Nothing happened on the road to Juarez. I pulled up behind the police car in front of the Juarez station, and my shadow and I got out behind Laura and her escort.
The first person I saw inside the police station was Jerry Burke. He was lounging against the railing talking to the officer in charge, and he blinked his eyes and stared when Laura and I were led in.
Then he began laughing.
That gave me the idea he had engineered the entire arrest and it made me sore as hell. I didn’t laugh. I said:
“Maybe it’s funny to you, but my sense of humor is out of joint.”
He quit laughing and did some rapid explaining to the officer in charge of the desk. The Mexican knew Burke, and very politely turned us over to him with the explanation that he knew nothing about the matter except a telephone from the Hacienda del Torro to send men to arrest a couple of people who were impersonating Mr. and Mrs. Leslie Young of El Paso. While the cops were waiting for us to be brought in it seemed that Burke had just happened to turn up at the police station in the nick of time to identify us.
While Burke was shaking hands and matching the Mexican’s politeness, I moved over beside Laura and said:
“You’d better come along with us and answer some questions that Jerry will want to ask you.”
She looked through me. “So you’re a stooge for the cops?”
Burke was coming across the room toward us. I turned to him and said:
“Let me present Miss Laura Yates. She messed things up for me at the hacienda and she’s admittedly been friendly with Young and if she kissed a man the stain would stay on his mouth a long time.”
He glanced at my mouth and grinned. “Is that what you were proving when you accumulated that war paint?”
I got out my handkerchief and rubbed my lips. The shock of being arrested had caused me to forget that moment in the barred room just before the police came.
Burke didn’t rub it in. He went on casually: “I drove over in my car. Suppose we all go out to your place to talk this thing over, Asa.”
“You’d better bring Miss Yates in your car,” I told him stiffly.
Jerry Burke turned on her with that slow grin of his that spreads all over his square face. Her white evening gown looked incongruous as hell in that drab setting but she was just as self-possessed as ever.
I went out and got in my car, drove over the Sante Fe Bridge and out to the bungalow where Nip and Tuck pretended they were totally disinterested in my return, but gave away the show because they couldn’t control their tails.
I let them out for a run in the yard, went into the bathroom where the mirror showed a faint crimson stain still on my mouth. I went to work with a soapy cloth and had it cleaned off by the time Burke pulled up in front.
He and Laura were in the front room when I came out. They’d let the pups in, and Laura was squatting down with her full skirt spread out on the floor, making up to Tuck.
It was disgusting to see the way he squirmed and fawned on her when she petted him. Nip, though, came to me when I sat at a table and poured myself a drink. I’ve always thought she had more discernment and dignity than her frowsy mate.
Burke sat in the chair opposite me and told me to spill it. Laura played with the pup, pretending not to listen while I told Burke everything that had happened from the time I picked her up in the rain until we were brought into the Juarez police station, omitting only an explanation of the lipstick on my mouth, and, for Laura’s benefit, not mentioning seeing him across the line.
When I finished, Burke got up and paced the floor slowly for a couple of minutes. He didn’t seem to be disturbed... only curious. His eyes went to Laura several times, but she paid not the slightest attention to him.
He came back to his chair and sat down, got his pipe going. Laura was sitting on the rug and Tuck’s head was in her lap, his eyes contentedly closed.
Jerry Burke turned his chair to face her and said: “Now, Miss Yates.”
“Your stooge has told you my part of it.” Her gaze met his frankly.
I poured myself another drink and kept quiet.
Burke frowned and asked: “How well did you know Leslie Young?”
“Quite well.”
“Enough so his wife was jealous of your intimacy?”
“I don’t like your use of the word ‘intimacy’. Les and I were rather friendly.”
“Friendly enough for Mrs. Young to object?”
Laura laughed coldly. “That doesn’t mean anything. Myra Young was jealous of Leslie’s shadow.”
“When did you last see him?”
“This afternoon.” Laura’s gaze was steadily on Burke’s face.
“Where?”
“In the canyon, about a mile above his house.”
“Tell me about it.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “There isn’t much to tell. We’ve met there often to avoid an unpleasant scene with Myra. I drove out in my car and he met me on horseback. He called me about noon, told me about the O’Toole note, and we arranged to meet. When we met he told me of the telephoned warning for him to stay away from the hacienda, which naturally made him more determined to go. It sounded interesting and I asked him to take me along. He agreed to pick me up in his car just the other side of Zaragoza. I was waiting for him when your friend came along and picked me up.” She nodded toward me with a half-smile.
“Leslie Young was alive when you left him this afternoon?” Burke persisted.
“Of course. Would I have been waiting out in the rain for a man whom I knew to be dead? Don’t be absurd. You haven’t told me...”
“You’re telling me, Miss Yates. What time was it when you last saw Leslie Young?”
“About two-thirty. It was approximately three o’clock when I reached my apartment on Tularosa.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Almost two months... ever since I’ve been in El Paso. As a matter of fact, I came here from the east particularly to contact him.”
Burke puffed on his pipe and said: “Suppose you explain that.”
She shrugged her shoulders again. “There’s nothing in our relationship that I have any reason to hide. I’m a free-lance writer... specializing in Sunday newspaper feature stories for eastern syndicates. About three months ago Leslie Young submitted an article to one of the syndicates which I represent. It contained interesting subject matter but was amateurishly done. The editor turned it over to me for a rewrite job and I had to get in touch with the author to clear up certain obscure points. His reply concerning himself gave me the idea that he would be a good source of material for future articles and I suggested collaboration. He welcomed the idea so I came here as soon as I was free to work up a series of Mexican articles with him. We worked together harmoniously until his wife got the idea that our relationship was more than a literary collaboration.”
“Was it?”
“No.”
“Is it your custom to kiss your collaborators when meeting them secretly?”
She wasn’t at all disturbed. She answered serenely: “If I like them well enough... and if it will help me get material I need for an article.”
“Why did you spoil Baker’s impersonation of Young before he had a chance to get a line on Young’s murderer?”
Laura glanced over at me and spoke to both of us. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know Les had been murdered. I didn’t know why another man... a perfect stranger... was trying to pass himself off as Les. I felt I might earn the O’Toole gratitude by exposing the fraud at once... and might get a good feature yarn from her.”
“Do you know either of the Americans at the hacienda?”