Read The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six for Free Online Page A

Frost went out for a sandwich. He drank two cups of coffee, taking a lot of time. He covered the ground again, step by step. The bank, the liquor stores, Hart, the airlines. The Shadow Club.
    Shortly after one, he walked back to the desk. Sixte had been missing almost fifteen hours. By now he might be buried in the floor of a cellar or a vacant lot.
    Tom Sixte…friendly, quiet, hard worker. Read a lot. Spoke French and German, studying Spanish. Expert in industrial planning…an unlikely man to be mixed up in anything. Mike Frost knew all about him now. Had reports on his desk from the government, from businessmen with whom he had talked…Sixte was top drawer. He was dark-haired, good-looking, smiled easily.
    If the tickets were used, they would have their man. But Tom Sixte would be dead, a good man murdered.
    Frost started thinking. Tickets to Bolivia were worth dough in the right place. So was a passport and visa…who wanted to get out of town? Who that they knew about? Who that was missing?
    Tony Shapiro…from Brooklyn. A mobster. Big time. Wanted by the Feds. Something clicked in the brain of Mike Frost. Shapiro had been reported seen in Tucson…in Palm Springs.
    Local connections? Vince Montesori, Rubio Turchi.
    Frost picked up the phone…. Shapiro had connections in the Argentine. If he could get to South America, he might be safe.
    Frost got up and put on his hat. He went down into the street, squinting his eyes against the sunlight. He walked west, then north. After a while he stopped for a shine.
    The shine boy was a short, thickset man with a flat face and there was nobody around. He had never heard of Tommy Hart or anybody like him. Montesori was working his club, same as always. Rubio? The shine boy bent further over the detective’s shoes. Nothing…
    It all added up to nothing.
    Back at the desk, Frost checked the file on Rubio. He had kept his nose clean since coming out of Q. He…Mike Frost picked up the telephone and began checking on Rubio and San Quentin…his cell mate had been in for larceny. Twenty-six years old, tall, dark hair, name…Kurt Eberhardt. He hung up the phone.
    Kurt Eberhardt…Tommy Hart. It could be. It was close enough, and the description was right.
    He had something to go on now. Check the Shadow Club on Eberhardt…check with the stoolies, his contacts on the criminal side. It might be a blind alley, but it could fit. There was nothing substantial, anywhere. A bottle of Madeira…he dropped in at a liquor store. Three principal varieties of Madeira sold here. Sercial, a dry wine. Boal was on the sweet side. Malmsey was a dessert wine, and sweeter. It was Malmsey that Sixte fancied.
    At four o’clock, he was sitting at the scarred desk, thinking about Sixte. If the guy was alive, he was sweating about now. Time was drawing the strings into a tight knot around his throat.
    All over town the wheels were meshing, the department was working…and they had nothing. Nothing at all.
    Rubio Turchi could not be found. He had been around until shortly after midnight the previous night, and he dropped out of sight…the time tied in…which might be an accident. Mike Frost swore softly and irritably at the loose ends, the flimsy angles on which he must work. Nothing really…
    A report from the Shadow Club. They remembered Eberhardt. A free spender when he had it. Some figured he had been rolling drunks for his pocket money. Always with a girl…a brunette. Her name was Lola, a Spanish girl, or Mexican.
    Find Lola.
    More wheels started to mesh. No rumble from the bank. Nothing on the wine. Nothing on Turchi, nothing on anybody.
    At ten o’clock, Mike Frost went home and crawled into bed. At 2:00 A.M ., he awoke with a start. He sat up and lit a cigarette.
    He called Headquarters. They had Lola. He swore, then got into his clothes. Sleepy, unshaven, and irritable, he walked into his office. Lola was there, with Noonan.
    Frost lit a cigarette for her. “You’re not in trouble,” his