The Essential Works of Norbert Davis

by Norbert Davis

  "Didn't I?" Doan asked.

  "No. Instead you deposited it in the Commercial Trust Bank in Chicago under the name of D.L. Carstairs."

  "It's a fund for his college education," said Doan, indicating Carstairs.

  "I find your humor nauseating," Captain Perona told him shortly. "You never had any intention of paying that money to Eldridge. You embezzled it."

  "Shame on me," said Doan. "I guess these certain politicians will sue me or put me in jail or something, then, won't they?"

  Captain Perona scowled at him in silence.

  "What is it?" Lieutenant Ortega asked. "I do not understand."

  Captain Perona said: "He knows the politicians do not dare prosecute him because then they would have to explain why they gave him the money which would result in just the scandal they are trying to avoid."

  "Hey!" Sergeant Obrian exclaimed. "You mean that pudgy gets to keep the ten grand? And then they try to tell you that crime don't pay!"

  "Did you speak?" Captain Perona inquired.

  "No, sir," said Sergeant Obrian.

  Captain Perona pointed to Carstairs, to Doan, and to Lepicik. "Get out. All of you."

  Doan nudged Carstairs with his elbow. "Come on, chum. We beat the rap."

  Chapter 9

  THE HACIENDA NUEVA INGLESA WAS neither a ranch nor new, and English only by adoption, but it had adobe walls six feet thick that had survived the earthquake with only a few exterior cracks. It was a narrow, two-story building on the west side of the plaza. Doan and Carstairs and Lepicik went in through the side entrance into a low, dim, musty-smelling room optimistically labeled a restaurant-bar.

  "Mr. Doan!" Janet greeted. She was sitting at one of the round wire-legged tables under a poster which luridly proclaimed the virtues of Guinness Stout. "You were released! Oh, I'm so glad!"

  "I told you not to worry about him," said Mrs. Henshaw. She was seated at another of the tables, writing busily in a leather-mounted diary with a tiny gold pencil. "I knew he'd manage to bribe somebody."

  "I saved my money this time," Doan said. "Lepicik got me out."

  "It was nothing," said Lepicik politely. "If you will excuse me now, I think I will take a nap in my room. I am very weary."

  He went up the steep stairway to the second floor.

  "Miss Martin," said Mrs. Henshaw, "what was that queer dish we had for lunch?"

  "Chiles rellenos," Janet told her.

  "How do you spell it?"

  Janet spelled it for her.

  Greg was sitting by himself in the corner staring darkly at the tall, round bottle of Plymouth gin on the table in front of him. Doan walked over to him.

  "Can I have a drink of that?"

  "I suppose so," Greg said. "If you pay for it. There are some glasses on the shelf back of the bar. If you want a mix, yell for Timpkins."

  "I'll try it straight," Doan said. He found a glass and sat down at the table opposite Greg. "Let's get drunk, shall we?"

  "Okay," said Greg.

  Doan took off his hat and put it down on the table and unbuttoned his coat. He poured some gin into his glass and tasted it.

  "It's good," he said. He finished the drink and poured himself another.

  Carstairs walked up to the table and growled at him.

  "As for you," said Doan. "You can go straight to hell."

  Carstairs growled at him again.

  "I'll get drunk if I feel like it," Doan told him. "It's my stomach. Lie down before somebody bops you with a bottle."

  Carstairs lowered himself to the floor with a series of loose, bony thuds. He snorted once and then closed his eyes in a resigned way.

  "Doesn't he like you to drink?" Janet asked.

  "No " said Doan. "I got maudlin once when I was crocked and kissed him. He's never forgotten it. Every time he smells alcohol, he starts acting like he just bit into a lemon. He's intolerant. It's a serious defect in his character."

  "Mr. Doan," said Mrs. Henshaw severely, "don't annoy Mr. Greg. He is mourning Miss Van Osdel."

  "Are you?" Doan asked him.

  "No," said Greg. "I'm trying to think of the name of a girl I met in London last summer. Her father owns a glue factory. Do you know anyone in England who owns a glue factory?"

  "Nope," said Doan. "Did Ortega fix your arm for you?"

  "Yes. He said he set it. I think personally that he cut it off. It feels like hell."

  "Have a drink," Doan invited.

  "Okay."

  Feet thundered along the hall above them, and then Henshaw shouted down the staircase:

  "Hey! Have you seen this bathroom up here?"

  "Now, Wilbur," Mrs. Henshaw said absently. "No business on this trip. You promised."

  "Business, hell!" Henshaw said. "Why, the thing is a disgrace! I bet it's fifty years old! Where's the guy that owns this dive? Timpkins! Timpkins!"

  A man came in through the door beyond the end of the bar. He was scrawny and small and bow-legged, and he was wearing a soiled flour sack for an apron. He looked as though being born had been such a disappointment to him that he had never recovered.

  "Well, what?"

  "Timpkins," said Henshaw, "that bathroom of yours is a terrible hole."

  "It works, don't it?"

  "After a fashion. But that isn't the point, Timpkins. It's obsolete. Why, it's an antique."

  "If you don't like it, you don't have to use it."

  "What would I do if I didn't?" Henshaw asked blankly.

  "That's your question," said Timpkins. "You answer it."

  "Hey, you," said Doan. "Captain Perona told me to stay here. Trot out your register, and I'll sign up."

  Timpkins stared at him sourly. "You the chap that goes around killing people?"

  "Now and then," Doan said.

  "You ain't to kill nobody in my hotel, just remember that. I'm a British subject, and I know my rights. One murder, and out you go, Captain Perona or no Captain Perona."

  "Okay," said Doan amiably.

  "The register is under the bar. You sign yourself up--and by your right name, too. If there's a room upstairs that's empty, you can use it.... And just remember I marked the level on that gin bottle and one of you two is gonna pay for what's gone out of it. And I don't want none of you guests hollerin' at me and botherin' me any more because I'm busy."

  Henshaw had come very quietly down the stairs. "Timpkins," he said softly. "Timpkins, look." He whipped a shiny, colored folder out of his pocket. "Look at Model 9-A illustrated here. Orchid tile, Timpkins!"

  "Arr!" Timpkins snarled. He went back into the kitchen and slammed the door violently behind him.

  "He's a tough prospect," Henshaw said in a pleased tone. "But that's the kind I like. I'll work up a little sales talk especially for him. Would you like to see Model 9-A, Doan?"

  "No," said Doan.

  "Where's Mortimer, Wilbur?" Mrs. Henshaw asked.

  "He's takin' a nap. He said he was tired."

  "The little sweet," said Mrs. Henshaw. "He's been so brave through it all."

  "Brave, hell," said Henshaw. "He loved it. He's got no more sense than a sawhorse."

  "Gangway! Gangway!" Amanda Tracy shouted hoarsely. She slapped the side door back against the wall and wiggled her way through, almost hidden under an immense stack of canvases. She dumped them carelessly on the floor and shouted over the racketing clatter:

  "Hello, Janet, dearie. Hello, Doan. Hi, everybody else. Where's Timpkins? Timpkins, you dirty little thief! Come here! Front and center!"

  Timpkins opened the kitchen door. "Well, what? Oh, it's you now, is it? What you want?"

  "I want a room and a good one," said Amanda Tracy. "And no bedbugs, either."

  "Ain't got one," said Timpkins.

  "You'd better find one, chum," said Amanda Tracy. "Starting now. And I mean a room, not a bedbug."

  "Why don't you stay home where you belong?"

  "My house has got no roof. Scram, Timpkins! Scat!"

  "Arr," said Timpkins sullenly, re
tiring back into the kitchen.

  Amanda Tracy nodded cheerily at Doan. "I got to hand it to you, fatso. You must not be near so dumb as you look. That was very nifty the way you rubbed out Eldridge."

  "Mr. Doan didn't do that," Janet protested. "The earthquake killed Mr. Eldridge."

  "Ha-ha," said Amanda Tracy. "Don't you believe it, dearie. Doan did it. He's snaky. He'd just as leave kill you as spit. Wouldn't you, Doan?"

  "Sure," said Doan. "Massacres organized any hour of the day or night."

  "Yeah," said Amanda Tracy. "And don't think I think you're fooling, either."

  "Pardon me," said Captain Perona.

  "Here's that man again," Greg observed gloomily.

  Captain Perona was standing in the doorway. He was in uniform now, and he looked tall and leanly competent. He crossed the room and stopped beside Doan's table.

  "And the stooge," said Greg.

  Sergeant Obrian came in the room and said: "I heard you. Do I have to take cracks like that from a lousy tourist, Captain?"

  "Yes," said Captain Perona. "Doan, I find that in my haste I neglected a certain formality. Stand up and raise your hands."

  Doan sighed and got up.

  "Search him," said Captain Perona.

  Sergeant Obrian searched fast and expertly. "One .38 caliber Colt Police Positive revolver and--fifteen extra rounds for same. That's all the weapons."

  "Look once more. He is reported to carry two."

  "Nope," said Sergeant Obrian. "He's clean."

  "Where did you hide your other weapon?" Captain Perona asked coldly.

  "Nowhere," said Doan. "I didn't have one."

  Captain Perona looked speculatively at Carstairs. "Tell your dog to stand up."

  "Up-si-daisy," said Doan.

  Carstairs lumbered reluctantly to his feet.

  "Tell him to open his mouth."

  "Say 'ah,' " Doan ordered.

  Carstairs lolled out a thick red tongue at him.

  "All right," said Captain Perona. "Tell him to lie down again."

  "Boom," said Doan.

  Carstairs dropped on the floor with a thud and a grunt.

  Greg said: "That's a very nice hat you have, Doan. May I see it?" He reached out and picked it up with his good hand. There was a clasp knife lying on the table under the hat. "Oh, excuse me," Greg said.

  Doan nodded at him. "Hi, pal."

  Captain Perona pounced on the knife. It looked something like a scout knife, except that it was larger and longer. Captain Perona pressed a catch on the haft, and a thick, wide blade snapped suddenly into view.

  "Very nice," he said. "Very efficient."

  "It isn't mine," said Doan. "I never carry a knife. They give me the creepies."

  "Then how did it get under your hat?"

  "I'll give you one guess," said Doan, looking at Greg in a speculative way.

  "Did you put this under his hat?" Captain Perona asked.

  "No," said Greg.

  "I'm afraid," said Lepicik, "that you are not telling the truth." He was standing on the stairs, just far enough down them so he could see under the ceiling. "You did put the knife under Mr. Doan's hat."

  "You're a liar," said Greg.

  "I'm so sorry," said Lepicik politely. "But I saw you do it."

  "Well?" said Captain Perona.

  Greg shrugged his left shoulder. "Okay. I did. I was afraid you and your stooges were going to search us all, and I didn't want it found on me. I just bought the thing today--for a souvenir."

  Captain Perona balanced the knife on his palm. "You bought this in Los Altos?"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "From a street peddler."

  "What did he look like?"

  "Oh, he was a little guy with a funny face. What's the matter with you, anyway? You don't really think I'd carry a thing like that around with me all the time, do you?"

  "Yes," said Captain Perona. "I really think you would--and do."

  "Prove it," Greg invited.

  "Perhaps I will," said Captain Perona, putting the knife and Doan's revolver in his pocket. "And some other things as well. Colonel Callao, the commandant of this district, is coming to interview you tourists soon. I have some important matters to tell you before he arrives. Are you all here now?"

  "Mortimer's upstairs asleep," said Henshaw.

  "Don't you dare wake my little darling!" Mrs. Henshaw warned.

  "I would not think of it," said Captain Perona. "I would be very pleased if he continued to sleep permanently. Now attend to me, please. You all know that Patricia Van Osdel was killed during the earthquake. You know also, I think, that Doan suspected her death was not an accident. I ask you again, Doan: Why were you so quick to suspect that on the meager evidence available?"

  "I've got an evil mind," said Doan. "Can I sit down and rest it?"

  "Yes."

  "Can I have a drink?"

  "Yes."

  "Pour me one, too," Greg requested.

  Doan looked at him.

  "Oh, I'm sorry about the knife," Greg told him. "Forget it. It was just one of those things."

  "Some day you're going to pull one too many of those things," Doan said, pouring gin.

  "Are you quite comfortable?" Captain Perona asked. "Can you give me your attention now?"

  "Go right ahead," Doan said.

  "Thank you. As a result of investigation, we have found that your suspicions were justified. Patricia Van Osdel was not killed by accident. She was murdered by being struck on the head by a jagged piece of stone, which was subsequently found in a lane beside her maid, Maria, who was seriously injured by being struck with the same stone."

  "How is Maria?" Janet asked.

  "Doan was right in his diagnosis there, also. Her skull is fractured. She is not conscious and probably will not be so for several days. She is under guard at the military hospital, and I do not wish to hear of any of you attempting to visit her. As soon as she recovers she will be able to tell us who murdered Patricia Van Osdel and attacked her, but I do not propose to wait that long to find out."

  "Why not?" Doan asked. "You've got lots of time."

  "Patricia Van Osdel," said Captain Perona, "was an enormously rich and influential citizen of your country. Your country and mine are now allies in the war. We do not wish any incidents to occur which would disturb our relationship. If it were known that Patricia Van Osdel had been murdered here, it would inevitably arouse suspicions of our ability to protect visitors and tourists, and start demands for investigation of the circumstances surrounding her death and rumors of fifth column activity in military zones and such things. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Not yet," said Doan.

  "I will proceed. Patricia Van Osdel's death is to be known as an accident until such time as we can find and arrest her murderer and prove that the Mexican Army and Government were in no way responsible or negligent."

  "Now I get it," said Doan. "Hush-hush."

  "Yes. There is no way for any of you to communicate with anyone outside Los Altos. All exits and entrances are guarded by soldiers. All telephone and telegraph wires went down with the bridge."

  "Some bridge," Henshaw remarked. "Couldn't even stand a little shaking up."

  Captain Perona eyed him narrowly. "I recall that not so long ago a bridge in the United States--a new one--blew down in a high wind."

  "Oh," said Henshaw, subdued. "Yeah, I remember that, now you mention it.... Well, what're we gonna do?"

  "Stay here. The bridge supports at either end are intact. We will put cables across as soon as we receive the equipment. We are in touch with Major Nacio by military field wireless now."

  "Who's he?" Henshaw asked.

  "The man who warned you not to come here."

  "Yeah," said Henshaw. "He did at that, didn't he? And was he right!"