them were vast stretches which rarely saw a sheriff. For a thousand miles to the north and a thousand miles to the west there was country in which crimes might never be discovered.

Anthony Savage reviewed the tangle of murder and mystery that had spun out two thousand miles from the low seacoast of Florida to this high, arid, wild country. Careful planning, rather than chance, seemed behind it.

But who had done the planning? James Larnigan? Young Goddard? Hardly! Van Duesen or the sharp-faced little killer in the car were more likely candidates. Van Duesen had been casual about fleeing down into Mexico. He spoke like a man at home in this barren border country.

The one outstanding fact was that death waited at the end of this trip. Another killing or so would not make much difference to these two. Sam would probably relish the incident.

Such thoughts brought their own fatalistic conclusions. Since death was certain, why wait passively for it? Nothing that could happen here along the road could be any worse than what was due to happen.

Life was behind you. Odds against you meant nothing. You were not brave. But you were dangerous; you were quietly, coolly dangerous and deadly.

Van Duesen tossed the empty wine bottle into the sink. Glass in hand, he explored further. He opened the gun cabinet, was immediately so interested he tossed the partly empty glass over into the sink.

He pulled a skeet gun halfway out, thrust it back and lifted out Savage’s particular pride and joy, the fine .280 Halger high velocity rifle.

Van Duesen moved closer to the light with the gun, handling it with respect.

“What’ll it do at three hundred yards?” questioned Van Duesen over the noises made by the rushing trailer and the car exhaust just ahead.

“Better than 2600 foot pounds, with the 180 grain bullet,” said Savage.

“Ha!” said Van Duesen. “This’ll be something to keep.”

Savage shrugged, watched Van Duesen carefully replace the gun in the rack. He marked that Van Duesen’s hand went immediately to the gun in his pocket. The man was watching them. He was taking no chances. He’d kill at the first move toward them. Handcuffed as he was, and with Briggs’ wrists tied, they didn’t have a chance of overpowering Van Duesen. His first shot would probably be heard in the car ahead. Sam would stop, dash back with another gun. No, they didn’t have a chance.

The one light bulb burning was in a wall bracket over the couch where Savage and Briggs were sitting. Opposite the couch was the door. Van Duesen was standing farther back, by the sink, where he could brace himself as the trailer rocked and swayed.

Savage found his mind centering on the light and door with increasing intensity. If the trailer slowed a little... if the light were suddenly out, plunging the interior of the trailer into blackness — there might be a chance to reach the door and jump!

What happened after that would be in the laps of the gods. Van Duesen’s automatic might cut one or both of them down. Legs might be broken in the flying leap to the roadside, with nothing to do then but lie there and be slaughtered.

That would probably happen at the rate they were traveling. Sixty at least. Perhaps more. But they would have to slow sometime, if only for a few seconds.

Twenty minutes — twenty-five minutes passed...

Van Duesen was biting on a piece of salami he had found in the ice box. Crackers were in his other hand. He was watching them when the trailer slowed abruptly, rolled down through a road dip, and bounced slightly as it took the other side of the dip. Van Duesen staggered back half a step and reached out to the sink edge for support.

And Savage lunged up at the light!

Chapter XXV Adrift in the Desert

Van Duesen’s angry shout was incoherent. Savage’s shackled wrists smashed the light globe as he rapped to Briggs:

“The door, Briggs! Jump!”

In the same instant Savage shoved hard against the wall, hurling himself back across the darkened trailer. The automatic crashed out. Savage struck the door, slapped manacled hands at the door handle as the trailer picked up speed with a lurch. The automatic was roaring again as the door flew open. Briggs stumbled against Savage’s back. The detective leaped far out, twisting himself to face forward.

His feet struck the edge of the road — the roadside ditch dropped away under him — and he fell heavily, sliding, rolling through sandy soil into a mound covered with low thorny growth.

Savage’s last impression as he fell was the faint silhouette against the headlight glare of Briggs’ leaping also.

Breath knocked out, thorns imbedded in his flesh, dust and dirt in his mouth, ears, eyes and nose, Savage reeled up. He could stand. He could move. He gasped—

“Briggs! Briggs!”

“Here!” Briggs replied feebly. He staggered closer to Savage.

Tires were shrieking on the road 150 yards ahead, as the driver brought the heavy car and trailer to a quick stop.

“Back across the road here!” Savage whispered hoarsely. “They may think we ran in the direction we jumped!”

A thin drift of clouds hid part of the starry sky. The night was deep black. They stumbled across the road, plunged over sandy soil dotted thickly with low earthen mounds covered by the cruel thorny growth.

Briggs gasped: “I’m shot in the leg! Don’t know how far I can go!”

“How badly is it bleeding?”

“I can feel blood running down my leg! The bone seems all right!” panted Briggs.

Over his shoulder Savage could see the lights ahead of the stationary car and trailer, and could faintly hear angry voices.

Briggs stumbled, fell, swore as the long sharp thorns pierced his flesh. Their feet made little sound in the soft soil. They could see better now, could vaguely make out the brush-covered mounds and the clear spaces.

Far behind them on the road other lights in the trailer had been turned on. Into the south, over the horizon, light from the air beacon atop the mountain swept around and around in the sky. But to the north and the south, as far as the eye could see, there were no more lights, no other cars on the road. Ahead of them the night seemed an infinity of emptiness.

“Gosh, this leg hurts!” Briggs gulped, but kept on running.

Far back, at the trailer, Savage saw the smaller beam of a flashlight sweeping around. A little later the flashlight glinted in their direction.

“They have a flashlight out of the trailer! They’re following our tracks!” Savage panted. And then he remembered. “Get your breath, Briggs, and reach into my right coat pocket. I dropped the keys to these handcuffs in there. Van Duesen didn’t get them!”

Briggs fumbled clumsily in the pocket, got the key, groped to fit it into the handcuffs, and almost dropped the tiny key. He cursed, waited a moment, tried again. The key slipped in. Savage dropped the handcuffs into his pocket, took a penknife from Briggs’ pocket and freed Briggs’ wrists.

The flashlight was still bobbing back on their trail.

“Maybe there’s a chance to slip back and get the car going,” suggested Briggs.

“Not much chance they left the keys in the lock. One of them may be waiting there at the car hoping we’ll try,” said Savage. “Can you get on?”

“Coming,” said Briggs.

The light followed doggedly after them. But, Savage judged, the light was not gaining much. The car lights now were out of sight in the distance behind.

Briggs stopped again, reeling. “You go one way an’ I’ll go the other!” Briggs gasped as Savage supported him.

“Not a chance of it, old man. Don’t waste your breath. Leg still bleeding?”

“Yes!”

“Get your trousers off. I’ll use my shirt for a bandage. It should help a little.”

The wound seemed to be a nasty tear in the muscles, deep, dangerous, painful. But Briggs could move, although it kept the wound open. They went on, into an infinity of night-shrouded space. And like a creeping nemesis, the winking light came after them.

Savage thought of doubling back and waiting beside the trail. Reason dissuaded him. With only the handcuffs for a weapon, he wouldn’t have much chance against one armed man. None at all against two. If he fell, Briggs would be caught soon after. He saved the idea for a last hope.

The road, miles back, was out of sight. Even the car lights were invisible across that flat, thorn-covered plain. And only now and then did they glimpse the following light.

How much time passed, Savage did not know. But there came a time when they could not see the light. They waited. Still the light did not appear. They walked on slowly, watching behind, listening. Finally Savage said:

“Those flashlight batteries weren’t too fresh. Rest a while, Briggs. We’ll see what happens.”

Nothing happened. A long time later they made out the wink of moving car lights on the far horizon behind, to the north. Impossible to tell whether it was the lights of their car.

Half an hour later Savage decided:

“Safe enough now to work back toward the highway, I think. If they’ve gone on, good. If they’re waiting back there, we’ll come out on the road several miles to the south.”

Briggs groaned when he tried to walk.

“Don’t know whether I can make it,” said Briggs weakly. “Go on, chief. I’ll be around here somewhere.”

“We’ll do it together, fellow. And you’re going to make it. Listen — isn’t that a train whistle?”

It was. They saw the engine headlight miles away, evidently not far beyond the highway. They watched it pass and vanish toward El Paso. A man’s throat tightened at thought of the quick trip one could make to the city, to doctors and help, on that speeding train. And the painful dragging slowness with which they inched on foot across this endless landscape.

Briggs was growing weaker. More often he had to stop and rest. But at least they did not see the pursuing flashlight again.

A chill wind sprang up. Hours had passed since they left the trailer. Briggs was stumbling, Savage was half supporting him.

Another train went north. They came in sight of the highway, saw an automobile pass going north. And a little later another going south. And then another going north — and no more automobiles.

It was two-thirty in the morning when they reached the road, miles south of where they had left it. Briggs collapsed in the sand, under the lee of a mound where the wind did not reach him.

Automobile headlights appeared from the north, traveling fast. Savage stepped out in the road and waved his hands. And at the last minute had to jump back as the machine rushed past.

“Afraid of a hold-up,” he said, returning to Briggs.

Briggs was too weak to walk farther. Gray dawn was pushing over the eastern mountains before another machine appeared on the road. And this time it was an old truck traveling noisily and slowly toward El Paso.

The truck stopped. It was carrying a load of steers. Two tanned men wearing broad-brimmed sombreros were in the cab. They stared in amazement at Savage’s dirty, thorn-ripped face, his soiled suit, his undershirt exposed under the coat.

“We were held up,” Savage explained. “My partner’s shot in the leg. Have you passed any trailers to the north of here?”

“We only come from this side of Alamagordo,” replied one of the men. “Boy, yuh two are in a bad shape! Shore we’ll take yuh in town!”

They had to help Briggs into the cab. One of the men rode on the running board while Savage crowded on the seat beside Briggs. Before they rolled into El Paso Savage put on Briggs’ shirt.

“You won’t need it in the hospital, Briggs. I’ll have to be moving around fast before the stores are open.”

“I hate to run out on you at a time like this, chief,” said Briggs painfully.

“Can’t be helped. I think we may get a break out of this night yet.”

They took Briggs to a hospital. The truck left. A police car arrived a few minutes later, in answer to the telephoned report that a wounded man had been brought in.

Savage described the two trailers, the cars that pulled them, gave the license numbers of his car and trailer. He washed hastily and talked to the police while an interne patched up his face. The police telephoned headquarters, promised quick action on a broadcast report to halt the two cars. But one of them gave his opinion:

“They’ve had too much of a start. Those trailers will be ditched somewhere. Maybe the cars. There’s a thousand places north of here they can drop out of sight if they keep off the highways.”

Savage telephoned the Hotel del Monte. He was prepared for what he heard.

“Miss Sullivan checked out at five minutes to seven last night... No, she didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

The Tri-State Agency had a night telephone listed. A sleepy voice answered.

“This is Anthony Savage, on that case referred to you by the Apperson Agency in New Orleans. Where did Miss Sullivan go?”

“How should we know where she went, Mr. Savage?” the astonished voice replied. “This is Starbuck speaking. In the office, about five-thirty yesterday afternoon, you personally told me you’d handle this matter yourself. We were discharged from the case. And as you directed, we took our man off Miss Sullivan at once.”

“At that time I was over near Van Horn, Texas,” said Savage bruskly. “Someone impersonated me! Will you get down to your office at once?”

Chapter XXVI Rita Walks into Danger

Starbuck was a chunky man with a short black mustache; he displayed signs of his hasty trip to the office. And Starbuck was almost incoherent at what had happened.

“How could I know, Mr. Savage? The man was well dressed, seemed to know exactly what he was doing, spoke of the trip he’d just made, and knew every detail about which we had been informed. We were expecting your arrival. It all fitted in.”

“I’d probably have been taken in the same way,” Savage granted. “I didn’t do any better myself. What did this man look like?”

Starbuck knit his brows.

“Different — not at all like you, Savage. He was somewhat younger, for one thing. More heavily tanned than you are. And he’d been working hard somewhere. When he shook hands, I noticed the callouses.”

Savage stared. “Callouses — heavy tan? Was he about twenty-six? Blond? Let’s see — some gold in one of his front teeth?”

“Er... yes... I think so. I remember the gold showing when he smiled. D’you know him?”

“I think I do,” Savage snapped. “And if it’s the same man, he has been working hard — as a gardener, an assistant gardener, to be correct. And I’ve had the feeling about him that I overlooked something that should have been followed up. He called himself Parker.”

“He was Savage when he was in here,” stated Starbuck glumly.

“Well, that’s water over the dam. What about Miss Sullivan?”

“She stayed around her room most of the time. Lunched with one of the hotel guests. A man. He registered as R. L. Chatham, Chicago.”

“Chatham? Chicago? What’ll break next in this case?” Savage exclaimed, recalling Chatham, that unobtrusive business associate of Larnigan’s in Florida. “Let’s have your telephone!”

Savage called the Del Monte again.

Mr. Chatham had registered from Chicago night before last. He had checked out at six the previous evening, without a forwarding address.

Savage was red-eyed, haggard behind the patches of tape on his ripped face. He scowled at the telephone for a moment.

“Ever hear of a Daniel Van Drake, alias Buck Clark, alias Big Tom Car-son?” he asked Starbuck.

Starbuck shook his head.

“Or John Black, alias Bob Hutton — or Rudolph Coston, alias Soapy Jones, alias Sam Jenkins?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Savage.”

“They’re both acquainted with a man down in Mexico called Limey.”

“Not Limey Drake?”

“Limey is the only name I know.”

“It must be Limey Drake,” said Starbuck positively. “He’s the only ‘Limey’ along the border here who would fit into a case like this.”

“A bad one, eh?”

“Worse,” said Starbuck. “Limey Drake is notorious along the border. His specialty is smuggling.”

“Dope?”

“Naturally. But other things — Chinamen, onions, butter, Swiss watch movements. There’s quite a profit in watch movements because of the high duty. They don’t carry identification marks and can’t be traced after they’re in the country. No one’s ever proved dope smuggling on Drake. But then he always has others do the work.”

“Daniel Van Drake,” said Savage, “did four years in Atlanta on a dope charge. But I can’t by any stretch of the imagination connect dope with this case.”

“I think,” Starbuck decided, “you want to talk to Jim Considine. Jim’s an Inspector of the Customs Border Patrol. An undercover man. Does a lot of his work down in Mexico. One of Jim’s pet hates is Limey Drake. He knows more about Drake and the men Drake uses than any living man. Jim’s in town. I’ll telephone him, and we’ll go over to his hotel.”

You had a sense of confidence from the first sight of Jim Considine. Slightly built, square-jawed, almost as dark as a Mexican, Considine was blond and blue-eyed. His eyes were dark blue, stabbing, rather cold, as such men’s eyes are apt to be. And his manner was quiet and intent.

Considine was in his undershirt when he admitted them to his hotel room. He stood by the window, sinewy fingers toying with a brown paper cigarette while Savage explained the case.

“Yes, I’ve seen this Sam Jenkins,” said Considine thoughtfully. “I saw him talking to Limey in a Torreon cantina a couple of years ago. He left as soon as Drake warned him I was in the place. Got out of town. But I’ve carried that broken nose in my mind. So he was wanted in San Francisco for murder? I wish I’d known it. Van Drake I don’t place. Limey’s dealt with a lot of men. It may even be a relative. Drake — Van Drake. Close, eh?”

Savage spoke rapidly.

“How about John Blake, alias Bob Hutton? I think he’s the man who impersonated me. He’s the key to this. I’ve got to get on his track at once.”

“I don’t place him,” said Considine. “But if he’s been close to Limey, I may be able to get a line on him. Suppose you two get some breakfast and go over into Juarez. Stand across from the jail on Cinco de Mayo Street. No, go to the plaza. You can sit down there. If anyone comes along and says: ‘Viva Mexico,’ go with him.”

Considine smiled thinly. “Sometimes I don’t want to be too public in Juarez. One gringo is bad enough. Three together stand out like the horns on an old mossyback brasada steer.”

Over ham and eggs and strong black coffee in a white-tiled lunchroom near the El Paso plaza, Starbuck confided:

“Jim Considine has had enough close scrapes from death to turn most men’s hair white. Anywhere across the border he’s fair game. I don’t know what he’s up to now — but if Jim thinks he can do anything, you can be damned well sure he’ll probably come through. And he knows every in-and-out of the Juarez underworld.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Savage. “There’ll be time to buy a shirt, I guess. And I’ll stop by your office and get off a wire to New Orleans.”

Over the telephone in the Tri-State Agency office, Savage was dictating the telegram to Clancy, in New Orleans, when a messenger entered with a telegram.

“For you,” Starbuck said, bringing the envelope to the telephone.

A minute or so later Savage whistled softly as he read the wire. It had been sent from Hollywood the night before, to Clancy’s office in New Orleans, and forwarded from there.

“Good girl!” said Savage delightedly, and the next instant swift apprehension struck him hard.

Rita must have flown from New Orleans to Los Angeles to tackle the case from that end. And she’d done well. Too well!

A black sheep half-brother named Black! It must be John Black, alias Bob Hutton. Everything fitted in!

And if this Bob Hutton was Parker, the assistant gardener on Bellamy’s estate, then Hutton had been working close to Clark, the man who Anne Teasdale had said was young Goddard’s father.

You could get excited about that — the old man, Clark, working humbly there around the boat-house while his son was engaged to his wealthy employer’s daughter. And the black sheep half-brother of young Goddard working on the place also, under an assumed name.

That would make old man Clark merely the foster-father of the assistant gardener, Hutton. No kin, no blood ties, probably no affection.

The two men had been quarrelling in the boathouse just before Savage first saw them. The assistant gardener had displayed no emotion over Clark’s death. The facts suddenly suggested that the assistant gardener had had a hand in his foster-father’s death. Young Jack Goddard would know, wherever he was.

A swift stab of apprehension for Rita Carstairs struck Savage. Rita had flown in the night from Los Angeles to Albuquerque, New Mexico, some three hundred miles to the north.

And the two trailers had headed north! Bob Hutton must have gone that way!

Rita didn’t know all that. She wouldn’t be prepared. If she had luck in her quest, she was going to blunder into their hands. There wasn’t a chance to warn her now, to stop her. And they’d kill her, kill her sure!

Savage caught up the telephone again, snapped: “Long distance!” And when the long distance operator was connected, he said: “Calling Miss Rita Carstairs, at Albuquerque. She arrived in Albuquerque on the plane last night. She should be registered at one of the leading hotels.”

He had a wait of some minutes. They seemed endless; and then the answer was:

“Miss Carstairs registered at El Fidel Hotel last night. She left about thirty minutes ago, leaving word at the desk she would be gone all day.”

Savage hung up. Knifing apprehension coursed through him again. Something had to be done — and done immediately to save that girl.

“Let’s get over to Juarez quickly!” he snapped at Starbuck. “We’ve got to find Considine at once!”

Rita Carstairs innocently is rushing into danger and only Tony Savage, ace investigator, can save her. But he is in El Paso and she is hundreds of miles to the north, bound for an unknown destination. Can he save her? Can he clear up this vicious murder syndicate that has eluded him from Florida to Texas? The swift, smashing conclusion of this exciting serial appears in next week’s issue of DETECTIVE WEEKLY.