The Essential Works of Norbert Davis

by Norbert Davis

  "Yup. This business about your wife hiring Doan to watch you is a gag. Your wife is completely in your power. She does exactly what you tell her and nothing else. She wouldn't dare hire a detective to watch you."

  "This one is going to be really something extra," Doan observed. "Keep on, Humphrey."

  "Your wife may be paying Doan," Humphrey said to Trent, "but it's you who tells him what to do, and what you told him to do this time was to watch Melissa Gregory."

  "Why?" Trent asked blankly.

  "I told you. You're crazy for her, and you suspected she was falling for this Frank Ames. There wasn't any masked prowler last night. You have a key to her apartment, and you were waiting for her when she came home. You popped her one for going out with Ames."

  "I did this?" Trent asked, stunned.

  "Yes, you. She squawked before you popped her, and this Beulah Porter Cowys came blundering in and saw and heard enough to know what really happened. You called the cops in an attempt to cover things up with that nut-wagon story about a guy with his head in a silk stocking. You didn't fool Beulah Porter Cowys any. She went over to Hollywood this afternoon to shake your wife down by telling your wife about you and Melissa Gregory. She wouldn't have gotten any change out of your wife, like I said, but you had to knock her off anyway because Doan had knocked off Ames, and Beulah Porter Cowys might have sounded off about that."

  "I wondered when I was going to appear in this," Doan observed.

  "You'd been following Ames and Melissa," Humphrey told him. "You were out in front of the building, lurking around like you usually are. Ames saw or heard something, and he got out of his car, intending to go on up and take this Trent all apart for batting Melissa Gregory around. That damned dog of yours took out after Ames and ran him into the alley and cornered him, and you cut Ames' throat."

  "Who shot at me?"

  "Nobody. You had two guns. You fired one off in the air and then gave it to that damned Carstairs, and he buried it in one of those vacant lots around there."

  "I congratulate you, Humphrey," said Doan.

  "This is incredible!" Trent choked. "This is the most absolutely fantastic tissue of criminal nonsense that I've ever listened to!"

  "That's all right, bub," said Humphrey, nodding at him meaningfully. "I just wanted you to know I'm on to you. And I always get my man."

  "Crime doesn't pay," Doan added.

  Something slid through the air between Trent and Doan with an ugly, slicing hiss. It hit the sidewalk right at Trent's feet and shattered into shrapnel-like splinters. It was a heavy, grooved roof tile.

  "Gug?" said Humphrey, staring up.

  "Just remember," said Doan, also looking up. "That Trent didn't throw that tile, and neither did I."

  "Ah," said Humphrey. "Nobody threw--"

  Somebody yelled, though. It sounded thin and high and far away. Glass tinkled faintly.

  "My instruments!" Trent gasped. He lunged up the steps.

  "Wait a minute, you!" Humphrey shouted. He tore into the hall and up the stairs after Trent, flipping up his coattails and fumbling for the revolver in his hip pocket.

  Doan spun on his heel and ran back along the side of the building. He had his revolver out. The turf was soft and spongy and silent under his heels He shoved heedlessly through a hedge and faced the narrow, shadowed rear door of the building.

  He waited, puffing a little. Nothing happened. Nothing came out. And then a snarling, half-muffled uproar drifted down to him. Humphrey's yapping voice rode on the crest of it.

  Doan darted inside the building. He found the narrowly twisting back stairs and went up them four at a time. He whirled around a corner at the top and out into the main upper corridor and ran down it toward Melissa's old office. He stopped short in the doorway.

  The office was well on its way to being torn to pieces. Morales and Professor Sley-Mynick occupied the vortex of a sort of a whirlpool in the middle of it, caroming first one way and then the other and screeching like men possessed. Professor Sley-Mynick had a constrictor-like grip around Morales' waist. Morales was pounding him on the top of the head with both fists and trying to kick him at the same time. Trent and Humphrey ran around and around the two of them, trying to get a grip somewhere.

  Doan fired his revolver at the ceiling, and for the space of a heartbeat the furious action froze dead still.

  Then Humphrey got Morales by the neck. "What do you think you're doing? What goes on--" He shook Morales like a rag.

  Trent was trying to disengage Professor Sley-Mynick. The blubbery man's glasses were gone--trampled underfoot--and his fat face was twisted hideously, lumpy mustache twitching and writhing like a live thing.

  "What is it?" Trent demanded. "What happened?"

  Professor Sley-Mynick collapsed into a half-sitting position. "Geheim Staatspolizei!" he cried, pointing a wavering finger at Morales. "Geheim Staatspolizei! Yah, Yah!"

  "Christian pig!" Morales spat at him.

  Humphrey shook him again. "Shut up! What's the old guy saying?"

  "Geheim Staatspolizei is German," Trent said, puzzled. "It means German State Security Police, I think."

  "Sure," said Doan. "The Gestapo."

  "Gestapo?" Humphrey repeated. "Them guys is all in jail or hung or something."

  "Nein!"

  Professor Sley-Mynick screamed. "No! He is! Him! That one!"

  "Offspring of a she dog," said Morales.

  Humphrey gave him another shake. "Keep your trap shut, or you're going to be missing some teeth. Trent, ask the fat guy what's going on."

  Professor Sley-Mynick swallowed, groping furiously for words. "Always they do it! Yes! Geheim Staatspolizei! They break things--smash them! Scientific things! They did mine in Hungary! Now he does it! This one! He smashes them on the roof! Yes, yes! Believe me! I saw him! On the roof!"

  "My instruments!" Trent blurted.

  The stepladder was still propped up in the corner under the square trap door in the ceiling. Trent swarmed up it and squirmed through and out of sight. Instantly his face reappeared, red and congested, peering down at them.

  "My barometer and my anemometer are smashed, and there is something in my precipitation calibrator that certainly isn't dew!"

  "Yes, yes!" said Professor Sley-Mynick, "I told you! Always they do it--Geheim Staatspolizei! Always they smash and break scientific instruments!"

  Trent slid down the ladder. He advanced on Morales with his eyes narrowed dangerously and his upper lip lifted at one corner.

  Humphrey jerked Morales back. "Get away from him," he warned Trent, "or I'll slap you one with this pistol. I'm running this bazaar. This crum bum doesn't look like any Gestapo to me. Did you smash those instruments and shy a tile at Trent, dope?"

  "Yes," said Morales.

  Humphrey stared at him, taken aback. "You did? Well, what the hell for?"

  "He is a blasphemer."

  "Huh?" said Humphrey.

  "What?" said Trent. "What am I?"

  "A pig," said Morales. "A blasphemous, illegitimate Christian pig."

  "Well, why?" said Trent. "What did I do?"

  "Your existence and your pretensions are an impious mockery. By your very presence you deny the existence of Quezatepequez."

  "Who?" said Humphrey groggily. "What?"

  "Quezatepequez," said Trent. "That sounds like an Aztec word."

  "Mayan, illiterate fool!" Morales snapped. "Quezatepequez is the great and only lord of Tegucigalpa--lord of the dark sky and the thunder bird. And you--you!--attempt to read his mind and predict his moods! I can do that--only I--a hereditary priest of the clan of Tegucigalpa!"

  "Where does Maximilian come into this?" Doan inquired.

  "Faugh! I spit on his name! I use it only to mock Christian pigs!"

  "This guy is a nut," Humphrey stated. "I can see that without going any further. He should be locked up, and that's just what's going to happen to him. Come on now, screwloose, or you'll think the thunder bird laid an egg right on your noggin."
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  "I'm coming along, too," said Doan. "Take care of Sley-Mynick, Trent. I'll holler up some help for you below-decks."

  "What was all that the old guy was yipping about the Gestapo?" Humphrey asked.

  "They pinched him once," Doan explained. "They evidently wrecked his laboratory as well as him when they did it. When he saw Morales working out on Trent's instruments, he made a connection."

  "There are too many nuts around here," Humphrey said darkly, "and them that ain't are worse. What do you want to come along with me for?"

  "You're going to succeed in arresting me sooner or later. I want to see what kind of service I can expect. Besides, this guy strikes me as sort of violent. Maybe you'll need some help."

  "And I suppose you'd give me some if I did?"

  "You'd be surprised."

  "Oh, no, I wouldn't," said Humphrey.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT IS WELL RECOGNIZED BY THE authorities responsible for law enforcement that students very seldom commit any very serious crimes, with the exception of attending college, and that a jail is not quite in tune with the reverent inattention to worldly matters current on a campus. Consequently the sheriff's office, university substation, was tucked away unobtrusively on a residential street north of the campus and camouflaged under a green tile roof and behind spotless off-white walls. Even the steel bars on the windows were fluted and painted black to imitate ornamental iron grilles. But then, in Hollywood they have a habit of disguising the functional purposes of many buildings, both public and private, as witness a movie house that looks like a Chinese temple, a movie star's home built in the style of a Venetian bordello, gas stations designed on the igloo principle and a funeral parlor, the facade of which might be mistaken for the entrance to a race track or an amusement park.

  Humphrey dragged Morales, who was very much on his dignity now, up the neat, narrow walk and in through the polished oak doors. Doan trailed negligently along behind them.

  The receiving room of the substation was as clean and barren and impersonal as a military adjutant's office in a staging area. There were some chairs and a bench and a uniformed deputy sitting behind a long, low desk with four telephones, a ledger, and an interoffice communicator on it. The deputy had the air of a man who wouldn't know quite what to do about it if something did.

  Morales advanced to the middle of the room and stopped short and looked around to make sure he had everyone's undivided attention. "Now," he said impressively.

  He reached inside his shirt and brought out an oblong packet of yellow oiled silk. The silk rustled slickly as he unfolded it. He handed the papers inside to Humphrey.

  "What?" said Humphrey.

  Doan looked over his shoulder. The top sheet contained a photograph of Morales, some fingerprints, and a very impressive gold and ebony seal.

  "This is in Spanish," said Humphrey.

  "Can you read it?" Morales asked.

  "No."

  Morales snorted. "Is there no one in this pigsty who has any culture?"

  Humphrey glared at him and then nodded to the desk deputy. "Call Hernandez."

  The deputy flipped the switch on the communicator. "Hernandez! Front and center!"

  One of the doors at the rear of the room opened, and a thin, gray-haired man came in and peered at them through thick hornrimmed glasses.

  "Read these, "Humphrey ordered, handing him the papers. "They belong to this bird."

  Hernandez scanned the top sheet. "Well!" he said suddenly. He looked curiously at Morales. "He's a captain--that's a heavy rank--in the Coahuila State Police."

  "What?" Humphrey said incredulously. "What police?"

  "Coahuila. It's a state in Mexico. Right below the border." Hernandez was reading the next sheet. "Hey! Here's a letter from the Mexican ambassador to the United States asking that the guy be extended all aid and courtesy. And here's another saying the same thing from the American ambassador to Mexico. And here's one from the State Department--and one from the Mexican Department of State! And whoops! Here's one from the FBI. You'd better drop this guy quick--before he burns your fingers clear off!"

  "Are those about a bird named Morales?" Humphrey inquired, still incredulous.

  Hernandez flipped back to the top sheet. "Nope. The guy's name is Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz. But Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz has this guy's face and this guy's description."

  "I am Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz," said Morales. "Morales is merely an alias I adopted. Are you satisfied now as to my real identity? If you like, you may call the Mexican Consul for Los Angeles. He knows me."

  Humphrey stared at him, goggle-eyed. "Well, what's the big idea? I mean, going around acting like a janitor and a thunder bird and whatever?"

  "May we have a little more privacy?"

  "Sure. Come along."

  Humphrey led the way through another door at the back of the room and along a short hall into a smaller office.

  "Take that chair," he said. "Now what...Wait a minute." He pointed his finger at Doan. "We can't use you. Scram."

  "No," said Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz. "I want him to hear what I say. I have my reasons."

  "Oh, all right. Get going."

  "I am concerned with a matter of very great importance. I repeat that so you will understand it clearly--of very great importance. "

  "I get you," said Humphrey.

  "In the State of Coahuila there is a very ancient, very revered religious shrine. I will not identify it further for reasons that will become clear as I proceed. The shrine was built and blessed in the sixteenth century. In it there were a number of sacred parchment scrolls."

  "Yeah," said Humphrey eagerly.

  "These scrolls are enormously valuable for a number of reasons. Historically, because of their contents. Commercially, because they were ornamented in gold leaf by several of the greatest artists then living. Religiously, because they are believed to have miraculous powers by the people who worship at the shrine."

  "Yeah," said Humphrey. "Yeah."

  "The scrolls were stolen."

  "Ah-ha!" Humphrey exclaimed.

  "They must be recovered. I repeat--they must be recovered."

  "You bet," said Humphrey. "Positively. I can see that. Who hooked them?"

  "Horace Trent."

  "Yah-ha!" Humphrey chortled, "I knew all the time--What? Horace Trent?"

  "Yes. Eric Trent's brother."

  "Well, well, well," said Humphrey.

  "Horace Trent," Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz said, "Claims to be an archeologist. He specializes in the theft of ancient objects of art of one sort or another. If he can't steal them, he fakes them. Eric Trent sells them for him."

  "I knew it," said Humphrey. "I knew it all the time."

  "Horace Trent," Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz went on, "is in jail now in Mexico. But he sent those scrolls--disguised as weather maps--to Eric Trent before I could find him and arrest him. Again, I must emphasize that it is of much more vital importance to get those scrolls than it is to arrest these two criminals. Eric Trent is perfectly capable of destroying them to clear himself--and, incidentally, his brother. That is why I assumed the identity of Morales, the idiot janitor. I wished to watch Eric Trent without him having any suspicion of me."

  "Why did you bust his instruments?"

  "That fool of a professor caught me searching Trent's office, so I broke the instruments to take his mind off the search. It did. Then I had to explain breaking the instruments by that nonsense about thunder birds, so Eric Trent wouldn't get suspicions of my actions. Eric Trent is very clever and very dangerous."

  "And how," Humphrey agreed. "But, say? You shouldn't have said all this in front of Doan. He's probably in on that scroll deal. If he isn't, he'll try to steal them himself from Trent. I'd better lock him up right now."

  "No. He is the one who is going to get those scrolls for me."

  "He is?" Humphrey asked.

  "Yes. He is in Trent's confidence. He can find out where Trent has hidden them--that is, if
he doesn't already know."

  "Man alive!" Humphrey protested. "You can't trust Doan. He's no straighter than a snake."

  Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz smiled in a very sinister way. "This time he will be honest. Because if he does not get me those scrolls I will testify that I saw him kill Frank Ames."

  "What!" Humphrey yelled, coming half out of his chair. "You saw--Doan, I hereby arrest you for murder!"