Somebody had kept my secret right out in the open! There was no use trying to cover up.
“Yes.” I hid my annoyance under a grin that took in him and the diners. “But I’ll trade my star right now for that room and water we were talking about.”
He took me through the dining-room and upstairs to a board-walled room in the rear second floor, said, “This is it,” and left me.
I did what I could with the water in a pitcher on the washstand to free myself from the white grime I had accumulated. Then I dug a grey shirt and a suit of whipcords out of my bags, and holstered my gun under my left shoulder, where it wouldn’t be a secret.
In each side pocket of my coat I stowed a new .32 automatic—small, snub-nosed affairs that weren’t much better than toys. Their smallness let me carry them where they’d be close to my hands without advertising the fact that the gun under my shoulder wasn’t all my arsenal.
The dining-room was empty when I went downstairs again. The sallow pessimist who ran the place stuck his head out of a door.
“Any chance of getting something to eat?” I asked.
“Hardly any,” jerking his head toward a sign that said:
Meals 6 to 8 a.m. , 12 to 2 and 5 to 7 p.m.
“You can grub up at the Jew’s—if you ain’t particular,” he added sourly.
I went out, across the porch that was too hot for idlers, and into the street that was empty for the same reason. Huddled against the wall of a large one-story adobe building, which had Border Palace painted all across its front, I found the Jew’s.