THE ROAD was bumpy even in her convertible Mercury. John Henry conned the girl’s profile against the speeding desert. Almost classic, if you liked a nose that regally turned up a little. Then he reached the conclusion that her chin curved toward the delicate throat too soon. It didn’t balance the forehead which arced up to her ebony braids. Faye ruined his analysis with a boudoir smile.
“We’re almost there now, Johnny.”
“Good. Where?” She lowered her lashes enigmatically. John Henry couldn’t get an answer for that particular question. Back at the pool, Faye had suddenly told him he would be interested in seeing a fascinating place — a secret place. Curious, but inwardly hesitant, he had allowed himself to be carried away from the Las Dunas, through Azure and out across the rolling plains to the south. A mile or so back, Faye had wheeled the Mercury off on a dirt road, still holding to a speed that made the conservative John Henry shudder.
The sun was midway to the meridian. Already the day promised to be hot. Heat waves were beginning to shimmer up from the mesquite and sagebrush-matted hillocks, dotted with yucca and an occasional tamarack tree. The road, though twisting and turning, hugged the Santa Rosa foothills.
Faye had changed her bathing suit for a play dress, pink with a faint horizontal white stripe, full skirt, low-backed and with a bare midriff. The exposed stomach bothered John Henry some; it always did in a street length dress.
What bothered him more was the card. He could see the white edge of its stiff cardboard protruding from the skirt pocket on her left thigh. Why did she carry it in everything she wore? But he wasn’t going to try for it again — not right away. It was all John Henry could do to stay on his own side of the car, the gay way she took the hairpin curves.
“Why don’t you slow down a little,” he suggested tentatively.
“Don’t you like going fast?”
“What’s the big hurry?”
“What’s life? What’s death?” Faye asked rhetorically, her eyes immense. “They answer themselves — what? The hurry is a matter of life and death. You have to keep ahead of time for excitement. Don’t you ever read books?”
“I guess I haven’t been getting enough out of them.”
The Mercury leaped ahead faster than ever and Faye laughed exultingly. John Henry hunched down in the red-leather seat. Sin had been right. He should have taken her advice. It would be tough on her when she heard.
J. H. CONOVER DIES IN DESERT CRACK-UP
He hoped they’d have sense enough to break it to Sin gently.
“There it is,” Faye announced happily and John Henry realized he had his eyes shut. He opened them now.
The Mercury had topped a slight rise in the desert and was rolling headlong down the incline on the other side toward a barbed-wire fence which vaulted the road in the form of a log archway. The swinging sign spelled out Bar C Ranch in twigs. Beyond the fence, man’s dissatisfied hand showed. The mesquite, sagebrush and greasewood had been banished. In their place sprouted feathery green tamarisk trees, rows of pink and white oleanders and, of course, the omnipresent palms. An attempt to maintain grass had met with only mixed success.
A hundred yards back from the archway rested the bulk of the large house. It was low and rambling, devoted more to length and breadth than to height. Wings sprang forth haphazardly to the right and the left. Much of the frontage was taken up by a long porch, shaded by a continuation of the shingled, slightly sloping roof. The ranch house was evidently constructed of adobe, plastered with a beige stucco. It had been deliberately aged in spots by allowing the adobe bricks to peep through. The pseudo-western air had been carried through with heavy beams which supported the roof and with wooden shutters on the windows. But behind these shutters, John Henry could see shiny metal Venetian blinds.
“Isn’t it darling!” Faye breathed as she forced the Mercury to a jarring stop. “Oh, I guess I’m supposed to park over there.” The car lunged again, pursuing the circular gravel driveway to a small parking lot. The lot was already occupied by a silent herd of automobiles.
When they made their last vibrating halt, John Henry clamped a decisive hand on the girl’s wrist. “Now, before we go any farther — ”
“Now you’re talking!” purred Faye. She got up on her hands and knees on the seat cushions and thrust out her face toward him.
John Henry sank behind a determined shoulder and said, “None of that. Just what is this place and what are we doing here? What’s so secret about a dude ranch?”
“You’re so pent-up,” she sighed and reached across him to open his door. Then she crawled over his lap and slid to the ground. “It’s no dude ranch,” she added.
Dubiously, Conover followed her. Faye Jordan had the mysterious card palmed in one hand now.
Within the semicircle of the driveway, a lavish flower bed had been established and rust-gold poppies spelled out the name of the ranch in capital letters. As they crunched through the gravel to the big front door, John Henry noticed that bridles and branding irons hung from the huge supporting timbers of the porch. A weathered broken wagon wheel leaned theatrically against the low cement and tile porch. Off to one side a hitching rail now tethered, not horses, but a gleaming chrome-plated racing bicycle. Faye banged at the door with the heavy brass knocker.
“Are they expecting you?” Conover asked.
“That’s no fun.” The latch rattled and the door swung open smoothly, revealing dim cool reaches beyond. A battered face peered at them from the gloom. Crushed lips grated, “Won’t you come in?”
Faye stepped blithely forward and John Henry followed. He squinted in the reception hall, his eyes accustoming themselves to the murkiness. The man who had opened the door teetered on squeaky patent leather shoes. He was dressed in a black double-breasted suit with a black bow tie. There was a lot of him. John Henry’s reaction was: what a well-groomed ape.
“Are we late?” Faye asked him, admiring his barrel chest.
The man bowed his square head and said, “Never.” John Henry realized he was either butler, bouncer or guard. Possibly all three. “Your card, madame?”
Faye flipped her fingers and the husky man caught the card deftly. John Henry had his chance to see it — and he was disappointed. The drop of his stomach let him know his self-appointed investigation had been based on pretty flimsy grounds.
For the card bore no queen symbol. Whorls and lines of patterned engraving followed the edge like those on a bond or a bank note. In the center was simply a straight black line followed by a large C.
“Certainly,” the butler said rustily. “You will forgive these precautions — ” his pin-point eyes cased the pair “ — but they have been found to be necessary. My name is Sidney, madame.”
“I’m Miss Jordan, Sidney. And this is Mr. Conover.”
Sidney bowed again and waved them farther into the dimness. He walked silently behind them down the long hall. It got darker and darker.
“Can you see?” Faye whispered excitedly.
“Of course not.”
“I can,” she boasted.
Along the gloomy hall on each side were irregularly spaced recesses with impressive round-topped doors. Only one of them was open and Sidney pulled it to swiftly as he passed it. But John Henry had gotten a peek inside. It seemed merely a sumptuous living room with low-slung furniture and a carpet as thick as the one they trod. The room was empty.
“If you please,” said Sidney. Conover stopped short and the butler stepped ahead of him. It was the end of the lengthy corridor and there was nothing there but a heavy drape.
Sidney pulled the material aside and beneath it was another of the large curved doorways. John Henry rubbed his ear. The music had sneaked up on him. Beyond the door that Sidney was opening, a band was playing furiously, brassily.
The butler brushed by him again and John Henry had the impression that quick hands had patted over his coat. Faye squealed.
The stark fluorescent light that poured down from the ceiling of the room beyond blinded him at first. Faye’s impetus sent him through the doorway and John Henry blinked around.
After the lonely gloomy entry the place was a shock. It was a big square room, low-ceilinged and almost completely functional. Occasional sporting prints on the beige stucco had been the only compromise with decoration. The complete absence of windows made the walls seem blind and faceless.
“Uh-huh,” grunted John Henry as he began to catch on. Near the door through which they had entered stood a bank of slot machines — stubby iron pillars from whose heads dials of lithographed fruit pictures peered. Opposite them were a series of chuck-a-luck tables with hour-glass cages of dice. Packed close down the center of the casino were faro and poker tables and at the far end was the long green board and dark disk of the roulette wheel.
“Isn’t this fun?” Faye bubbled at his side. “Give me some money.”
Automatically, John Henry dug a quarter out of his pocket. Though it was barely eleven o’clock, the wheel was in full spin. Men and women of all ages bordered the board. The card tables gripped another quota of gamblers, amateur and professional. Counterpointing the rhythm of the incandescent red juke box, an interminable hum of comment filled the room, punctuated by nervous laughs, the twittering of women and the monotonous drone of the croupiers.
The haze of cigarette smoke was being attacked by ceiling ventilators that sucked at it hungrily. Through the faint bright mist roved the excitement hunters, the wealthy visitors to Azure, dressed in the typical Azure garb of loafer suits, slacks and play dresses. The clothes seemed crassly out of place in a setting where tradition called for evening dress.
John Henry caught up with Faye. She was angrily shaking a slot machine a few paces away. As he looked around apprehensively for interference from the management, there sounded a violent click. Silver jangled.
“I won, Johnny!” Faye scooped a double handful of coins from the machine’s torso. “Here’s your quarter back. Yea, team!”
“Thanks,” said John Henry wryly, wishing she’d lower her voice. “Now tell me, what’s the big idea dragging me out here?”
“Aren’t you having fun? I’m having fun!” Faye tried to find more pockets on her dress as storage places for her quarters.
“I mean, how did you know about this? Where’d you get that ticket that got us in?”
“Connections,” she said and winked. “Only exclusive people like us get a magic card.” Faye was skittish with excitement as she scanned the hall for new fields to conquer. “I met a cute fellow and talked him out of his.”
She found her goal. “What we need is a drink,” Faye announced confidently. She grabbed his hand and tugged him along an aisle between tables toward the polished wood and burnished metal of the bar across the casino. John Henry protested against what he knew was a bad idea.
“It’s too early.”
“Better early than never. What if we were struck by lightning?”
John Henry dismissed that conjecture and went along. He began rehearsing an explanation for Sin.
The bar was quasi-separated from the square gambling room by an archway which cut off some of the juke-box loudness. Its only lights were the pink neon facings on the big mirror. A solitary man hunched on one of the leather-topped bar stools. The mess-jacketed bartender was polishing glasses and softly whistling the opening strains of the Orpheus in Hades Overture.
Faye banged a small fist on the bar. The whistling choked off and the bartender blinked. “Yes, madame?”
“I’m buying. What’ll you have, pardner?”
“I don’t know. You order,” said John Henry, avoiding the bartender’s accusing glance. He hoped for something light and delicate.
“Two rye. Straight,” said Faye.
Conover looked among the flushed faces of the milling gamblers in the main room. “What gets me,” he mused, “is how they do all this. It’s against the law, you know.”
“But it’s thrilling!” Faye chortled and snuggled up close, shivering.
John Henry edged away. “I’m surprised the police haven’t cracked down. Don’t tell me they don’t know this place exists.” He grunted exasperatedly and spun around to the drinks on the bar. “Just what I’ve thought since last night — they’re a bunch of crooked cops.”
He looked in the bar mirror at the eyes of Lieutenant Lay.
“Morning, Mr. Conover,” said the lanky police officer sardonically. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” He sat beside John Henry, one stool removed. Close enough, Conover realized sickeningly, to have heard every syllable.
“Morning,” he replied shamefully and seized the rye. Faye had already downed hers and was regarding Lay with interest.
She asked, “What’s your racket, stranger?”
“This is Lieutenant Lay of the Azure police, Faye,” said John Henry, digging an elbow in her ribs.
She giggled. “I like policemen. I never get a ticket.” Faye whispered confidentially and loudly to Conover, “He’s cute.”
“Well,” said John Henry nervously, “good to have seen you again, Lieutenant. Now, if you’ll excuse us — ”
“Don’t run off,” said Lay evenly and his tone made John Henry sink back onto the bar stool again. “I haven’t seen you playing out there, Mr. Conover. What could you be doing here? Here, of all places.”
“Go ahead, Johnny,” Faye urged. “Tell him.”
“It’s very simple,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“See!” Triumphantly, she downed the second shot glass of rye which the barkeep had quickly refilled. After a moment’s consideration, she also drank Conover’s fresh jiggerful.
“You wouldn’t be figuring on following up Anglin’s killing, would you?” asked Lay. He toyed with the tall glass of beer that glinted before him on the bar. The pink neon made his impassive face even more red.
John Henry’s pulse raced. “Why? Do you think this is the place for it?”
“I didn’t say that. I was just surprised to see you without your wife.”
“Oh, she’s back at the hotel.”
“Convenient,” said Lay and took a sip of beer. Speculatively, he eyed Faye Jordan, who was ogling the man behind the bar. “Most wives aren’t that understanding.”
The policeman interpreted Conover’s quick frown of worry and chuckled. The bartender refilled the two small glasses again, But when John Henry reached for his it was already empty.
Faye winked elaborately at his surprised expression and spoke from behind her hand. “Better keep an eye on that bartender.” She had a lot of trouble with “bartender.”
John Henry sighed at the prospect of a drunken female on his hands in addition to everything else. Lay lifted his tall glass and said, “You better have one of these, Conover. They don’t disappear so fast.” He told the man behind the bar, “Draw a pale one, Herb.”
Faye drew herself up and faced the police officer. “Lieutenant, do you have a warrant for my arrest?” She lost her balance. Her piercing shriek brought heads around in the gambling hall as she toppled to the floor in a jumble of bar stools. Her pocketful of quarters jangled like another jackpot as they spewed across the small room. The crowd clustered around the roulette table went back to their game.
“Did you hurt yourself, Faye?” Henry asked, untangling the girl from the chrome-legged stools and helping her to her feet.
She was cooing happily to herself. “Play time,” she gurgled. “Push me again, Johnny.”
“I didn’t push you — ”
“Johnny! Where’s-my money? Where’s my money?” Both Faye’s hands scrambled in her dress pocket. “You stole it! I want a policeman!”
“For crying out loud, shut up!” said John Henry. “Your money’s on the floor.” He got down on his hands and knees and began scooping it up. When he rose, red-faced, Faye was spinning contentedly on a stool, touching up her lipstick whenever she faced the mirror.
Lay’s horsy grin was amused and mocking. He thrust out a long arm and handed a tall amber glass to the disgruntled young man. “Here. This’ll get you on your feet.”
Faye stopped shoveling quarters into her pocket. “I want to get on Johnny’s feet, too,” she announced and seized the glass for a long sip. “It tastes awful,” she declared and gave the beer to John Henry.
Lay gazed through the archway at the midday turbulence in the other room. “Yeah,” he said, as if continuing a conversation, “it’s illegal, all right, Conover. But in a hopped-up town like this there’s some things a cop has to keep his eyes closed about. It’s not as if it was my department.”
“Well, I don’t know,” John Henry doubted. “If people have passed a law — ”
“I know how you feel.” Lay consulted the circles of foam that swirled in his glass. “Compromises all the time. But if I got as rough as I’d like to around this burg, I’d be looking for a new badge. So I just do what I can.” He looked at John Henry and smiled sardonically. “Here’s to crime.” He raised his beer.
John Henry put his own glass down empty and remembered Faye. The black-haired girl was in the front row at the roulette table arguing with the polite croupier. “I better go see what’s happened to the problem child,” Conover said. Lay toasted him silently with dregs.
“What’s the trouble now, Faye?” he asked, elbowing up behind her.
“Johnny!” she squealed with delight. “I’m so glad you could come!”
“You brought me, remember?”
“This madman,” explained Faye, gesticulating at the croupier who had halted his roulette wheel. “He won’t let me play!”
John Henry raised his eyebrows questioningly. The croupier, a small dark man with a traditional thin mustache, put up slim and deprecating hands. “I have explained,” he said plaintively, “But madame will not listen. A house rule — she must use chips. Not quarter dollars.”
“Exactly,” crowed Faye. “Sock him in the nose, Johnny.”
The eyes of the crowd turned appraisingly on her selected champion. John Henry felt the blood coloring the back of his neck. He fastened determined fingers on Faye’s soft shoulder. “Come on!” he gritted and propelled her away from the table toward the door at the far end of the casino.
Faye was giggling happily. “He’s so strong,” she said to the people they passed. “You have no idea!”
No one was playing the slot machines. John Henry halted there and spun the girl sharply around to face him. Her eyes got enormous and she weaved back and forth, hinged only at the ankles. “Now snap out of it, Faye,” John Henry grated. He shook her gently. “I want a straight answer.”
Faye straightened. She tried to salute but John Henry kept his grip on her arms. “You had a reason for bringing me out here. What was it?” he insisted.
“Wanted company,” she crooned. “Faye’s all alone.”
“There’s more than that.”
Her eyes rolled from side to side as if she were watching a tennis match. Then her sleek braided head nodded slowly. “Gotta have words. Got something I wanna tell you,” she whispered.
“What is it?”
Faye Jordan looked around cautiously. “Too many people. Everybody’s listening.”
“Okay. We’ll go back to the car.” Still holding Faye’s left arm firmly, he opened the heavy door next to the slot machines and pushed her out into the dimness of the entrance hall. The closing door sliced off the light and the excited moan of conversation with one swift stroke. The mad pace of the juke box sifted through, but softly.
John Henry put the concealing drape back in place. Faye had prowled away down the long corridor, opening doors and peering inside curiously. He caught up with her and said loudly, “Now what — ”
She put a white forefinger across her lips. John Henry grimaced. The sudden change from glare to gloom made his head feel funny.
Faye opened the door to what appeared a combination library and den. Like the living room he had glimpsed on the way in, it was devoid of life.
“In here,” she whispered.
He followed her in. The room was stuffy. John Henry went across to the open window that broke the wall of books. No air at all seemed to enter the library.
Faye had closed the door and was peeking back into the hall through the keyhole.
“What are you looking for?” he asked. The carpet tilted a little while he focused on her. He reached for the desk to steady himself and it moved away. Faye got up and walked toward him.
John Henry squinted. She was walking up hill and she got farther away. Then there were two of her, a dozen, a whole roomful.
He couldn’t count Faye Jordan any more because all of her were performing a weird dance that glided around him, faster and faster. The last thing he heard was the chorus of Faye, giggling.