The bureau drawers yielded nothing but a frayed necktie which had begun to pull apart in the center, an empty gin bottle and a crumpled cigarette package. The bed hadn’t been slept in since it had last been made, although the sheets and pillow cases looked about ready for the laundry.

The place was dingy, smelly, dejected, and deserted. The mirror over the cheap pine bureau threw back a faded, distorted reflection of my face.

I went back to the closet and looked the underwear over for laundry marks. I found an old X-B391. It was pretty well faded. The same number had been written more recently and in a different handwriting on the waistband of the shorts.

I made a note of the number, left the room, locked the door, and paused long enough in front of the counter at the head of the stairs to slide the wire hoop down under the counter where it would look as though it had fallen off the nail.

Jerry Wegley had the last laugh. I’d paid him twenty-five dollars to slip me a gun which was hotter than a stovelid. Wegley went on duty at four o’clock in the afternoon and was off at midnight. He probably went to bed as a rule around two or three o’clock in the morning. This time he hadn’t gone to bed. Had it been because he’d learned what had been done with the gun he’d passed off on me?

I didn’t know, and had no immediate way of finding out.

I waited on the street until a cruising cab came along, and went out to the airport. An aviator who made a specialty of chartering planes to bridal couples agreed to take me to Yuma, Arizona, and seemed surprised that I was making the trip alone.

Once in Yuma, I followed a plan of operation which I had rehearsed in my own mind so many times that it made me feel I was playing a part in a play.

I went to the First National Bank, went to the window marked “New Accounts,” and said, “My name is Peter B. Smith. I’m looking for some investments.”

“What sort of investments, Mr. Smith?”

“Anything that I can turn to quick advantage and make a profit.”

The assistant cashier smiled. “A lot of people are looking for these same things, Mr. Smith.”

“Exactly,” I said. “I don’t expect you to help me look, but if I find something, I’d appreciate having your reactions.”

“You wish to open an account?”

“Yes.”

I took two thousand dollars in cash from my pocket.

“Where’re you going to live, Mr. Smith?” he asked.

“I haven’t got located yet.”

“You came from the East?”

“No, from California.”

“Just got in?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have a business in California?”