Over the rattling of fenders, humming of tires and chattering of gears there was a charming melody of whispers and tiny giggles. Cool air moving slowly through the open or smashed out side windows hinted of blooming roadside vegetation, and occasionally a faint fragrance of perfume swirled from the back seat.

``Moriarty,'' my driver suddenly exclaimed with something so definite, so final in his tone I once more repeated the absurdity, mustering all my latent powers of hypocrisy to sound convinced.

We were coming to an intersection, turning right, chuffing to a stop.

Forced to realize that this was the end of a very short line I scanned a road marker and discovered what the end of a slightly longer line would be for the old Mexican: Moriarty, New Mexico.

``Gracias. Adios,'' I said, exhausting my Spanish vocabulary on my host and exchanging one of a scarcely tapped store of smiles with my host's daughters. I waved with discretion and moderation to the vague golden faces fading through rising dust and the distortions of the back window glass. Then I saw the father's head slightly turn; gauche rainbow shapes replaced the poignant ovals of gold.

Autos whizzed past. White shirted and conservatively cravated drivers stared conspicuously toward the eastern horizon and past my supplicating and accusing gaze.

Suddenly a treble auto horn tootley-toot-tootled, and, thumbing hopefully, I saw emergent in windshield flash: red lips, streaming silk of blonde hair and -- ah, trembling confusion of hope, apprehension, despair -- the leering face of old Herry.