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men—possibly other guests—would be showing up. And there was The Pig to contend with. Someone must have driven him out here, and he would not have planned to stay later than morning. So someone would be calling for him, and—
    Well, never mind. He had to find Babe. He had to do it fast. And since he had no way of learning her hiding place, there was only one thing to do. Force her out of it.
    Leaving the hotel, Mitch walked around to the rear and located a rubbish pile. With no great difficulty, he found a five-gallon lard can and a quantity of rags. He returned to the parking lot. He shoved the can under the car’s gas tank and opened the petcock. While it was filling, he knotted the rags into a rope. Then, having shut off the flow of gasoline, he went to the telephone booth and called the hotel’s switchboard.
    The clerk-manager answered. He advised Mitch to beat it before he called the cops. “I know you’re not Lonsdale, understand? I know you’re a crook. And if you’re not gone from the premises in five minutes—”
    â€œLook who’s talking!” Mitch jeered. “Go ahead and call the cops! I’d like to see you do it, you liver-lipped, yellow-bellied—”
    The manager hung up on him. Mitch called him back.
    â€œNow, get this,” he said harshly. “You said I was a crook. All right, I am one and I’m dangerous. I’m a crib man, an explosives expert. I’ve got plenty of stuff to work with. So send that dame out here and do it fast, or I’ll blow your damned shack apart!”
    â€œReally? My, my!” The man laughed sneeringly, but somewhat shakily. “Just think of that!”
    â€œI’m telling you,” Mitch said, “And this is the last time I’ll tell you. Get that dame out of the woodwork, or there won’t be any left.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t dare! If you think you can bluff—”
    â€œIn exactly five minutes,” Mitch cut in, “the first charge will be set off, outside. If the dame doesn’t come out, your building goes up.”
    He replaced the receiver, went back to the car. He picked up the rags and gasoline, moved down the walk to the red-and-white mailbox. It stood in the deep shadows of the porte cochere and he was not observed. Also, the hotel employees apparently were keeping far back from the entrance.
    Mitch soaked the rag rope in the gasoline and tucked a length of it down inside the mailbox. Then he lifted the can and trickled its entire contents through the letter slot. It practically filled the box to the brim. The fluid oozed through its seams and dripped down upon the ground.
    Mitch carefully scrubbed his hands with his handkerchief. Then he ignited a book of matches, dropped them on the end of the rope. And ran.
    His flight was unnecessary, as it turned out. Virtually unnecessary. For the “bomb” was an almost embarrassing failure. There was a weak rumble, a kind of growl—a hungry man’s stomach, Mitch thought bitterly, would make a louder one. A few blasts of smoke, and the box jiggled a bit on its moorings. But that was the size of it. That was the “explosion.” It wouldn’t have startled a nervous baby. As for scaring those rats inside the joint, hell, they were probably laughing themselves sick.
    Oh, sure, the box burned; it practically melted. And that would give them some trouble. But that didn’t help Mitch Allison any.
    From far down the lawn, he looked dejectedly at the dying flames, wondering what to do now; he gasped, his eyes widening suddenly as two women burst through the entrance of El Ciudad.
    One—the one in front—was Babe, barelegged, barefooted; dressed only in her bra and panties. She screamed as she ran, slapping and clawing wildly at her posterior. And it was easy to see why. For the woman chasing her was Bette, and Bette was clutching a blazing blow-torch.
    She was holding it in front of her,