No Quarter

CHAPTER III. THE BAIT.

To the casual observer, the big house was typical of the Spanish type residences occupied by the more wealthy class of Los Angeles citizens.

But Jax Bowman and his partner were not casual observers. They unhesitatingly entered into situations where dangers menaced them and where their lives would be forfeited to a single mistake. They noticed, therefore, those little things that would have been undetected by the average observer. There was no telephone connection. The iron wheels on the garage door were badly rusted. The rail on which the wheels moved was sufficiently encrusted with rust to show that the door had been closed for months. A grocery truck arriving, brought not those supplies which a housewife would order from day to day, but a complete assortment of the things required when setting up housekeeping—flour, sugar, salt, spices, dish mops, and bars of soap.

Jax Bowman, lounging on a window-seat, looked down from the window to the boxes which were being relayed on the shoulder of the delivery boy, and his alert eyes checked the various articles, which confirmed his impression that the house had been but recently leased as a furnished house.

But he said nothing.

Sam Brokay, perfect in the role of affable, hospitable host, kept up a running fire of conversation. His daughter, Evelyn, added her own comments from time to time, comments which invariably emphasized the intimacy which had existed between Bowman and herself during the cruise to the Orient.

It was evening before Bowman had a chance for a word with Big Jim Grood.

"A place," he said, "that they've rented furnished."

"Moved in some time to-day," Grood said. "They were turning on the electricity this afternoon, it wasn't on before four o'clock."

"But," asked Bowman, "is this going to help us find Rita Coleman?"

Grood shrugged his massive shoulders.

"I think it is," he said, "but in any event, we're going to go through with it. These are ruthless criminals who have escaped the police."

"Surely," Bowman insisted, "the girl can't be mixed up in all this mess of murder?"

"You mean Evelyn Brokay?" asked the ex-cop.

"Yes."

"I don't think she is," Big Jim Grood said slowly. "She knows that it isn't on the up and up. She probably figures that there's a swindle in connection with it. She's willing to go that far. I doubt very much if she'd go any farther. They use her to trap their victims; when they've done that, she's sent away on some pretext or another."

"And yet you think she's in touch with Rita Coleman?"

"Probably."

"Then when she is suddenly called away that will be the signal?"

Grood nodded.

There was a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" called Jax Bowman.

"Evelyn," said a feminine voice.

Big Jim Grood flung wide the door.

Evelyn Brokay's eyes met theirs with steady candor.

"I'm awfully sorry," she said, "but I've just received a telegram. A girl who went to college with me is dangerously ill. She's been hurt in an automobile accident in San Francisco. She's calling for me, and I must go at once. It's not serious; but she's upset. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am, but you won't leave until I get back, will you?"

She turned the full force of her eyes on Jax Bowman.

"Why—er—that is—" Bowman stammered, "I hardly know what to say. I am here because of my acquaintanceship with you, and..."

"Oh, bosh and nonsense!" she said. "Don't be like that. We can make your visit happy and entertaining. Father is very anxious that you should stay. Much as I want to ease the mind of my sick friend, I simply can't go unless you promise to stay on with father until I get back."

Jax Bowman gave his companion a purposeful glance.

"Under those circumstances," he said, "it would seem that there's no alternative but to be selfish and do the thing that I so much want to do."

She smiled her thanks.

"I'm taking a plane in an hour," she said, and gave him her hand.

When the farewells had been said, and Grood and Jax Bowman had an opportunity to compare notes, Bowman raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry.

"It's got me," Jim Grood said. "You'd certainly think she'd have sense enough to connect what happens."

"I have a hunch," Bowman remarked slowly, "that they're going to try out some kind of a confidence game. If they can get our money that way, all right, if they can't, they'll try violence."

"The man's a killer," Grood remarked. "And don't ever forget that a criminal seldom changes his method of operation."

Sam Brokay seemed in particularly high spirits.

"Wonderful day," he said. "Beautiful morning."

Bowman inspected the sun-gilded tops of the palm fronds and nodded acquiescence.

Brokay lowered his voice.

"Look here," he said, "it's none of my business, but I happened to notice that you made some rather heavy winnings there at Agua Caliente."

Bowman nodded.

"I came out pretty well," he said casually. "Oh, perhaps eight or ten thousand to the good."

"It happens," said Brokay, "that I've got a very peculiar business deal put up to me by a man in whom I have the greatest confidence. There's an opportunity for a person to invest a little capital and make a large amount of money, but it's not, strictly speaking, within the law. That is, it's not illegal, but it's a question of taking advantage of another man's ignorance. I'm frank to confess that I don't know just what to do about it."

"What is it?" Bowman inquired.

"Back in the mountainous country which borders the desert," Brokay went on, "there are some mines that are operated by individuals who go into the country and stay there for months.

"Back of Whitewater, in the desert, there's a particularly lone stretch of mountainous country known as the 'Lost Horse' territory. It's very wild, desert, mountain country. There's a prospector who's been in there for over a year and who's suddenly made a strike. He's got, perhaps, thirty thousand dollars worth of gold at the old prices. At the new prices it's worth a great deal more than that."

Bowman let his face show guarded interest.

"Go on," he said.

"This man wants to sell out his mine and the gold he's gathered. My friend, who was doing some desert explorations for the purpose of finding ancient Indian relics, happened to stumble onto him. The man thinks gold is worth the old price that it has been standardized at for so many years."

Bowman frowned thoughtfully.

"You're going to buy him out?" he asked.

Brokay's laugh was contagious.

"I'm free to confess," he said, "that I am tempted. It happens that I need to make a little easy money."

"If," Bowman said eagerly, "my friend and I could get in on the deal, we'd certainly like to ride along. We could handle up to any amount you wanted to let us in on."

"Twenty thousand?" asked Brokay.

"I think so," Bowman said, "in fact, I feel quite certain we could swing that."

"It would, of course," Brokay remarked, "have to be in cash."

"That," said Bowman, "is easy. Neither my friend nor myself put any particular trust in banking institutions."

"Well," Brokay said, "we might take a look at it. I've got a fast car that can get us up there in no time at all, and it would be a pleasant trip and it would show you some of our Southern California desert country, if nothing else."

Bowman's acquiescence was eager.

"The trip," he said, "in itself, will be wonderful. Let's go."