The Doan and Carstairs Mysteries

by Norbert Davis

  Doan was falling by that time, and as he dropped he heard the reports--three of them very close together, but sharp and nastily distinct. He flattened himself on the dirt, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. He was swearing at himself in a mumbling undertone.

  Carstairs came down the alley, running low and very fast and making fierce little grunting sounds. Doan thrust out his arm and caught Carstairs halfway up his front legs. Carstairs did a complete somersault in the air and came down flat on his back with a breathless "Ga-whoomp."

  Doan hitched forward and fell across him. "Be still!" he snarled. "Quiet!"

  They lay there in a rigid, motionless tangle. In a couple of moments, a car starter ground somewhere close. The engine caught with a choked roar, and then tires made a long wailing protest as the car whirled around a corner. The sound died away.

  "Wow," said Doan softly, sitting up.

  Carstairs sat up, too, and glared at him.

  "Oh, relax," said Doan. "Why do you act so stupid? That boy had a gun, and he certainly knows how to use it. He was just on the other side of that street light ahead. If you had run out under that light, he'd have picked you off like a duck on a rock."

  Carstairs grunted.

  "The same to you," said Doan. "I certainly get a lot of thanks for all the care and attention I lavish--what's the matter with you now?"

  Carstairs rumbled deep in his throat. His head was turned away from Doan, and he was watching an apartment-size trash can on the other side of the alley. The lid of the can was tipped drunkenly to one side.

  Doan was on his feet instantly. The hammer of his revolver made a soft, metallic click.

  "Come out of that," he said.

  There was no answer--no sound.

  Doan approached the can, circling. Close to it, he put his right foot against the upper part and heaved. The lid fell off with a rattling clangor. The can tilted past its balance line and fell suddenly on its side.

  Doan's breath hissed through his teeth. A foot protruded from the open end of the can--a man's foot clad in a tan sport shoe. The foot was queerly limp.

  It didn't move.

  Leaning down suddenly, Doan took hold of the foot and jerked hard. The rest of the man's body slid loosely and easily out of the can.

  "This is nice, too," said Doan. "Oh, this is just dandy."

  He found a match and snapped it on his thumbnail. The man's throat had been cut with one deft, neat slash that began under his ear and slanted down and across. His face was smeared thickly with blood, but Doan recognized him at once. He was Frank Ames. He was dead.

  Doan dropped the match and nodded solemnly at Carstairs. "The bird we were chasing so merrily carries a knife and a gun, and he operates in a very fancy way with both or either. I don't think we would care to know him any better, but I'm afraid we're going to."

  Carstairs began to scratch himself.

  * * *

  Doan and Carstairs came into the apartment building through the front door. The lobby was as empty and shabby as it had been before and would be again, and they were heading for the stairs when the first door on the lower hall opened and two faces peered out at them.

  That is, Doan saw two faces. Or, rather, he saw one face multiplied by two--one above the other. It was very uncanny. The two faces duplicated each other exactly. They were round, pink-cheeked, feminine, middle-aged faces. They had braided gray hair tied with blue ribbons. They had blue, frightened eyes that peered at Doan through identical pairs of pince-nez spectacles.

  The short hairs at the back of Doan's neck rose and prickled alarmingly. Carstairs made a startled noise through his nose and ducked behind Doan's legs.

  "Hello," said the faces.

  Doan swallowed. "Hello," he said faintly.

  "We are the Misses Aldrich," said the faces.

  "Are--are there two of you?" Doan asked.

  "Yes. We're twins."

  "Oh," said Doan, breathing again. He looked back and down at Carstairs. "You big coward."

  "We are specialists," said the Aldriches in fascinating unison, "in the emotional and social conditioning of pre-school-age children. We teach that at the university. To students of education."

  "I see," said Doan.

  "We heard noises. We heard screams and loud, raucous shouting. We were frightened."

  "I'm sorry," said Doan.

  "We think we even heard some shots. Do you think you heard some shots, too?"

  "Yes," said Doan. "I think I did."

  "Do you think there might be some intoxicated persons at large on the premises?"

  "I couldn't say," Doan told them.

  "Do you think we are in danger?"

  "I hardly think so," said Doan.

  "Thank you," said the Aldriches, "for reassuring us. You are very kind."

  "Thank you," said Doan.

  "You have a very large dog."

  "Yes," Doan admitted. "Unfortunately."

  "We do not have a dog."

  "You're lucky."

  "But we like dogs very much. Will you be so kind as to allow us to pet your dog at some more appropriate time?"

  "I will," said Doan, "but of course the important question is whether or not he will. He doesn't like to be petted. He thinks it demeans him. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go up and look into the screaming at a little closer range."

  "Be very careful."

  "Indeed, I will."

  "Good night."

  "Good night," said Doan.

  He nudged Carstairs with his knee, and the two of them went up the stairs and along the hall to Melissa's apartment. The door was ajar, and Doan pushed it open wider and looked in.

  Melissa was lying on the chesterfield, propped up with some wadded pillows. Her hair straggled dankly down over her cheeks, and her mascara had run in futuristic streaks. She looked very repulsive. She was holding an ice bag against the left side of her face, and in the other hand she held a tall glass of murkily powerful looking liquid. She sipped the liquid with little blubbering sounds and glared at Doan. Her eyes weren't focusing very efficiently.

  Beulah Porter Cowys was hovering over Melissa, twitching at the pillows and making little croaking sounds that were meant to be soothing. Eric Trent was standing against the opposite wall, trying to appear at ease and find a place to put his hands.

  "Well!" said Beulah Porter Cowys. "The great, late detective! What have you been doing all this time--hiding in a dark closet?"

  "No," said Doan, "but there was a moment there when I wished I had one to hide in." He nodded at Melissa. "How do you feel now?"

  "How do you suppose?"

  Beulah Porter Cowys said, "That decorative dimwit dumped a barrel of water in her face."

  "It was a glass of water," Trent corrected coldly.

  "It was too much, anyway."

  "I thought that was the proper remedy in the case of mild shock."

  "Well, stop thinking," Beulah Porter Cowys advised. "You aren't equipped for it."

  "Mild shock!" Melissa echoed thickly. "What are you talking about? I didn't faint. I was knocked out."

  "I'm sorry," said Trent. "I was trying to help you the best way I knew."

  "Oh, yeah? What are you doing here, anyway? Lurking and throwing water at people? I suppose you think you can put me out of my apartment while I'm too weak to resist."

  "What?" said Trent blankly.

  "Oh, stop trying to act innocent. I'm nauseated enough already."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Trent told her.

  "It's not important now, anyway, is it?" Doan said quickly. "I mean, there's the matter of this prowler to consider."

  Trent looked at him. "I heard some shots. Were you shooting at him?"

  "No," said Doan. "On the contrary."

  "Oh, phooey with an olive," said Beulah Porter Cowys. "It was probably just a car backfiring."

  "Then this car backfired bullets," Doan told her, "and that's not all it did, either. I'm afraid we're going to have to c
all the police."

  "I already have," said Trent. "The first thing."

  "Uh!" Doan grunted. "Which police did you call?"

  "The sheriff's office--the university substation."

  "Oh--oh," said Doan. "Oh--oh--oh."

  "What's the matter?" Trent demanded.

  "A guy named Humphrey is the deputy-in-charge there. And he doesn't like me any at all."

  "Why not?" Beulah Porter Cowys demanded. "Aside from the fact that liking you is a pretty difficult thing to do."

  "You're kind to say so," Doan said. "Humphrey has a grudge against me because he hates Carstairs. Carstairs spends nine-tenths of his time alienating people and making enemies. He humiliated Humphrey, and that's a thing that no cop can take. At least, no cop named Humphrey."

  "How did he do it?"

  "Well," said Doan, "it's like this. Since my youth I have been subject to periodic attacks of vertigo, during which I find it difficult to walk straight. Many callous and uninformed characters--like Carstairs, for instance--think these attacks are due to drinking alcohol in large quantities, but of course that's nonsense."

  "Oh, certainly," said Beulah Porter Cowys.

  "At the time I'm talking about, by the merest and sheerest coincidence, I was seized by one of my attacks while I was sitting at a bar. So I started home, and I was sort of tacking and veering down the street when Humphrey spotted me. Carstairs, the cad, won't even walk with me when I'm in the throes of one of my attacks for fear people will connect the two of us. He pretends he doesn't know me. This time he was tagging along about fifty yards behind me."

  "This is getting good," said Beulah Porter Cowys. "Go on."

  "Humphrey grabbed me. He was in plainclothes, and he was connected with homicide then, and it was none of his affair whether I was drunk--I mean, sick--or not. That's what I told him, and so he started to shove me around, and Carstairs came up and bit him in the pants."

  "In the pants?" Beulah Porter Cowys repeated.

  "Yes. He didn't touch Humphrey. He just tore the seat clear out of his pants. It was broad daylight on a busy street, and Humphrey collected quite an audience. That made him mad. He's still mad."

  "Oh, well," said Beulah Porter Cowys, "maybe he won't be on duty tonight..."

  "He's always on duty. He never sleeps, for fear he might miss out on a chance to arrest someone. He loves to arrest people. He'll arrest me as soon as he sees me."

  "That's nonsense," said Trent. "Policemen don't go around arresting people just because they have a grudge against them."

  "Ha?" said Doan. "May I use your telephone, Melissa?"

  * * *

  Humphrey was as round and smooth and soft as a custard pie. He came huffing importantly into the apartment, flapping his hat indignantly in his hand, with three uniformed deputies trailing right behind him.

  "Now!" he barked. "What's all this nonsense about a prowler--"

  He saw Carstairs. There was a pregnant, crackling silence, and then Humphrey's neck began to puff pinkly above his shirt collar.

  Carstairs was sitting down, leaning against the wall with his eyes shut, dozing. After awhile he opened one eye and regarded Humphrey in a critical, coldly detached way, and then shut the eye again and went on dozing.

  Humphrey turned his head slowly and carefully, with the air of a man who knows there is a coiled rattlesnake near him somewhere. Doan was sitting sprawled out in the lounge chair in tie corner.

  "There he is," said Humphrey. "That's the guy. Put the cuffs on him."

  One of the deputies stepped forward alertly, pulling his handcuffs from their leather case on the back of his belt. Doan held out his hands amiably, and the cuffs snapped around his wrists.

  "Search him," Humphrey ordered.

  "It's in my waistband," Doan volunteered.

  The deputy found the revolver. "It's a .38 Police Positive," he reported.

  "And I've got a license to carry it," said Doan.

  "You won't have long," Humphrey told him. "All right, you people. You'll have to appear at his arraignment. That'll be in the court in downtown Los Angeles, probably on Wednesday morning. The district attorney's office will get in touch with you. Bring him along, boys."

  "Here!" Eric Trent shouted. "What do you think you're doing?"

  Humphrey looked at him. "Who're you?"

  "My name is Eric Trent. Doan warned me you'd act like this, but I was stupid enough to think you'd have better sense. Doan ate dinner with me, and he was with me continuously from that time up to the time we heard this woman--What's your name, you?"

  "It's Melissa Gregory, in case it's any of your business, you."

  "Up to the time we heard this Melissa Gregory scream," Trent went on, paying no attention to her tone.

  "Trying to alibi him, eh?" said Humphrey. "That just makes you an accessory, bub. And you've got a record, too, haven't you? I've seen your picture before."

  "Sir," said one of the deputies.

  Humphrey looked at him. "What do you want?"

  "He's Handsome Lover Boy."

  "What?"

  "He's the guy in those cold cream ads."

  "Well, I'll be damned," said Humphrey. "So you pose for ads when you're not prowling, eh?"

  "Sir," said the deputy.

  "Now what?"

  "He's really married to that woman--that Heloise of Hollywood. It was in the papers--in the society news--a couple of years back. My wife read it to me."

  "Hmmm," said Humphrey, staring at Trent. "Is that a fact? Are you really her husband?"

  "Yes," said Trent tightly.

  "Hmmm," said Humphrey. "Hmmm." He spun around suddenly and pointed at Doan. "Who hired you?"

  "You'll find out," said Doan, "in due course."

  "I'll find out right now!"

  "My wife hired him," Trent said.

  "To do what?"

  "To watch me."

  "Ah," said Humphrey. "And of course he's playing both ends against the middle as usual. He always does. When anyone hires him to watch someone else, he always runs around to the second party and tells them and then collects from each of them for watching the other. Don't you?"

  "Sure," said Doan.

  Melissa sat up on the couch. "Listen, you," she said loudly and clearly. "You were called here to investigate a masked prowler who attacked me. Are you going to do that, or are you going to get the hell out of my apartment?"

  "Melissa!" Beulah Porter Cowys gasped.

  "I mean it," said Melissa. "I'm serious. I've had my nose rubbed in this teak-headed Trent's nasty personal affairs until I'm good and sick of him and them."

  "Doan is the prowler," Humphrey told her.

  "He is not!"

  "Well, then Trent is."

  "He isn't, either!"

  "How do you know--if the guy was masked?"

  "Because he wasn't as tall as Trent nor as fat as Doan."

  "You're just trying to make things difficult for me," Humphrey complained.

  "I'll make them more difficult," said Doan. "There's a murdered man in an ashcan out in the alley in back."

  "Ah-ha!" Humphrey gloated, rubbing his hands. "You heard that confession, all of you? You're witnesses. I've always hoped for a chance to peek at you in the gas chamber, Doan. Who'd you kill? You might as well tell the truth, because I won't believe what you say, anyway."

  "I didn't kill anyone," said Doan. "The prowler did it on his way out."

  Humphrey waved his hand. "A detail. I know you're the prowler. Who is the guy, and why did you knock him off?"

  "His name is Frank Ames."

  "Oh!" Melissa gasped.

  "Frank," said Beulah Porter Cowys, swallowing with a little croaking sound. "Gee."

  "Frank Ames," Trent repeated thoughtfully. "I met someone by that name at the faculty lunch... Isn't he a red-haired chap? English assistant?"

  "That's the one," said Doan.

  "Why did you murder him?" Humphrey demanded.

  "I just got through telling you I didn't. The p
rowler did."

  "Sure, sure," said Humphrey. "Don't quibble. Just tell me why it happened."

  "I'm not sure why. Ames doesn't live here, but I think he must have been visiting someone in the building."

  "M-me," said Melissa. "He took me to dinner and the m-movies."

  "That's it," said Doan. "Which way did he bring you home--did he drive up the hill?"

  "Yes."

  Doan nodded at Humphrey. "Here's what happened, then. He swung his car around in a U-turn in the middle of the street. His headlights swung across that alley just as the prowler was coming out of the back areaway. Ames saw him. I think probably the prowler either had taken off or was taking off his mask. He wouldn't want to run around the streets with it on."

  "You mean, Ames recognized you?" Humphrey asked.

  "I think he must have recognized the prowler. Otherwise Ames wouldn't have gotten out of his car, and he did. His car is headed into the curb ten feet this way from the alley with the door still open. He jumped out and went to find out what the prowler was up to. If he hadn't known the prowler and recognized him, the prowler would just have batted him one like he did Melissa, instead of cutting his throat."

  Humphrey nodded at two of the deputies. "Go take a look. See how much of this he's making up."

  The two deputies ducked out the door.

  Melissa was bent double. "It was my--my--my fault..."

  Humphrey pounced. "What? What's that? Speak up."

  "Shut up," said Beulah Porter Cowys. "Don't pay any attention to this fat boob, Melissa. Don't say anything at all if you don't want to."

  Melissa said slowly, getting the words out with enormous effort: "He tried to ask me to marry him. He had many times--before. I liked him, but...this time I avoided--I slipped away. Oh, Beulah!"

  Beulah Porter Cowys seized her competently by the shoulders. "Right in here, honey. Come on." She boosted Melissa to her feet and headed her for the bedroom.

  "Wait, now!" Humphrey shouted. "About this prowler. What kind of a mask did he have on?"

  "A stocking--a silk stocking. Black. Over his whole head."