10 Short Novels Magazine — page 65: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Hell Tracks of the Dragon * * : : ping but it put him in tine with a back- bar mirror which reflected the speakers. He saw more than he expected. The man was tall and rangy. The heavi- ness of his swarthy, Indian features was relieved by a quartering of Latin blood. He was not much over thirty, and with his prominent nose and grim mouth he checked closely with the customs inspec- tor’s description of Ramon Guevara; but it was his companion who clinched it. Valencia was the girl from Yut Lee’s. She wore an acacia yellow sports ensem- ble, and entirely too many jewels, includ- ing a ruby pendant that blazed redly against her cream colored skin. But Flint, as he caught the reflection of those dark eyes and the heart stirring loveliness of her face and figure, noticed no clash in her costuming. It sufficed that this was the woman who had been conferring with the grizzled Chinaman who was the Sil- ver Dragon’s vicar in San Franciso. But which of the two was really the most important: Valencia, or Ramon Guevara? Murder and tins of opium linked them both to Kane. NOTHER half hour of bickering, and they emerged from the booth to step toward the side door. Flint headed for the main entrance and from the veranda watched them cross the side street that intersected the main stem - of San Cristobal. Their destination was one of the dobe shacks in the center of the block; and if the wrangling became heated, it would be worth listening to. Flint strode toward the barbed-wire International fence, then swung south to approach Valencia’s house from the rear. The quarrel directed Flint to a listen- ing post at an open window of the living room. It was illuminated by a kerosene lamp. Valencia’s colorful length was draped in a chair. Guevara turned to step into the adjoining room. He thrust aside Valencia’s detaining hand. Before she could follow, there was a wrathful growl and he came bounding back. . His powerful hand gripped a plush- lined cardboard box. “San Francisco!” he growled, thrust- ing it before her eyes. “I knew you were lying. This came from a jeweler in Yuma!” 7 Valencia ducked, but not quickly enough. Guevara’s free hand sent her sprawling, a tangle of silken legs and Ses acacia yellow skirt. And then the Medkach 2 dodged a flashing sliver of steel that Va- lencia plucked from a calf sheath. Flint cleared the sill. Knife work had already thrown too many obstacles in his way. “Basta!” he snapped. “Hold it!” Guevara whirled, but his hand dropped from his hip as Flint’s automatic jerked into line with his stomach. “Que hay?” growled the Mexican. “Back up to the wall, both of you!” commanded Flint. “Why did you kill Kane after you dumped that load of wood in his back yard?” “T did not kill him!” flared Gannwe: Valencia’s color perceptibly receded, but her eyes narrowed venomously. He was risking a parley selely on the chance that his surprise attack, coming on the heels of an interrupted quarrel, might re- sult in an unguarded admission. ‘“‘Why did you go into the basement?” demanded Flint. “T went to the office.” Guevara started at the F.B.I. man’s mention of the opium storage room. “Where he paid me for the wood.” : “And you knifed him.” “T did not. I will prove it. While he was taking the money from the desk, some wan call heem and he reach for the tele- phone—” “He did what?” Kane must have an unusually long arm. “Reach for the telephone,” repeated Guevara. Valencia stabbed him with a glance, but the Mexican continued: “He was expect’ some wan to see heem later. He write something on the desk blotter.” “What does that prove?” “That he was expect some wan later. Find out who it was! That weel prove he was alive w’en I leave. Verdad?” Valencia’s face had frozen. “Maybe it will,” admitted Flint. “But the both of you take a walk with me. One on each side. And act natural. First sign of trou- ble from the White Star and you both get the works.” With arms folded, his left concealing the pistol that his right hand thrust against one prisoner, Flint could march them past the Mexican sentries at the International Line. “All right, Valencia! On my lefi. Guevara, better be nice or you’ll need a new girl friend. This is ladies’ night.” The grimness of Flint’s face warned COMMCc OOS. (E@)