Detective Hagopian had just ordered a drink at the bar in the Tahoe motel when a lean young stranger with sun-bleached golden hair and tanned cheeks took the stool beside him. After asking for a gin and tonic, the sunburned young man nodded toward the gaming tables.
"Name's Clifford Weston," he said genially. "It's sure great to be back in civilization and hear money talking out loud."
The famous sleuth introduced himself. "I take it you've been out on the desert?"
"Got back yesterday," said Weston. "Washed the dust out of my ears, had a real live barber shave off seven months of whiskers and trim this mop of wheat. Then I bought a whole wardrobe on credit. All I had to show was my assay report. Boy, am I ever ready to celebrate."
"You found gold?"
"Right you are. Hit pay dirt." Weston stroked his bronzed chin thoughtfully. He lowered his voice confidently.
"Listen," he said. "If I can find a backer, I'll take enough out of those hills to buy ten pleasure palaces just like this one. Of course, I'm not trying to interest you. Still, if you know somebody who'd like to get in on a sure thing, let me know. I'm staying in room 210. Can't give out details here, you understand."
"I understand," said Hagopian, "that you'd better improve your story if you want to part some sucker from his money."
What was wrong with Weston's story?