"I know. Then, later, you grew so fond of him and he of you that you couldn't part with him."
"What?" said Doan. "Fond? I detest him, and he despises me."
"Oh, no," said Harriet confidently. "Dogs always love their masters."
"Explain that to Carstairs sometime when you're not busy. It would be an interesting new theory to him."
"Does he always sleep like this?"
"Turn around again," Doan said.
Harriet turned around. Carstairs' broad, blunt muzzle was just a half inch from the end of her nose, and his eyes were fiery greenish slits staring unblinkingly into hers.
"Oh!" she gasped.
"Relax, stupid," said Doan.
The rear seat springs bonged as Carstairs hurled himself back into the cushions again.
"Oh," said Harriet, swallowing. "Oh."
"He gets resentful when people make disparaging remarks about him," Doan explained.
"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't know he could understand... Why, he can't understand! Dogs can't understand what people are saying!"
Doan shrugged. "Okay."
"You signaled him some way. I know! You mentioned his name!"
"Have it your way..."
"Well, I don't like him--"
"He'd feel insulted if you did. What did this horrible person who picked you up in Masterville look like?"
"Well, he was tall and skinny and unhealthy looking, and he had a beard that grew in patches in a disgustingly unkempt manner. He was really most unpleasant, and I didn't bother to pay much attention to him. I always say we should ignore the lower elements of the population and concentrate our attention on people of culture and breeding."
"I'll bet."
"Bet what?"
"That you always say that."
After that they rode in silence for awhile. Doan turned on the headlights, and the car moved smoothly and silently through the white tunnel they dug in the night. A few stars came out. In the Mojave the stars aren't coy. They don't twinkle and wink at you. They just stare. Sometimes, when you've been alone too long, you begin to think they're taking an altogether too personal interest in you and your affairs, and then you get sand-silly and start running in circles and screaming.
Carstairs licked Doan on the back of the neck. Carstairs' tongue, spread out flat, was as wide as a four-inch paint brush and had much the same effect when used judicially. It never failed to make Doan jump. Now the car swooped across to the wrong side of the road and back again.
"Damn you!" Doan said emphatically.
"What?" Harriet asked, startled.
"Carstairs," Doan explained. "He has an urgent personal errand to attend to."
He stopped the car and shut off the motor, palming the ignition key as he did so. He got out and opened the rear door.
"Come on. And don't step on a rattlesnake, like I hope you will."
Carstairs looked up the road and down the road and snorted twice disapprovingly and then ambled off into the shadows. Doan walked around to the back of the car and stared up at the stars without much enthusiasm. He looked down after a moment, his eyes caught by the gleam of the chrome handle on the trunk compartment.
It was still turned sideways. Doan attempted to turn it back to the locked position. Something was holding it. It was something soft that gave slightly under pressure.
Doan opened the compartment curiously. It had a light in it that snapped on as he did so and showed the man in the compartment quite plainly. He was sitting down, his knees doubled up, and his head twisted back sideways. It was the middle finger of his left hand that had kept the compartment from locking. The edge of the lock had roweled the skin and flesh across the knuckle, but it wasn't bleeding.
Doan let his breath out slowly and quietly, and then breathed in as slowly. The man had been stabbed expertly in the side of his throat, and blood was caked thick and scaly all over the front of his coat. He was not a large man and not young. His suit, where the blood hadn't stained it, was blue, and it looked as though it hadn't fitted well even when he was alive.
Carstairs came out of the shadows. He paused for a second and then peered around Doan and sniffed once. He backed off two steps, his upper lip curling.
"I know," said Doan. "He's not fresh. I wonder just what kind of a story I'm going to tell Arne that will account for me picking up a three-day dead hitchhiker with a sliced jugular vein."
Carstairs watched him silently.
"The compartment was unlocked," Doan said absently, "and he could have been shoved in there any place I stopped, only I didn't stop any place where there weren't a lot of people around..." He paused and looked toward the front of the car. "Maybe I'm getting softening of the brain."
He closed the compartment, after gingerly shoving the lax, leaden-tinged hand out of the way, and made sure it was locked this time.
"Get in," he said.
Carstairs climbed quickly and silently into the backseat. Doan closed the door after him and got in the front seat and started the car.
"This horrible person," he said, rolling the car back on the highway, "the one who picked you up, where did he go after he put you down?"
"On along the road," Harriet said. "The same way we've been going."
"He didn't stop or come back, did he?"
"No."
"You didn't see anyone else sort of prowling around in the vicinity while you were waiting, did you?"
"No," she said blankly. "Why?"
"Just wondered," Doan answered. "Did you have any friends with you, back there when I picked you up, someone who might have been temporarily mislaid in the brush or something?"
"Friends?"
"Chums. Acquaintances. Traveling companions."
"Of course not."
"Oh," said Doan. He waited for awhile. "We're coming into Heliotrope in a couple of hours. That's as far as I'm going. Would you take it amiss if I put on my best manners and invited you to have dinner with me?"
Harriet considered. "I think it would be perfectly proper for me to have dinner with you, Mr. Doan."
"I'm glad," said Doan.
Chapter 4
HELIOTROPE IS TOO FAR INLAND TO FALL UNDER the restrictions of the coastal dim-out zone, and since the taste of the advertising portion of its population runs toward the more violent shades of neon, it resembles a string of cheap jewelry tucked in against the dark and barren sweep of the Crazy Leg Mountains when approached at night from the floor of the desert. Its main street is four blocks long, paved at the sides but not in the middle, and at close range the signs on the buildings that line it are so blinding that it is hard for the stranger to tell whether he has arrived in a town or at the Fourth of July.
Doan parked the Cadillac in the unpaved section of the street midway between the Double-Eagle Hotel (golden neon eagle flapping its wings in two-four time) and the Bar B Grill (fiendish twenty-foot red flames lapping around a bored blue cow). The combination of colors gave Harriet Hathaway's healthy face a tinge that reminded him urgently of the cargo he was carrying in the trunk compartment.
"Let's try that," he said, indicating the Bar B. "They might really have steaks."
"I'd like one," said Harriet.
Doan opened the door for Carstairs, and the three of them crossed the street and went in through the red bordered swing doors. The place was long and low and L-shaped, filled to capacity with a bar and round, blacktopped tables. The only person in sight was the bartender. He had gold front teeth and only one ear.
"Have you any steaks tonight?" Doan asked.
"Sure," said the bartender.
"Are they good?"
"I dunno, mister. I just cook 'em. I don't eat 'em."
Doan selected a table, and pulled out a chair for Harriet Hathaway. "We'll take a chance. Give us a couple of what you think are New York cuts and some French fried potatoes and a salad bowl."
"Ain't you gonna have anything to drink first?" the bartender asked. "We don't make any profit on our food, you know. We can't
run this dive unless we sell liquor."
Doan looked inquiringly at Harriet. "You?"
"I don't drink, thank you."
Doan nodded at the bartender. "I'll have a triple bourbon in a beer glass."
"Why?" said the bartender.
Carstairs had collapsed beside the table, and Doan indicated him meaningly.
"I'm only allowed one drink before meals, unless I want an argument."
The bartender stared. "You mean you let a dog dictate to you?"
"Up-si-daisy," said Doan.
Carstairs got up instantly. Doan pointed toward the bar, and Carstairs swung his head slowly in the direction.
"Hey!" said the bartender. "Hold it, now! I didn't mean any offense. I was just making a remark, and I can see that there's a lot to be said for your point of view."
"Let's have a little less conversation and a little more service," Doan requested.
"Sure. Tell him to lie down again like a nice dog, would you mind?"
"Boom," said Doan.
Carstairs relaxed his muscles and hit the floor all at once.
"One triple bourbon in a beer glass," the bartender said, becoming briskly businesslike. "Yes, sir. Coming right up. Two New York cuts, side of fried and grass. On the fire."
He brought the drink for Doan, making a careful detour around Carstairs, and then went back and began to bustle busily around the hooded grill at the far end of the bar. Doan raised the glass to take a sip of the whiskey in it and then paused, staring at the man who had materialized from somewhere or other and was now standing beside the table smiling at him.
"How do you do?" said the man.
He was small, and he had a round, olive-skinned face with a dimple in each cheek, and his teeth were very white and even under a pencil-line black mustache. His eyes were liquidly dark and sparkling. He wore a brown suit and a brown shirt and tie and had a brown handkerchief peeping artistically out of the breast pocket of his coat.
"All right," said Doan.
The small man turned his head and looked at Harriet. There was nothing insulting about his look. It was courteously calculating, nothing more.
"Would you like to buy a blonde?" he asked, turning back to Doan.
"A what?" Doan said.
"A blonde."
"No," said Doan.
"A brunette?"
"No," said Doan. "Supposing you go away and sit down somewhere."
The small man smiled winningly. "You don't approve of me, perhaps?"
"Not perhaps. Positively."
"You scorn me?"
"That's right."
The small man bowed precisely. "Good evening." He turned on his heel and walked back to the farthest table in the rear corner of the room and sat down.
Harriet said, "He's such a handsome little man, but he must be awfully drunk. I mean, who ever heard of buying a blonde or brunette... Oh!"
"Yes," said Doan.
"You mean he--they--you... Oh!"
"Oh," Doan agreed.
"Why, that's terrible! Why, I'm going to call a policeman and have him arrested!"
"It wouldn't do any good. They'd just have to bail him out or pay his fine."
"They! You mean, they pay... Oh, that's horrible! Oh, I don't believe... Really?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm going to..." Her voice trailed away. She was staring glassy-eyed over Doan's shoulder. "Oh, there he is! You!"
Doan turned around. A tall man in khaki pants and shirt and leather jacket was halfway between the door and the bar. He had stopped so suddenly that he had one foot still half-raised to take another step. He was wearing black--not dark, but black--glasses, and he had an unkempt, patchy beard about an inch long at its best points. He was watching Harriet Hathaway with the sort of expression the ordinary person reserves for a nest of rattlesnakes.
"That's the horrible slacker person," Harriet explained to Doan. "You! Come right over here!"
The tall man put the raised foot carefully in back of the one he was standing on. Harriet got out of her chair.
"Don't you dare try to avoid me! You come here! I want to speak to you!"
That last did it. The tall man spun like a top and dove for the door. He hit it and was gone with a double whack-whack to mark his passage.
"Oh, he's not going to get away from me again!" said Harriet, and went right after him.
The doors whack-whacked again, even more emphatically. Carstairs had raised his head and was looking at Doan with an expression of long-suffering annoyance. Doan shrugged and took a big drink of bourbon.
"So you wanna insult my friend, do you?"
Doan looked up slowly. This man was wearing a ten-gallon hat and a blue bandanna and a calfskin vest and brass-studded chaps, and the effect was so startling it was grotesque. His face didn't match the camouflage. It was a fat, florid face with black, beady chips for eyes. It was blurred just slightly. It looked like a face someone had drawn and then half erased. In other words, it looked like a fifth rate prizefighter's face.
"So you wanna insult my friend, huh?" he said again.
"Sure," said Doan, putting his glass down.
The man was as thick as he was wide, and he turned and pointed meaningly toward the back of the room. "That's my friend, what you insulted."
"Go away while you're healthy," said Doan. "Take him with you."
The thick man clipped him with a short right. It was an expertly professional blow, coming without any warning at all. Doan had just time to tilt his head a quarter inch, so that the splayed, thick knuckles landed on his cheekbone instead of on the point of his jaw.
The force of the blow knocked him clear out of his chair and flat on the floor. He rolled over and dove, not for the thick man, but for Carstairs. He was just in time. He got a stranglehold on Carstairs' neck with one arm and jerked his front feet out from under him with the other.
Carstairs sprawled down, half on top of him, making little grunting thick sounds deep in his throat.
"Stop it!" Doan panted, rapping him sharply on the top of the head. "Did I ask for help? Did I? Relax!"
The thick man laughed jeeringly. "Look at this! I hit the guy, so he hits his dog! A screwball!"
Doan got up. "That was a cute trick," he said amiably. "What would you do if I did this?"
He made a fork out of the first two fingers of his right hand and then flicked the fingers at the thick man's eyes. Just exactly like Laurel and Hardy. Only Doan meant it. One of his fingers bit the thick man in each of his eyes.
The thick man screamed and slapped both palms against his eyes. Doan stepped back two paces and then forward one and kicked the thick man six inches below his belt. The thick man stopped screaming right in mid-note and doubled up. Doan hit him in the back of his neck with a full-arm swing, and the thick man followed his nose right down to the floor and squirmed there on his stomach.
Doan stepped back three paces this time and then forward two and jumped. He came down heels first, lumberjack style, on the thick man's back. There was a dull little crack, and then the thick man didn't squirm any more. He didn't do anything. He lay where he was.
Doan stepped off him lightly and looked at the back of the room. "And now I want a word with you."
The small man had lost his neat and glistening smile and the best part of his olive complexion. He looked decidedly ill. He was standing up, flat against the wall, and now he shook a thin clasp knife out of the sleeve of his neat brown suit and opened the blade with a flick of his wrist.
Doan picked up the chair he had fallen out of and walked slowly toward him. The small man threw the knife in a sudden wickering blur. Doan caught it on the bottom of the chair, and it stuck there with a steely thrum. He worked it loose and balanced it in his right hand thoughtfully.
The small man didn't wait for any decisions. He dove head first through the window behind his table. Doan stared at the window as though he had never seen one before. He took three steps toward it, craning his neck, and then suddenly whipp
ed around and dropped into a crouch, facing the other way.
The bartender was standing at attention, both hands raised over his head. "Oh, no!" he said quickly. "No, sir! I'm neutral, thanks."
Doan watched him.
"Mister," said the bartender, "this position ain't very comfortable, but I ain't gonna twitch an eyelid until you say I can."
"All right," said Doan. "Who was the gent who went out the window?"
"Name of Free-Look Jones. No friend of mine."
"Where does he live?"
"I dunno."
"Find out," said Doan, "before I count three. One, two--"
"On Rosewater Lane," said the bartender quickly. "It runs out north of town. He lives in a shack next to a wrecked dump truck near the end. There's no number."
"Okay," said Doan. "Sweep up the garbage on the floor. I'll be back."
"Don't hurry," said the bartender.
Chapter 5
ROSEWATER LANE STARTED OUT WITH QUITE a splurge. It was paved, and there were four houses in the first block. The second block was only half paved and contained three houses. The third block didn't have any pavement or any houses, either, and after that the lane circled in a discouraged way around a knoll, and there was the abandoned dump truck like some armored prehistoric bug that had been tipped over on its back and decided to make the best of it.
The shack was low and unpainted and swaybacked, pushed in against the darker blot of the knoll. There were no lights showing, and Doan stopped the Cadillac a hundred yards away from it and opened the rear door.
"Take a look," he ordered. He pointed at the shack and made a circling motion with his forefinger.
Carstairs got out of the car and faded quietly and expertly into the darkness. Doan waited. After about five minutes Carstairs came back and put his front feet on the running board and snuffled over the lowered glass.
"Okay," said Doan.
He got out of the car and went around to the back and opened the trunk compartment. The man inside hadn't changed any, for the better or the worse. Doan took hold of his arm and pulled. The man slid out of the compartment with a horribly fluid laxness and sprawled all over the ground.
The Doan and Carstairs Mysteries Page 24