Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 7, No. 9, September 1962

“Then we understand each other. We have enough on you already to put you away for life. Just as a starter, Baruch and Henrietta Smetana left the Project on the same day you did. They eluded agents assigned to them for security reasons. You were known to be friendly with Henrietta. You may have fooled Smetana, but he had other worries on his mind. Anyway, you don’t have to love a woman, to conspire with her against your own government.”

“What?”

“You left a trail as obvious as elephant spoor. You all showed up here at Santo Tomas. It all boils down to an attempt to extort a half-million bucks from the United States, using the Atomic Weapons Reward Act. You and Henrietta and Suarez and Smetana were all in it together.”

“Stupidity,” Randolph said slowly, “must be one of the requirements for your job. As a Federal officer, I couldn’t sell the government that kind of information for anykind of money — it’s written into the law.”

“You found a way to get your share. We know that a man telephoned the Project with the same information that Henrietta had one hour after she called. That was you.”

“I wasn’t here then. That should indicate to even a feeble mind that I wasn’t involved in her plan.”

“It doesn’t really matter, I guess,” Burkett said heavily. “You already have a record of connivance — with Gomez here. You left Customs under a cloud. You’ve proven you can’t be trusted — not even with another man’s wife. Your kind will do anything for money. You were trying to cross up all your partners and collect it all for yourself. So why not confess?”

Randolph only stared at him. Then he shook his head in disgust at the utter wrongness of Burkett’s reasoning.

Into the silence that fell after Burkett’s question there came a growing rumble. The building shook and a little plaster fell. There was a hiss of escaping air, the crash of couplers. Old engine 1098 had arrived on the passing track beside the main line, directly in back of the Customs House. The old engine idled softly.

And with that overgrown truck engine sound in their ears, it formed a background for Vincente Gomez’ voice when he said:

“Gentlemen, Randolph may know something about this plot, but I think only I know the present location of the bomb.”

Burkett glared at Gomez. “Where the hell is it?”

“There is every reason to believe there is a plan to explode it in Phoenix. In a very few hours.”

He said it as calmly as though he was standing before a class of his policemen, giving them a problem in procedure. He couldn’t have been more coolly at ease.

Here in this century-old thick-walled building that had never had to stand up to a shock greater than that of an occasional stray .44 calibre bullet, it wasn’t easy to visualize the explosion Gomez so casually mentioned, an explosion that could reduce a city to rubble.

But it was getting slowly through to the men in the room. They moved uneasily. They stared at Gomez as though he was some kind of evil genie suddenly popped out of a bottle of smoke. Nobody said anything.

Then Burkett proved that at least others, didn’t share Randolph’s opinion of his intelligence. He said, “I am authorized to receive the kind of information you offer. I have come prepared to deal. With cash, up to a point.”

As if he had known it all the time, Gomez nodded. “Clear the room so we can talk.”

Burkett said, “All except. Randolph — leave.”

The office which, had seemed so crowded a moment before seemed almost empty when the others left it. Randolph said, “Why me?”

“You and Gomez are old friends. You might help us to reach a quick agreement.”

Randolph studied Gomez. Had Gomez been playing him for the sucker all along? Had he known where the bomb was all the time?

Subjugating these more personal questions to the greater need to locate the device, Randolph said, “There is only one quick way. How much do you want, jefe?”

Gomez said, “You were always abrupt.”

Burkett came away from the wall. “How much?” he asked.

Gomez stared thoughtfully out the window. Looking past his padded shoulders and sleek cap, Randolph could see a tall trainman made taller by the striped cap he wore as he walked into the lighted inspection area. He carried a lantern on his arm, a clip board in his hand.

Randolph knew the customs procedure. The trainman was calling for the customs releases and manifests for the train that had been made up in Mexico and pushed across earlier. The releases lay on the desk, tucked under a corner of the blotter holder. When Haynes pushed open the door, Randolph had them ready in his hand. Taking them, Haynes said, “You haven’t forgotten,” but wasn’t very friendly. His eyes told that much as he looked at these men who had usurped his office. He handed Randolph a switch list. “See if you remember where this goes,” he said, and walked out, his back very stiff.

Burkett exploded. “There isn’t a nickel’s worth of business done at this border station all day long, but the minute we have something like this, it’s like the Rose Bowl field after the game.”