Driving back, I slowed as I crossed the bridge over the Truckee River.  There wasn't much doubt about how Paul had reached the motel: his clothes had been soaking wet.  They must have tossed him into the river somewhere upstream.  How he'd managed to make it from there, in his condition - crawling, wading, swimming where the water was deep enough - only God or a dying man could tell you.

Why he'd done it was another interesting question.  It was possible, of course, that he'd been bringing me information of tremendous importance.  It was just as possible that he'd just been looking for somebody to hold his hand.

I shivered slightly, and drove on, and turned into the motel area, and parked where I had before.  I went inside and poured myself a drink from the plastic flask I carry in my suitcase.  I kept hearing a voice saying, For God's sake... I'm hurt....  Well, that was all right.  I'd heard voices before.  I could live with one more.  But I drank the whiskey anyway.  Then I got out of my clothes and went into the bathroom to take a shower.  Just as I was about to turn on the water, the doorbell rang.

I sighed.  I went to the closet and got my dressing gown.  I dropped the gun into the pocket, after belting the garment about me.  Then I went to the door and yanked it open.  So maybe they'd traced Paul here somehow and now it was my turn.  I was tired of being careful.  I'd been careful enough for one night.  To hell with them.  I'd get at least one before they burned me down, I would.

The traumatic shock of seeing the door fly open before his eyes sent the Afghan hound into a tizzy; he lunged away and almost yanked the Fredericks girl over backwards.  He was really a specimen.

"Oh, Sheik!" she said impatiently, and to me: "Just a minute while I tie him."

I was having a little trouble getting used to the idea that I didn't have to sell my life dearly, at least not yet.

"What he needs," I said sourly, "is a mooring mast, like a dirigible."

"Mister," she said, "I can make cracks like that, but don't you go criticizing other people's dogs.  Hell, you can't even keep a wife."  She straightened up to look at me.  "Well, aren't you going to ask me in?"

"Do I have to?"  She made a face at me, and stepped inside.  I followed her, and pulled the door closed behind us.  She was no longer wearing the green beach costume, if that was what it was.  Now she was done up in a simple white dress that could have cost ten bucks or a hundred, probably the latter, and white kid pumps with high, slim heels.  Her hair was smooth and shining about her head, every pin doing its assigned duty.  She even had little white gloves on, very formal for Reno.

I can itemize the assets of a girl in pants without becoming emotionally involved in any way.  I have to see her in a dress before I can add up the column and become personally involved in the total.  This was a good dress for the purpose, straight, smart, and sleeveless, with a square neck.  The material was some textured cotton stuff - piqué is the word that comes back from my rare forays into fashion photography.  She wasn't wearing any jewelry.  There weren't any distractions tonight in the way of fancy style, color, or decoration.  You could concentrate on the girl, and any man would.

I said, "Okay, so you're beautiful.  Now can I go take my shower?"

She said, "You're a liar.  I'm not beautiful and I never will be.  I'm just sexy as hell."

I said, "You're drunk as hell, too."