On the way to 505 the bell-boy tried to get solicitous and confided that if the big gentleman wanted anything to pass the time or get anything to drink all he had to do was call number Four. He held up his badge to show the number but Bender flipped back his own coat lapel and said: “I like mine best because it's gold.”
When the Negro saw the little star in the circle his eye popped and he shut up.
The room was plain and severe but it had a bed and a tub so Bender didn't complain. A guy got shoved in a lot of funny places when he was a Ranger, and anyway he consoled himself with the thought that he wouldn't be here long. He didn't like Rondora and when he didn't like a town he got right to work.
He washed his face, combed his hair, stuck a Police Positive .38 in his shoulder-holster, a blue-barreled .45 automatic in his hip pocket holster and came downstairs. The driver asked him if he was ready to go to Jeff Peebles and Bender said yes.
The driver turned off to the east and after a few blocks the town petered out and ran off into the sage. There were scores of rigs nearby and the din was terrific. Tall, gaunt skeletons they were and up close they looked like bad dreams. The smell of crude oil was strong and occasionally some roughneck sang out in profane music.
Jeff Peebles lived in a plain cottage and Bender had to cross a footbridge to reach the gate. He went up and knocked at the front door.
It was partly opened by an angular woman. Her face was sharp and she wore a plain print cotton dress, her hair was pulled tightly down about her ears and parted in the middle. In the light of the lamp in the front room Bender could see it was heavily streaked with gray and that her face was wan and lifeless. Jeff Peebles' millions had come too late.
She stared out apprehensively, as if she were half-afraid and Bender said:
“I'm looking for Mr. Peebles.”
She shook her head slowly and replied: “He ain't here.”