Free The Long Ride by James McKimmey Page B

it. Just anything unusual at all?”
    “That’s right, Mr. Brander. Anything at all unusual between now and the time we leave, which will be tomorrow morning.”
    Mr. Brander stood up, looking determined. “You can count on me, sir.”
    “I’m sure I can, and I thank you very much. You’ve been very kind and co-operative.”
    “Yes, sir,” Mr. Brander said, moving to the door. He stopped, looking quite serious. “I, of course, don’t know what you’re going after, Mr. Benson. I suppose it’s murdering, thieving, dope, something like that. But I’ll tell you I’m relieved to find out there isn’t anything wrong with the Hotel Plateau’s plumbing.”
    “I’m sure,” John said, “that the Plateau’s plumbing is undoubtedly in superb condition, Mr. Brander.”
    “I feel I can breathe again,” Mr. Brander said, and disappeared.
    John stepped to the window and looked out as the last light of the day escaped a dimming Cheyenne. Harry Wells was still standing below, unmoving, a cigarette between his lips, the faint breeze picking up the smoke and curling it away from him. John looked across the street at the park. A blue Chevrolet came to a stop on the opposite side of the block. A man in a light gray suit and matching straw hat got out, a newspaper under his arm, and strolled into the park. He stopped and sat down on a bench and opened the newspaper.
    All right, John thought. That’s taken care of.
    He washed his hands, brushed his hair, then stepped out into the hall and walked to Margaret Moore’s door. He’d done all he could do for the moment. Until tomorrow morning it would be up to either Allan Garwith or Harry Wells, or both, to do something. Until then all he had to do was wait, keep calm, and be ready to act if he had to. Right now he could afford to concentrate on Margaret Moore. And that, he thought, knocking lightly on the door of her room, remembering the look in her eyes when she’d come straightforwardly to his room, was not going to be difficult.

 
    CHAPTER
8
     
    Harry Wells finished his cigarette, standing beside the street running in front of the hotel. The breeze was definitely cooling now. Wells was grateful for that. When he was tense, he sweated. And that took the creases out of things, clammed up his clothing. He liked things crisp and fresh and well-pressed. Well, he thought, when he got his hands on that money, he was going to pick some place in this world where it was cool all of the time.
    He turned, looking up at the fourth floor. He would like to kick Garwith’s door down and walk in and throttle him just like he had that kid in the motel back in Loma City. But he couldn’t do it. He had to wait until Garwith made a slip. He lifted a hand and rubbed a cheek angrily. He was getting tired. He hadn’t really slept since this thing started. And now he certainly couldn’t relax. What was he going to do next?
    There was a small dull ache in the back of his head. That always happened when he was perplexed and couldn’t immediately figure out what to do.
    He had to keep track of that guy, every minute. He was certain Garwith didn’t slightly suspect who he was.
    But Garwith just might pick up and leave, any time. He couldn’t afford to lose him.
    But what to do? The small ache in his head was annoying, as he tried to sort out the possibilities. He couldn’t stand here all night.
    He turned around, looking up the broad steps at the hotel. He frowned a little, then got his wallet from his hip pocket and removed a ten-dollar bill.
    He walked into the lobby, the bill folded in his left hand. He stopped at the desk, trying to make his brain work, so that he could do this right.
    The man behind the desk was a different clerk than the one who had registered them. He was tall, massive-shouldered, with a weak, stolid face. He stood in stoop-shouldered dignity, looking as though he had handled this job long enough that he no longer had to apologize for anything in this world.
    “You