10 Short Novels Magazine — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

Then a shriek. A low, tigerish feminine cry—vibrant with wrath. Some woman was helping Alvarez. But — another stab wouldn’t hurt. Let her help— He felt Alvarez’ sagging muscles perk taut and become iron. Flint lost his grip. Then he heard a strangled, gurgling cry. As he struggled to regain his hold, the doctor slumped to the floor, still clutching a knife. What followed was a hazy confusion seen through streaming eyes. Flint crawled toward the droning radio. A woman was weeping with rage and grief. And as Flint gulped in clean air, he saw her lying in a huddled heap on the divan near the radio. A dripping stiletto was clenched in her red hand. Valencia. Flint slowly began to understand why she had not stabbed him. It wasn’t a mis- take, knifing the doctor. “Yes. I came to help him, that dirty —” The next few words choked her. “Then I heard that police call. Miguel was one of Alvarez’ crowd. Got me out of jail and brought me here. So I knew that Alvarez had tricked Ramon back across the line to give him the works.” “Afraid that Ramon Guevara might be tripped up and spill some beans?” “Maybe,” said Valencia. “But mainly jealously. That rat over there probably told him how Ramon and I stood. I didn’t care for Alvarez. “And I don’t care what you do with me. Ramon’s dead.” “How'd he fit into things?” _ “He smuggled the stuff across the line to Kane’s place, concealed in loads of vegetables and firewood.” The arrangement was characteristic. Guevara, Kane and Robles ran the risks of actual handling. Alvarez supervised by remote control. And Valencia, when not in Mexico, maintained contact with Yut Lee in San Francisco. Then Flint remembered the blank-faced Chinaman, He turned back to the office, flung open a window, and as the lingering fumes thinned, he knelt beside the Asiatic hoodoa, A moment’s intent scrutiny ex- plained the facial immobility—a snugly fitting, life-like rubber mask. He jerked it clear, exposing the face of lean, grizzled Yut Lee — the Silver Dragon, who had come to Yuma to take charge. “Who killed Kane?” Flint demanded. She gestured toward Alvarez. “He’s got forty tins of Silver Dragon. He never kept the stuff in his house before. Figure it out yourself.” And that did not take long. Flint re- membered the two bowls of chili and began to see their possibilities. He stepped to the telephone and called McDonald. “T’ve got it, Mac.” Then, after cover- ing his discovery of the private wire, he continued, “Alvarez killed Kane™ after Valencia arrived from ’Frisco.... I don’t give a damn about the autopsy. Sup- pose Alvarez dropped in to see Kane about two a.m. to talk shop and have some coffee and a plate of home-made chili. Then knifed Kane. “The autopsy would show he died shortly after eating. And with every- one taking it for granted Kane always ate around six, the alibi was holeproof. “Why kill Kane? Nobody could be sure Robles died in ’Frisco before he had a chance to mutter while coming out of the ether. Knifing Kane and leaving ten cans of hop for us to find would make us think we had cleaned up the mob. And it would have worked if Guevara hadn’t tried to prove he didn’t kill Kane.” And then McDonald wondered why Yut Lee had not used his first chance to dis- pose of Flint. “Simple, Mac. Bum play, blotting me out before he had a chance to find out just how much the D.J. really did know. Having Alvarez drop in was like get- ting a ringside seat.” He listened a moment, and as McDon- ald’s voice burred over the wire, Flint eyed Valencia. Finally he answered: “The girl got away during the riot. We’ve got nothing on her. She was never caught smuggling hop. Anyway, the Silver Dragon is cold meat,”