Free The Long Ride by James McKimmey

staying?”
    “The Plateau.”
    “Well, listen. Couldn’t you drop over this evening, Mr. Benson? How about dinner? We could—”
    “Thanks very much, Mr. Harnet. I’m afraid not.”
    “Well, anyway, I’m glad to hear Don’s fine and that he’s coming along this fall. Going to Los Angeles, Mr. Benson?”
    “San Francisco. Don tells me you’re in the florist business. How’s business?”
    “Excellent, Mr. Benson.”
    “I’m glad to hear it. Some day I’d like to try my luck at Jackson Hole myself.”
    “I hope you will, Mr. Benson.”
    “Good-by, Mr. Harnet.”
    “Thanks for calling, Mr. Benson.”
    He hung up and looked out the window, noting that Harry Wells was still standing at the curb, motionless, watching the occasional cars passing. The neighborhood was quiet. A small park was across the street, with a fountain in the center and green benches along the diagonal walks. Beyond that were old but neat frame houses.
    What, John thought, am I doing here? And why isn’t Maggie here with me?
    He shook his head, forcing himself back to reality. Maggie’s dead, he thought; whip yourself with that fact until you bleed enough to know it, once and for all. Strange city, strange people all around, everything you’ve gotten used to, grown to love, either smashed or somewhere else. You’ve got to start over. There’s no other way.
    He thought of telephoning the boys in Chicago. But he gave the thought up quickly. One thing he was sure of: Garwith had faked his attack. And that meant that he’d wanted to stop in Cheyenne for a definite reason. Whether or not this hotel, the Plateau, had anything to do with it was the problem. If it did, then he could not allow himself to telephone his sons in Chicago, because they might just very well innocently give something away, something that could be picked up on the switchboard. And for the same reason he had not done so with the call to Harnet a few moments ago, he did not want to go to a public booth—with a telephone in his room, it might look suspicious. And he could not afford to alert either Garwith or Harry Wells. Or, in fact, Margaret Moore, if she were possibly mixed up in this some way.
    There was a tap at his door. He opened it. Margaret Moore stood smiling at him.
    “Well,” he said. “Hello.”
    She nodded. “Nice room, John?”
    “Very nice, Margaret. Come in?” He looked down the hall and saw the elevator doors open. A small man in a white linen suit and brilliant blue tie stepped out, and moved with a quick, nervous stride down the hall.
    Margaret Moore followed the direction of his eyes. “I didn’t stop to invite myself in, John. I simply wanted to induce you to invite me downstairs for a cup of coffee. That could lead to dinner. I’m not particularly backward, if you haven’t guessed.”
    He smiled. “I’ve always hated backward people. Sure. I’d like to.”
    The man in the white suit and brilliant blue tie arrived. He had wispy gray hair and a look of disbelieving hurt in his eyes. “Mr. Benson,” he announced, “I’m Mr. Brander, the manager of the Plateau, and I find this very distressing.”
    John looked at Mrs. Moore. “I’m having a little trouble with the plumbing.”
    “Really,” Mrs. Moore said.
    “What,” Mr. Brander said, “could possibly be wrong with the plumbing? We simply don’t hire out our rooms in a state of disrepair. We—”
    “I’ll show you in a moment,” John said to him. Then to Mrs. Moore: “Could you wait a moment in your room for me, Margaret? I’ll pick you up just as soon as we get this straightened out.”
    “This truly dismays me,” Mr. Brander said. “I don’t know when one of our customers has insisted that I, as manager of this hotel, come up to check faulty plumbing. We’ve just never had any plumbing problems at the Plateau.”
    “All right,” Mrs. Moore said, nodding, looking at Mr. Brander curiously. “Fine, John.” She crossed the hall. John shut the door gently as Mr.