“—and he thought I should check you out. A call to Washington confirmed that you had entered the U.S. at New Orleans, so I came along to make sure you were what you said you were.” Hotchkiss studied Fleming. “I don’t know what to do now.”

  “You might let your bosses know that I’m no danger to them,” Fleming suggested.

  “I don’t know if they’d believe me,” said Hotchkiss. “They’re certain that any foreigner coming to this part of the country must be up to no good. This isn’t high on the list of tourist places. Carlsbad maybe, for the caverns, but not Roswell.” He looked down at his hands. “Sorry. That’s the way it is.”

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” said Fleming, slipping his revolver back into his waist-band holster. “But keep in mind, I’m not a tourist.”

  Hotchkiss caught his lower lip in his teeth. “Fleming,” he said at last, “I know I haven’t the right to ask, but what brought you here? Something about the POW camps? The Germans are really interested in those.”

  “No, nothing like that. My editor assigned a case to me, having to do with the English who were in America during the War,” said Fleming readily, and plausibly enough. “I suppose he thought the work I’d done with Americans during the War made the job easier for me than for many others.”

  “What kind of work did you do?” Hotchkiss asked. “We’ll have it in our files, but you might as well save us the effort.”

  “The boring-but-necessary kind,” said Fleming, who knew what was in his cover material, and that no matter what Hotchkiss said, it would be checked out. “I coordinated reports and intelligence from the various Allied forces, preparing briefs for our various commanders, so that there would be less confusion—if that’s possible in a war.”

  “Did you see any action?” Hotchkiss asked.

  “In the beginning I did. Then I was given this other work to do. And, of course, there was the Blitz.” Fleming took a deep breath. He stubbed out the cigarette on the saucer on the night-stand.

  “Of course,” said Hotchkiss, faintly embarrassed. “I gotta ask, you know that.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Fleming, thinking about his mendacious military records, the ones Sir William did not have with him, and he was relieved he had left them back at his house in Jamaica, secure in his safe. It was not the kind of information Fleming wanted floating about in the intelligence community. He glanced toward the window. “What time is it? It’s late, that much is obvious. My watch stopped some time ago. I forgot to wind it.”

  “It’s two thirty-eight,” said Hotchkiss, checking his own watch. “What difference does it make?”

  “I want to know how much sleep I can get before I have to be on the road again,” said Fleming. “Not that I don’t find your presence intriguing, Hotchkiss, but I have work to do, and a long way to go before I do it.”

  “Why here?” There was just enough suspicion to put Fleming on guard.

  “I’m going to Albuquerque, and I took what I thought was a shorter route from Dallas.” He smiled with what passed for self-deprecating amusement. “Your distances are a trifle daunting, you know.”

  Hotchkiss laughed. “Yeah. And England didn’t turn out to be as big as I thought it would be. I spent a couple months there in ’forty-six.”

  Fleming decided to ignore that conversational gambit. “So in the name of expeditious travel, I ended up here instead of—” He paused, trying to think of the names he had seen on the map.

  “Tucumcari or Santa Rosa, if you’d taken 66,” said Hotchkiss.

  “Yes, although I wouldn’t have pronounced Tucumcari as you do,” Fleming told Hotchkiss with a slight chuckle.

  Hotchkiss stood up. “Sorry about the skulking, Fleming. I didn’t mean to—” He stopped. “Oh, hell. Yes, I did mean to spy on you. That’s what I’m expected to do. I’m sorry it didn’t have to happen this time.”

  “Have you had many foreigners to investigate here? I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Fleming.

  Realizing he might have said too much, Hotchkiss demurred. “No, no. Occasionally there’s foreign officers at Walker—I have to keep an eye on them—you know the kind of thing, from your War work—and twice we had Germans in town, one trying to find out about the POW camps, the other one coming back, after having been in a camp. He liked the desert so much, he decided to move here, and start over. He bought a place just outside Truth or Consequences—that’s a town, by the way—and set up a spa there.” He held out his hand. “Well. Glad to have met you, Fleming.”

  “You, too, Hotchkiss,” said Fleming, taking the Special Agent’s hand. “I hope you’ll tell your comrades that I’m not dangerous.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” said Hotchkiss. “But I will tell them you’re on our side.” He hesitated. “If anything more happens, you give me a call. Just have the operator get you Bert: he’ll know how to find me. I’ll get back to you as fast as I can.”

  “Much appreciated,” said Fleming, hoping that he would not end up in such a predicament as Hotchkiss imagined, and went to let the FBI agent out of his room.

  “Don’t blame Bert for calling me. He was only doing what he’s been told to do,” Hotchkiss said as he slipped out of the room.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Fleming. “Perhaps I should tell you that I’m going to place a call to Jamaica in the morning, to my editor’s secretary, a Miss Louisa Butterly. Just so you’re aware of it.”

  “Your editor’s secretary is in Jamaica?” Hotchkiss was instantly suspicious.

  “So is my editor, Merlin Powell. I have a house there where I take holidays, and when I do, my paper puts me under Mister Powell’s supervision.” He smiled. “My permanent home is in London.”

  “So you came in from Kingston,” said Hotchkiss, his eyes narrowing.

  “Yes. I might have done so, arriving from London. There is a flight that goes to Kingston en route to New Orleans,” he pointed out. “That wasn’t the flight I took, but I might have.” He did his best genial expression. “Just thought I should mention this.”

  “You’re right,” said Hotchkiss, his manner reverting to cordial. “Merlin Powell, you say?”

  “Yes. His secretary is Louisa Butterly. I can provide the number, if you—”

  “No,” said Hotchkiss, eager now to be gone. “I’ll tell Bert to put you through.”

  “Thanks awfully,” said Fleming, eager to go back to bed and hoping he would be able to fall asleep quickly. He had had the knack in the War but was a bit out of practice.

  “Have a good trip, Mister Fleming,” Hotchkiss said by way of farewell.

  “I’ll do my poor best,” said Fleming, and closed the door. He remained where he was until he heard Hotchkiss’s steps retreat down the corridor, and then he went back to bed, trying to will himself to sleep. He thought it would be impossible, but as he put his revolver back in its holster, he yawned hugely. His shoulders were stiff and he had the beginning of a headache. As he lay back on the bed he strove to put the events of the last half hour from his mind. Just when he decided it couldn’t be done, he lapsed into slumber.

  The alarm jangled him awake at seven forty-five. He looked about him, taking stock of the room, disoriented, then he sat up, everything of the last three days coming back to him, finally bringing him fully awake in room 14C of the Pecos Vista Hotel, of Roswell, New Mexico. He sighed. Rising, he made his way to the bathroom and turned on the shower, then got in, starting with the water hot, then steadily turning it down to chilly, so that by the time he emerged, ten minutes later, he was fully alert. He shaved and toweled himself dry, then went out into the bedroom to dress.

  Knowing it would be warm again today, he chose cotton twill trousers of pebble-grey, a light-weight white cotton shirt, and a navy-blue linen jacket. He wouldn’t exactly blend in, but he wouldn’t be too out of place, either. Taking care to lock his luggage, he then carried his bags down to the lobby, where he found Bert behind the reservation desk, aside from a different shirt looking precisely the same as he had the evening before.

  “Morning there, young fella,” he greeted Fleming. “Hope you had a good night.”

  “Good morning to you,” Fleming said as he reached the desk, saying nothing to the second part of his question. “I need to arrange to make an overseas call. How shall I do it?”

  “You can use the desk phone; just make sure Marta keeps track of the time so I can add it to your bill,” said Bert pleasantly as he shoved the telephone toward Fleming. “Just tell Marta what you want when you pick up the receiver.”

  “All right,” said Fleming, aware that he would not have any privacy for the call: what Bert Could not overhear, Marta could, and he was certain that Special Agent Lemmuel Hotchkiss would have a complete report within ten minutes of his placing it.

  Marta assured him that she would keep track of charges for him, and then put him through to the overseas operator, who took four minutes to put him through to Powell’s office.

  “Fleming, where the bloody hell are you? And you better have a bloody good reason for not keeping me informed,” Powell exclaimed as soon as Miss Butterly had apologized for cutting him off yesterday, and put him through.

  “I am where you sent me. In New Mexico. That’s between Texas and Arizona,” he added helpfully.

  “Don’t be cheeky,” Powell warned. “Tell me how it’s coming?”

  “I haven’t reached Albuquerque yet. I should be there this afternoon.” He paused. “Any news from your end?”

  “You mean Krandall? No, nothing worth mentioning. The authorities are still being chary with comments.” Powell was being as careful as Fleming.

  “Is there anything more I should know about before I leave here?” Fleming asked.

  “Just where is here? Beyond being in New Mexico?” Powell asked, so solicitously that Fleming knew his editor was running out of patience.

  “Roswell. It’s a little town with an air-base,” Fleming replied.

  “Cowboys and Indians?” Powell asked indulgently.

  “With the occasional military-types,” Fleming confirmed.

  Powell chuckled, his good humor apparently restored. “Call me this evening, if you would. Carry on.”

  “You, too,” said Fleming, and rang off. A moment later the telephone rang and Marta announced that the charge would be eight dollars and forty cents, which Fleming duly reported to Bert.

  “Okay,” Bert said. “Make it ten, and that’ll cover your breakfast, too. Steak and eggs, if you like.”

  “Sounds substantial,” said Fleming, handing him a ten-dollar bill, then went off to lock his bags in the trunk of the Packard before he headed for the café for a real meal. He looked about for a proper newspaper but found only three-day-old copies of the Chicago Sun, which was hardly to his liking. He didn’t linger over breakfast and was on the road at nine-fifteen, the Packard humming along the narrow road that led north-north-west. There wasn’t a lot of traffic out, and Fleming was able to keep up a good pace as the morning advanced.

  Chapter 18

  ON A lonely stretch between the Highway 20 fork toward Fort Sumner and East Vaughn, Fleming became aware of a drone of airplane engines near-by. Nothing too imposing, not a military airplane, he felt, but loud enough to command his attention. A twin-engine sound, and traveling at perhaps as much as two hundred miles per hour, he guessed, since the airplane wasn’t directly overhead, allowing him to do a more accurate assessment. He looked about to find the shadow of the airplane, trying to guess where it might be going, but he couldn’t make it out in the dry scrub that covered the rising slopes. Never mind, he told himself. It’ll pass soon enough.

  The sound of the airplane faded, and Fleming continued his drive. In the distance he made out a herd of pronghorn antelopes and, somewhat farther on, a pair of men on horseback. When they waved in his direction, he waved back, continuing on, carried on a surge of good-will. He drove up over a rise and felt the Packard jerk in his hands, and the steering suddenly became stiff and difficult. He pulled to the side of the road, remembering that the 66 Commercial Travelers’ Car Rental had said that the Packard had self-sealing tires—surety he couldn’t have a flat, not out here.

  Leaving the engine on idle, Fleming climbed out of the coupe and had a look at the tires. He discovered that the fender on the left front was bent, a deep pucker in it, the chrome chipped. Bending over, he inspected the damage and could not shake the conviction that it had been done by a bullet, something heavy, intended to inflict impairment, or worse.

  Fleming stared at the dent, wondering what he would tell the rental company. It was one thing to have a fender dent because of careless driving, but quite another to have one because he was shot at. He tested the bumper, trying to determine if the impact had loosened it; luckily, the bumper felt sturdy enough, if misaligned. He could continue on without mishap. Getting back into the auto, he looked about uneasily, the remote beauty of this place suddenly ominous, the fine out-croppings of stone now sinister. He put the Packard in gear and resumed his travels, keeping his speed down to around sixty, anticipating other, unpleasant possibilities up ahead. At least, he told himself, the tires are all right. He did not have to worry about having to change one out here in the middle of nowhere, an expression that now had a reality to it that Fleming had not comprehended before.

  Pulling into East Vaughn, Fleming chose the first service station with an open bay and asked the attendant to have a look at the damage to the bumper. “And make sure the tires haven’t lost any air pressure, if you would.”

  The mechanic on duty grinned. “Goodyears. You’re lucky. Those self-sealers are a real godsend out here. Okay. Come back in a couple of hours, I should have everything checked out.” He patted the bonnet of the Packard. “Good car, this one, and gets pretty good mileage.”

  “If you could do it sooner—” Fleming began, not wanting to waste time discussing the virtues of the auto.

  “I could, but it would be a half-assed job, and you wouldn’t like that, now would you? If you got something to do in town, you might as well do it now. If you don’t, then take it easy for a bit.” He smiled ferociously. “Try Rosaria’s Cantina, just down the street on the right-hand side, next to the stationers. The food’s good and they’ve got great Mexican beer.”

  Fleming bowed to the inevitable. “I realize you’re not a Texaco station I’m supposed to patronize, and I imagine you don’t give discounts to this rental agency, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the price within reasonable limits.”

  “Tell you what: if I go over, say, eighty bucks, I’ll send someone down to Rosaria’s to tell you, and you can make up your mind about what you want to do about it.”

  “That’s satisfactory,” said Fleming, wishing he had brought something to read. He had a suspicion that the local paper wouldn’t hold his interest, but he doubted there was much of anything else he could find on short notice. He ambled out into the mid-day sun and squinted at the street in front of him. His eyes stung, even with his dark glasses to mitigate the light. He started down the street toward Rosaria’s, hoping his luggage would be safe in the boot of the Packard. He decided it was best not to make a fuss about them, and figured that there was no reason for the mechanic to look inside them. He reminded himself that the most important files were in the concealed compartment on the bottom of the larger bag, all but invisible to moderate inspection. His authorization to use lethal force was still in his wallet, right above his heart, and concealed in the pocket in the lining where it could not easily be found.

  ROSARIA’S CANTINA WAS a stucco building painted a fulvous pink with hand-lettered signs in Spanish and English saying the place served good food, was open every day until 10 P.M., and had air-conditioning. This last made it more irresistible than the other advantages combined. Fleming crossed the street and made for the screen door, pulling it open on wailing hinges. He blinked and removed his dark glasses, trying to adjust to the darkish interior of the cantina.

  To one side of the cantina was a small, bright room with ten stools pulled up to a counter. Just now a rope barred the way with a sign hanging from it reading THIS SECTION CLOSED. To the other side was a cavernous room, shuttered against the daylight. A dozen of the twenty-four tables were occupied, mostly by big men in dusty work-clothes—clearly locals. Two tables had families, men and women with children, and one had three women with the closed faces of women alone.

  Fleming hesitated, wondering where he should sit, and while he did, a handsome woman, about thirty, fine-figured, dark-haired and dark-eyed, came up to him. “Take a seat, stranger,” she said in an accent Fleming assumed was Mexican Spanish on top of American English.

  “What about something where I can keep an eye on the door? The mechanic may need to talk to me,” said Fleming.

  “Jed? Sure. Okay,” she said, thrusting a menu at him and waving her hand in the direction of the center of the dining room.

  Fleming selected one of the tables, ignoring the stares he attracted. He sat down and read the menu as if it were a masterpiece of literature. When he set his menu aside, the attractive woman bustled up to him, rubbing her hands on her apron and pulling an order pad from her pocket.

  “What can I get for you?” she asked.

  “Pork and chicken enchiladas—did I say that right?” He did his very best affable expression. “And an order of poached eggs on tortillas.”

  “We say tor-TEE-yas,” the woman corrected him.

  He repeated the word. “Thanks. And coffee, if you would.”

  “Coming right up.” She hurried back toward the kitchen, calling out, “Hey, Rosaria!” followed by a rapid burst of Spanish that Fleming assumed was his order. Then she came back with a mug of coffee. “Cream and sugar?”