Doan said some things to himself in an undertone. He leaned down and picked the man up, trying to avoid the dried blood, and then carried him toward the shack with Carstairs coursing on ahead alertly. The front, and only, door had a padlock and hasp on it, but the padlock had rusted open. Doan maneuvered it off the hasp with the toe of one shoe and then kicked the door open.
He turned sideways and slid through the door, still carrying the dead man. Inside the darkness was as thick and smooth as molasses, but it had considerably more odor. Carstairs snorted disapprovingly. Letting his burden slide down to the floor, Doan struck a match.
The flame reflected in a little sparkle from the unshaded electric light bulb that hung from the ceiling on a limp yellow cord. Doan pulled the string attached to it, and the darkness retired, quivering malignantly, to the corners of the room.
There was a table with a stained and splintered top just under the light, and there were two tin cups and two tin plates and two forks, all dirty, on top of it. Doan regarded the setup thoughtfully for a moment, and then picked up the dead man, and put him in the swaybacked chair in front of one of the plates and maneuvered his arms and legs around carefully until he stayed there.
Doan stepped back to look things over, his head tilted in a speculative way. He was frowning a little. Then his eye caught a battered deck of cards resting between two old gin bottles on a board that had been nailed against the far wall to form a shelf. He picked the cards up and ran through them quickly. They were marked with invisible little nicks along the edges.
Doan smiled. He piled the tin plates and cups at one end of the table and then scattered the cards over its surface, letting a few fall on the floor.
He stepped back and surveyed the scene again. Things looked a little better. He took Free-Look Jones' knife from his pocket and wiped the blade and handle carefully on his handkerchief and then, still using his handkerchief to cover his hand, he put the point of the knife against the purple-edged wound in the dead man's neck and pushed.
The blade went in slickly and easily up to its hilt. Doan let go. The handle of the knife was made of some green composition material that caught the light and glittered sinisterly, sticking out under the lax line of the dead man's jaw.
Doan nodded to himself, satisfied. He pulled the string on the light bulb and felt his way toward the door. He bumped into Carstairs in front of it and said, "Go on. Outside."
He shut the front door and put the rusted padlock back on its hasp, and then headed for the car with Carstairs trailing along behind in disapproving silence. Doan began to whistle to himself in a mildly pleased way.
He pushed Carstairs into the back seat, turned the car around, and headed back for the center of town. Things were looking up a bit now. The signs were brighter, if possible, and parts of the populace, prowling like zombies in the weird light, sauntered aimlessly and stared or merely stood, hip-shot and dejected on the corners, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and spitting in the gutters. Cars, with sand on their hoods and spades lashed over the front fenders, were parked in thick clusters in the street center.
Doan found a place for the Cadillac, and he and Carstairs got out and walked across to the Bar B Grill. The one-eared bartender was still in sole charge, and he sighed deeply and began to clatter bottles around in a very absorbed manner when Doan and Carstairs appeared.
"Mr. Doan!" Harriet Hathaway called. "You've come back again!"
"I think you're right," Doan said.
She was sitting at the table she and Doan had occupied before, and the man with the black glasses was sitting opposite her. He was eating a steak, but he didn't look as though he were enjoying it. His shoulders were hunched, and he had the numbly suffering air of a man unbearably buffeted by fate.
"This is Mr. Blue, Mr. Doan," Harriet said. "He's eating your steak."
"That's thoughtful of him," Doan remarked.
"I didn't want to eat it," Blue said.
"Nonsense," said Harriet. "Of course you did."
"I don't like steak."
Harriet laughed. "Now isn't that a silly thing to say! Everyone likes steak. And besides, it's good for you. You just go right ahead and enjoy it."
"All right," said Blue glumly. He put another piece in his mouth and chewed with grim concentration.
"You seem to be getting along a little better than you were at last reports," Doan observed.
Harriet laughed again. "It was all a mistake. It was just because Mr. Blue is so ignorant."
Blue looked up at Doan and nodded solemnly, his blacked-out glasses winking in the light. "I sure am. I'm awful ignorant, Mr. Doan."
"Is that so?" said Doan.
Harriet said, "He didn't even know there was a war! He really didn't. He can't read, and he doesn't have money enough to buy a radio, and he's so shy he never talks to people. Isn't that incredible?"
"Yes," said Doan.
"You know," Harriet said, "he thought when I was talking to him before about the emergency that I meant the depression! And when I told him about the WAACs, he thought I was referring to the WPA!"
"Did he?" said Doan.
"But when I explained things, he became very interested at once. Didn't you become interested?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Blue, starting stubbornly on another piece of steak.
"When I told him about our brave boys fighting in all parts of the world on land and on the sea and in the air, he was astounded. Weren't you?"
"Uh-huh," said Blue. "Sure was."
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Doan?" Harriet asked. "I'm just going to describe to Mr. Blue the wonderful work our Air Force has been doing. I'm fascinated by the Air Force, and I know all about it. Wouldn't you like to listen, too?"
"Thank you, no," said Doan. "I have a little business to look after. Perhaps I'll see you later."
He went over to the bar and drummed on it with his fingers.
"Want some whiskey?" the bartender asked, staying at a safe distance.
"No. You. Come here."
"You ain't mad, are you?"
"No."
The bartender slid a little closer, keeping an eye on Carstairs. "What?"
"Where'd you dump the debris I left here?"
"Oh, him. I called Doc Gravelmeyer to look at him, and the doc took him over to his office. I wouldn't want to offer any advice or anything, but if I was you I'd sort of step over and look into that situation."
"Why?"
"Well, Doc Gravelmeyer has been readin' a book again, and when he was over here he was talkin' about acute something-or-other that I didn't like the sound of. He said right away that Parsley Jack--that's the guy you tangled with--looked like a first-class incipient case of it and that he'd better open Jack up and look around a bit. Now the trouble with Doc Gravelmeyer is that he's liable to get so interested when he gets to prowlin' around that it's sometimes fatal."
"I should worry."
"You're right," said the bartender, "you should. Doc's the coroner. The last guy that kicked off while he was operatin' on him got listed as an accidental death due to drowning in a sand storm. Doc is a very humorous guy sometimes."
"He sounds like it. Where can I find him?"
"His office is down the street over the undertaker's parlor. Does the undertaker, too. Just for a laugh, he claims he always gets you, comin' or goin'."
"Ha-ha," said Doan sourly. "Come on, Carstairs." They went out into the street again, but Doan didn't attempt to find Doc Gravelmeyer's office. Instead, he went to the Cadillac, got his two suitcases out of the rear seat, and headed for the Double-Eagle Hotel.
He went up the three slick marble steps at the entrance and through the brass bound doors and right back into the nineteenth century. The lobby was two stories high and featured a crystal chandelier as big as a dive bomber, and potentially as dangerous to any innocent bystanders if it happened to fall. There were rubber plants in all the available corners and chairs with red plush upholstery and gilt-knobbed legs, and shiny brass spittoons with gr
acefully curved necks. All this was overlaid neatly with an odor of fly-spray that made Carstairs sneeze indignantly.
The only concession to the present was the desk clerk. He was as slick and shiny as a new cocktail shaker, and he owned a smile that hit you in the face like a wet towel.
"Yes, sir!" he said.
"I want a room for myself and my friend. Twin beds."
"Yes, sir!" said the clerk. He twirled a big leather-bound register around on the desk and pointed a pen at Doan.
Doan signed as "I. Doanwashi, Tokyo, Japan."
The clerk didn't bat an eye. "Glad to have you with us, Mr. Doanwashi. I hope you enjoy your stay. Joshua! Joshua! Front!"
A man came out of the door at the rear of the lobby. He was a very small, very frail man, wearing a uniform that would have enabled him to join a Civil War infantry regiment without attracting undue attention. He leaned over the desk and held out his hand blindly. The clerk slapped a key into his palm.
"Two-one-four."
"Two-one-four," Joshua repeated numbly.
He leaned over to pick up Doan's bags and fell flat on his face. He got up carefully, took a deep breath, and picked up the bags. He headed for the red carpeted stairway in a wavering, loose-kneed quickstep. He missed by ten feet and disappeared in the shadows under the staircase.
The clerk smiled amiably at Doan. There was a crash and a thud, and Joshua backed out into the lobby and made another run at the stairs. He hit them this time, and got halfway up before he lost his momentum. He turned around and sat down with a baffled sigh.
"Two-one-four," said the clerk.
"Two-one-four," Joshua echoed obediently.
He got up and picked up the bags again, and made it to the top of the staircase. Doan and Carstairs followed him with due caution. Joshua had dropped the bags halfway down the straight, high-ceilinged hall, and was bent over in front of a door, jabbing at the middle panel with the key the clerk had given him.
"Here," said Doan.
He took the key and unlocked the door. Joshua dove head first into the darkened room. Doan waited. Nothing happened. Finally Doan groped around the edge of the door until he found the light switch and turned it.
Joshua was sitting on the edge of one of the high brass beds. He had his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his hands. Doan picked up the suitcases and brought them inside the room.
"Thanks, bud," said Joshua. "Open the windows before you go, and leave a call for me at ten-thirty."
"Okay," said Doan.
He took hold of Joshua by the slack of his uniform jacket and marched him to the door and pushed. Joshua fell in a graceful heap in the middle of the hall. Doan shut the door and looked at Carstairs.
"Well, you can't blame me for that, surely," he said.
Carstairs was sitting in the middle of the floor. He watched Doan levelly for a moment and then closed his eyes and sighed with long-suffering patience.
Doan took the .25 automatic out of his pocket and shoved it under the mattress of one of the beds. He straightened his tie in front of the wavery mirror over the dresser, and then nodded at Carstairs.
"Come to, soup-brain. I think we better move around a bit."
He opened the door and looked out. Joshua had disappeared. Doan and Carstairs went down the hall and downstairs to the lobby.
The clerk still smiled. "I hope you found your room satisfactory?"
"Very," said Doan. "Where's Joshua?"
"He went out for a few minutes to get a drink of root beer."
"Root beer?" Doan said. "Joshua?"
"Yes. He makes it himself in the back of a drugstore next door."
"I'll bet," said Doan. "I want to use your telephone to make a long distance call."
"If you'll give me the number, I'll get it for you. You can take it in the booth over there."
"I'd rather use your board. Haven't you got an errand you can run?"
"No," said the clerk. "But I can use these." He took a pair of rubber earplugs from his pocket and inserted them in his ears.
"There's a scorpion on your shirt collar," Doan told him.
The clerk removed one of the plugs. "What?"
"Those are fine," Doan said. He sat down in front of the board and flipped the switch that connected with the exchange, holding the half-headset receiver to his ear.
"Hello Gerald, darling," a feminine voice greeted.
"Gerald's busy not listening to you at the moment," Doan said. "Is there any message?"
"No! What are you doing on the board?"
"Trying to put in a long distance call to Brighton 7-7345. That's an exchange in Brighton outside of New York City. Will you get it for me?"
"I suppose so."
"And don't bother to listen in after you get it. I'm a Japanese spy, and the things I'm going to say are confidential military information."
"Nothing you could say would interest me in the slightest, I assure you. Hold the line."
Doan listened through a long series of clicks and buzzes and dribbles of conversation. Finally the operator said, "Here's your party, and you're welcome to him."
"Hello, hello," said a masculine voice. "Hello. This is A. Truegold, president of Severn International Detectives."
"You won't be for long," Doan said, "if you make any more lend-lease deals with me for the subject or object or whatever."
"Oh. So it's you. Now Doan, nobody asked me to loan you to them. They told me. You want I should argue with the Army and Navy?"
"All right. Send five hundred dollars to I. Doanwashi, care of the Double-Eagle Hotel in Heliotrope, Nevada or California. Telegraph it right away."
"Now Doan, you're already drawn ahead three months. You can't expect to draw any more when you aren't even working for me. Why don't you be reasonable?"
"Why don't you stop arguing? You know you'll lose. Send the dough tonight. I'm trying to raffle off a used cadaver, and I need it for operating capital."
"Doan! A what did you say?"
"Skip it. Just forget the whole matter. Only don't start yelling for me when the cops come rapping on your door and asking about stray bodies."
"Doan! You didn't involve the agency in a murder? That's against our policy! It says so right on our stationery!"
"Show it to the police."
"Doan! Wait a minute! Don't you dare hang up on me! What name did you say you were using?"
"I. Doanwashi."
"Why?"
"I'm a Japanese spy now."
"Don't say things like that! Do you want to get us both shot? Doan! Are you drunk?"
"Stinking. I'm liable to start babbling and drooling at any moment."
"Oh, Doan! Now please. You've got no right to involve me or the agency... All right! I'll send it. But no more! I warn you! I won't tolerate any further blackmail from you!"
"Okay. Is that little greasy bird who used to collect filthy postcards still hanging out in Des Moines?"
"Meredith? Yes. Why?"
"I want you to call him tonight, as soon as you send me my dough, and tell him to send a telegram to Harriet Hathaway in care of the Double-Eagle Hotel in Heliotrope, Nevada or California, whichever he knows how to spell. Have him tell her in the telegram to stay here until she is contacted for important detached confidential duty. Have him sign it with just his initials and last name, and tell him to put the letters C-A-P-T in front of the name. That stands for capitals."
"It stands for something else, too," said Truegold. "It stands for captain."
"Does it?" Doan asked.
"Doan! I won't do it! No!"
Doan cut the connection and nodded at the clerk.
The clerk removed his earplugs. "Did you get your party?"
"Yes. Put the charge on my room bill. Do you know anyone named Dust-Mouth Haggerty?"
"Not socially," said the clerk.
"I wasn't looking for a formal introduction. Where would I be likely to find him?"
"In jail."
"You mean right now?"
"Almost any time."
"Thanks," said Doan. "I'll go take a look." He snapped his fingers at Carstairs and started for the front door.
A woman, trailed by a faint, dim shadow, came in and stopped short, staring at him. Doan stared back. He couldn't have helped himself had he tried. She was beautifully tall and beautifully slender, and she had shoulder length black hair that gleamed darker and deeper and smoother than polished ebony. She had features so unbelievably perfect they made you gulp and look again, and then keep right on gulping. She was wearing white linen slacks, and a white jacket trimmed with big brass buttons, and white open-toed pumps, and a red sash around her waist. She pulled all the life out of the lobby and focused it on herself, like a little boy sucking soda through a straw.
"No," she said, and her voice was soft and just slightly hoarse. "There couldn't be two pair like you."
"If I wasn't looking right at it," Doan answered, "I wouldn't believe there could even be one like you--"
The faint, dim shadow behind the woman tiptoed closer and peered over her shoulder. The shadow owned a pair of wide, worried eyes and a long nose, and sported a white catalogue sombrero with a high crown circled by a purple and red band four inches wide.
"A fat little number," said the woman, "with a big mouth and a bigger dog. Wasn't that it?"
"Now, Sally," said the shadow. "Now, wait. There must be some reasonable explanation."
Susan Sally glided forward three smooth steps. "I don't like fat little numbers. Especially fat little numbers that call me fat." She paused meaningly. "I don't like big dogs, either."
Carstairs promptly walked around behind Doan.
"You coward," Doan muttered. He smiled nervously. "I'm sorry about that. It was a mistake."
"That's okay," Susan Sally said amiably. "Let's shake on it, huh?"
She held out her right hand. Doan reached for it, but didn't take it. Instead he shoved her right elbow back and up with the heel of his palm. She had started to move just as soon as he had. She swung a full roundhouse left at his face. The shove pushed her off balance, and her fist swished harmlessly past in front of Doan's nose. She staggered a little, and Doan caught both her wrists, holding her upright, facing him. He was watching her feet.
The Doan and Carstairs Mysteries Page 25