"Good-by!" Janet said definitely.
Chapter 12
JANET FELL IN WITH LOCAL CUSTOM AND took a siesta, and it was early in the afternoon when she came sleepily down the stairs into the bar-restaurant of the Hacienda Nueva Inglesa. The room was warm and shadowy, and the odors of spilled wine and tobacco hung comfortingly close in the air.
"This one!" said Mrs. Henshaw enthusiastically. She was holding up one of Amanda Tracy's paintings. "This is the one I want. It'll look wonderful in the living room."
"Relax," Henshaw advised. He was sitting in front of the door into the kitchen like a cat waiting at a mousehole. "You ain't gonna buy any pictures."
"In the living room," Mrs. Henshaw repeated, staring at the picture raptly. "Right over the mantel."
"Over my dead body," Henshaw corrected.
Timpkins came in from the kitchen. "Dinner'll be served at six sharp, if you please. It ain't gonna be fancy, and them as don't like it don't need to eat it."
"Mr. Timpkins," Janet said. "Has my room been cleaned today?"
"No," Timpkins answered.
"Well--who cleans it?"
"You do," Timpkins informed her. "If it gets cleaned."
"Haven't you any help at the hotel?"
"No. I don't need none."
"Timpkins," said Henshaw.
Timpkins looked at him. "What, now?"
"Sit down," Henshaw invited, crooking his finger and smiling enticingly. "Right here in this nice chair. Rest yourself, Timpkins. You've been working too hard all day."
Timpkins sat down slowly and suspiciously.
"I've been spending a lot of time thinking about your business problems," Henshaw told him.
"I ain't got no business problems."
"That's just it," said Henshaw. "That's your trouble right there. Now you've got a swell setup here. You could make this hotel a gold mine."
"How?" Timpkins inquired skeptically.
"Think of your situation. Analyze it, Timpkins. That's the first step, always. Los Altos, with its scenery, with its quaintness, with its artistic history. It's a sure tourist-puller. And you're on the ground floor. I envy you, Timpkins. I see you as independently rich in the near future."
"Arr?" said Timpkins.
"Yes, indeed. Now consider the international situation. After this war, Europe is going to be a mess. Take my word for it, Timpkins. I know. People aren't going to want to go there any more. Besides that, they won't be able to afford it. They'll want to see new and different things closer to home. They'll want the atmosphere and adventure of foreign lands. Where will they go to get that, Timpkins?".
"Where?" said Timpkins.
"Here. In Los Altos. They'll come by the hundreds with money in their pockets. And when they come to Los Altos, they'll come here to this hotel--naturally. You'll coin dough. The place could be a mint for you. For instance, how much do you charge for rooms now?"
"Five dollars a day."
"You robber--I mean to say, that goes to prove what I'm telling you. You could charge much more--if you were progressive."
"Progressive?" Timpkins repeated.
"Yes. For instance, take the matter of a bathroom. Now I'm not trying to sell you a bathroom, Timpkins. Don't think that for a minute. I'm just using it for an illustration. Suppose tourists come in here after sight-seeing in the town--tired, dirty, discouraged--and they step into the hotel bathroom and they see something like this." Henshaw flipped out the shiny folder like a magician producing a rabbit. "4A, right here. A beautiful setup. Lavish and luxurious. Yellow and black tile with a guaranteed imitation marble trim and plastic streamlined fixtures."
"Naw!" said Timpkins.
"Wait, now. I'm not suggesting you should buy it. Maybe something else would be more suitable. But the tourists would be impressed, Timpkins. In the United States people judge you by your bathroom. It's the most important part of your house. These tourists, after they'd seen 4-A, would go away feeling impressed and refreshed. They'd advertise you by word-of-mouth to other tourists. Now just look through this folder. Pick out something to your own taste."
"Naw!" said Timpkins.
Doan was sitting in the corner near the end of the bar with his hat down over his eyes. Carstairs lay in front of him, snoring in pleasantly deep gurgles.
"Timpkins," said Doan, pushing his hat up. "What part of England do you come from?"
"I'm a British subject," said Timpkins.
"Also a Canadian, I'll bet."
"Arr," said Timpkins. "What's it to you?"
"Nothing. Ever been in England?"
"Yes!"
"For how long?"
"Two weeks," said Timpkins sullenly. He got up. "Now I don't want none of you botherin' me any more. I'm busy."
He went back into the kitchen and slammed the door.
"Thanks, Doan," Henshaw said. "That gives me a new lead. I don't know what kind of bathrooms they got in England, but I've been in Canada once. I went to Niagara Falls and walked across the bridge. I'll run in some references to that the next time I catch him. Always establish some common ground with a prospect. You notice how I sneaked up on him, then? I'm gonna sell him. You watch."
"Mr. Doan," said Janet, "did you get your message off all right?"
"Yes, thanks," Doan told her. "My little girls will get a great kick out of it."
"How old are they?"
"Five and seven and nine. Two brunettes and a blonde."
"What color is your wife's hair?"
"It changes. It's red now."
"Hi-yo, Silver!" Mortimer yelled. He came galloping in through the front door. He had strapped the spurs on over his tennis shoes, and he had to run both bowlegged and pigeon-toed to keep from tripping over them. He had stuffed paper in the band of the sombrero, and it waggled precariously on his head, the enormous brim extending far out beyond his puny shoulders.
"Whoa, Silver," he commanded belligerently, prancing and kicking out with the spurs. He had a braided leather quirt in his hand, and he slashed furiously at the air around him.
"Where'd you get that whip?" Henshaw demanded.
"Just picked it up," Mortimer answered.
"Well, you just pick it back again. Do you wanna get me shot or something, you little rummy?"
"Go dive for a pearl," Mortimer invited. He pranced over to Doan. "Hey, puffy, can I ride the flea-trap?"
"Carstairs?" Doan asked. "Oh, sure. Go right ahead, Mortimer."
Mortimer straddled the sleeping Carstairs. "Get up!" he yelled, punching Carstairs with the quirt.
Carstairs got up--and fast. Mortimer did a neat back-flip in the air and landed flat on his face on the floor. Carstairs sat down on him.
"I figured that would be it," said Doan.
Mortimer yelled in a choked, wheezing gasp. Mrs. Henshaw screamed and ran for him. One of Mortimer's arms stuck out from under Carstairs, and she grabbed that and tugged with all her might.
"Get off, Carstairs," Doan said. "You'll squash the little dope."
Carstairs looked interested but not cooperative. Doan sighed and got up. He took hold of Carstairs' spiked collar and heaved. Mrs. Henshaw pulled at Mortimer. Nothing happened.
"Quit it, Carstairs," Doan ordered. He spat on his hands, took a new grip on the collar, and heaved back with all his might.
Carstairs stood up. Doan sat down hard, and so did Mrs. Henshaw. Mortimer's face was blue, and his mouth was wide open, and his eyes were popped like grapes. He drew in his breath in a strangled gulp and promptly let it go again.
"Yeow! Maw!"
Mrs. Henshaw blubbered over him. "Mama's poor, poor baby! Don't you cry! We'll have the soldiers shoot the nasty, dirty, old dog!"
"The hell we will," said Henshaw. "We'll buy him a medal or a beefsteak or something."
Doan got up and brushed himself off tenderly. "Damn you," he said to Carstairs. "That floor has got slivers in it."
Carstairs yawned and walked to the door. He stood there looking back over his shoulder at Doa
n.
"Well, go on out," Doan said. "The soldiers are gone now. Nobody will stop you."
Carstairs mumbled deep in his throat.
"Listen," said Doan, "you're a big dog now. You can go out and attend to your private affairs without me supervising you or them."
Carstairs barked once and made the kerosene lamp jump and jingle on its chain.
"All right," Doan said. "All right!" He went to the door and bunted Carstairs in the rear with his knee. "Get going then, stupid."
Mortimer sat up and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
Mrs. Henshaw dabbed and cooed at him in her worried, futile way.
Timpkins opened the kitchen door. "What's all this noise, now? I ain't gonna have no riots in my hotel!"
"Timpkins," said Henshaw quickly, "I didn't know you were from Canada. That's a beautiful country, and I've always admired it. I went across from Niagara Falls, and that reminds me of our new waterfall flushing system. If you'll just sit down I'll explain--"
"Naw!" said Timpkins, and slammed the door.
"He's weakening," Henshaw said in a satisfied tone. "I'll get him."
Running footsteps made a crisply angry tattoo on the paving outside, and Captain Perona burst through the door.
"Where is he?" he demanded. "Where is that Doan?"
"He just stepped out a second ago to walk his dog," Janet answered. "What's the matter?"
Captain Perona had a slip of yellow paper in his hand, and he waved it in front of her face. "Look! Look at this!"
Janet caught at the paper. "It's a message addressed to Mr. Doan."
"Read it!" Captain Perona snarled.
The message was printed in block letters in pencil, evidently just as the military wireless operator had taken it down. It said in English:
WHY THE PIG LATIN IT TOOK ME AN HOUR TO FIGURE OUT YOU WERENT DRUNK AND DROOLING BUT YOU HIT THE JACKPOT ALL RIGHT I CALLED VAN OSDEL LAWYERS AND THEY HAD NO IDEA THAT PATRICIAS DEATH WAS MURDER AND HIRED US AT ONCE AT FLAT RATE WITH BONUS IF SOLVED AND OPTION ALL FUTURE FLY GOO BUSINESS CONGRATULATIONS AND HIT THIS ONE HARD WITH NO SHARP SHOOTING OR CHISELING.
The signature, written out in the same block letters, was:
A. TRUEGOLD PRESIDENT SEVERN INTERNATIONAL DETECTIVES.
Janet looked up. "But--but what--"
"Children!" Captain Perona exploded. "Pig's Latin! That criminal sent a message to his detective agency and got them hired to solve the murder of Patricia Van Osdel!"
"How could he have done that?"
"The names of his children are nothing but a code address--an accommodation address! As soon as the message was received there, it was sent to the agency!"
"But your operator--"
"He understands and reads English, but not well. And Doan deceived him. He gave the operator the message a word at a time, constantly correcting and changing it, until the operator was confused. Doan showed him how to transpose the words, or pretended to, but the operator could not do that in a strange language and send them with corrections all at once."
"Doesn't Doan have any children?"
"No! He is not even married!"
"Why, he--he told me--"
"Yes!" Captain Perona agreed fiercely. "He told you! And you told me! You, if you recall, begged me to let him reassure his family! You!"
"Well, I didn't know--"
Captain Perona leaned close to her. "Senorita, the number of things you do not know constantly amazes me!"
"Is that so?"
"Yes! After this kindly keep your ignorance to yourself and cease annoying me!"
Captain Perona whirled around and ran out the door.
"Acts like he was mad or something," Henshaw observed.
"He is," Janet agreed. "And I really don't blame him." She started for the door.
"Where you going?" Henshaw asked.
"I'm just tired of people!" Janet said. "I'm going to talk to a stone image!"
"There are sure a lot of whacks around this joint," Henshaw observed. "I hope it ain't catching."
Chapter 13
DOAN AND CARSTAIRS WERE ON A NARROW LITTLE street high on the mountainside above the main part of the town. They had arrived there by easy stages, wandering back and forth aimlessly among the crooked lanes, and now Doan stopped and gazed curiously at a ten-foot wall with broken glass making a faint, sinister glimmer along its top. The wall ran for a good hundred yards along the street. There were some fresh cracks in it, mementos of the earthquake, but it still looked formidably solid.
"Hoo!" said a voice suddenly.
Doan looked around and saw a little boy about ten feet behind him.
"Beeg," said the little boy, pointing at Carstairs. He grinned at Doan. He had three front teeth missing.
"Big and dumb," Doan agreed. "Haven't I seen you before somewhere?"
"Gimme dime."
"I thought so." Doan took a dime out of his pocket and held it up. "But let's you earn it this time. Ever hear of a guy named Predilip?"
"Ah?"
"An artist named Predilip."
The little boy nodded triumphantly. "Boo yet."
"Boo yet," Doan repeated thoughtfully. "Boo yet... You bet?"
The little boy nodded again. "Boo yet."
"Have it your way, then. Where did he live?"
The little boy made flapping motions with his arms and rolled his eyes piously skyward.
"Flying," said Doan. "Up. Angel? in heaven?"
"Boo yet."
"I know he's dead," said Doan. "Where did he live before he got dead?"
"Live?"
"Home. House. Shack. Domicile."
"Los Altos."
Doan sighed. "I know he lived in Los Altos. But where?"
"Los Altos."
"Okay," said Doan. "Did you ever see any of his paintings?"
"Ah?"
"Paintings. Pictures."
The little boy looked around cautiously. "You wanna buy feelthy picture?"
"No!"
"My uncle, he sell. Very good. Very joocy. Oooh, my!"
"I don't want to buy any dirty pictures. I'm talking about an artist named Predilip."
"Gimme dime."
Doan gave him the dime.
"Denk goo," said the little boy, putting the dime carefully in his shirt pocket. He spun around like a top and ran headlong down the street.
"Hey, you!" Doan called. "Wait a minute! What's behind this wall here?"
The little boy shrilled over his shoulder. "Casa del Coronel Callao! Muy malo!"
"I got part of that, anyway," Doan said to Carstairs. "It seems that our pal, Colonel Callao, lives back of this Maginot Line somewhere. Let's go have a chat with him."
Chapter 14
THE WEST SLOPE ABOVE LOS ALTOS WAS MUCH steeper than it looked from the safe distance of the hotel roof, and Janet began to regret her impulse to climb it before she was halfway to the rock-face. The tough, stunted brush tore at her skirt with stubborn, clinging fingers, and there was no breeze to disturb the gleeful jiggle of the heat waves.
A loose pebble got into her shoe, and she had to stop and shake it out. She breathed deeply, and the air was so thin and hot in her lungs that it was not refreshing at all. She almost gave it up then, but she thought of Captain Perona and Doan and his three nonexistent children and man's deceit to woman in general and put her head down and plodded on.
She reached the stone face at last and leaned against it, puffing. The rock pedestal, too, was much larger than it had seemed from the hotel. She looked despairingly up at the overhang that marked its brows, and then she found a series of weatherworn niches on one side.
She climbed up laboriously, flattened against the rock, fingers clutching frantically at the warm, rough stone, until her face was even with the brow. Now all she had to do was to turn around and look in the direction the stone face was looking. That wasn't easy. It took her ten minutes and a broken fingernail, and her neck began to ache abominably.
Finally she got the angle. The ston
e face was looking at the east slope, and Janet did, too, sighting professionally with one eye squinted shut. Miraculously the three pillars lined up for her--the big one, the medium one, and the small one. Their tops made a neat, down-slanting diagonal.
Janet sighted and calculated and figured, trying to fix the point where the line of that diagonal would hit the slope on beyond the three pillars. She thought she had it finally, and she crawled down the pedestal again and started to work her way across the slope.
The heat seemed to have redoubled, and the warmth of the sun was a sharp-edged weight against the back of her neck. Her mouth felt like it was full of absorbent cotton.
She reached the three pedestals and went on grimly past them. A stubby bush tore a jagged rip in her skirt and left a red, angry mark on the calf of her leg. She stopped and stamped her foot and swore, but she kept her eyes pinned on the spot she had marked ahead.
And then, when she got there, she found she wasn't any place. The spot looked just like the rest of the slope even more so. There was brush, and there was rock, and that was all.
Janet kicked at the brush, and a scorpion scuttled away from her feet. Janet stood still, staring after it, afraid to move. It was an ugly little horror with shiny, jittering legs that clawed at the rock surface and a sting that arched up over its back. Janet swallowed hard and looked longingly down toward the cool shelter of Los Altos.
A voice came hollow and soft from just behind her: "Yes. This is the place."
Janet whirled around. A stunted bush that was like any other bush and the rock under it that was like any other rock had turned out to be something entirely different. The rock had tilted back and up on a pivot, and the shadowed, thin face and liquidly dark eyes of the man who was sometimes Tio Riquez and other times Bautiste Bonofile looked out of the black, square hole underneath it.
"Come here," he said softly.
Janet stood braced and rigid, and she moved one foot back a little.
The long, silvered barrel of Bautiste Bonofile's revolver glinted in the sun. "I won't hesitate to kill you. I have no prejudice against killing women. I've killed a good many at one time and another. Come here."
Janet took a step and then another. Her shoe sole scraped on rock, reluctantly. She drew a deep breath.
"Don't do that," said Bautiste Bonofile. "Don't scream. I'll shoot."
The Doan and Carstairs Mysteries Page 19