Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz sighed wearily. "Please restrain yourself. I am not going to testify that he killed Frank Ames if he returns the scrolls."
"You're not--" said Humphrey groggily, floundering around two laps behind. "You're not going to--"
"No! Must I keep repeating and reiterating that the recovery of those scrolls is of absolutely paramount importance? The murder is a minor matter."
"But--but you saw Doan--"
"Certainly. I was the prowler."
"Ugh," said Humphrey, completely lost now.
"Kindly pay attention to what I am saying. I was searching for the scrolls at the time Melissa Gregory surprised me. I thought Trent might have persuaded her to hide them for him."
"But you saw Doan--"
"Yes!"
"Oh, boy," said Humphrey, blowing out a long, gusty sigh of relief. "At last. I've got him. You'll have to testify against him whether you want to or not."
"I think you are a complete fool," said Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz. "You had better refer again to that letter from the Mexican Department of State. I have diplomatic immunity."
Humphrey stood up and threw his chair into the corner. He raised his fists and shook them impotently at the ceiling.
"Why does everybody I pinch have to have friends or immunity or drag or influence or some damned thing? Why? Why? What have I done to deserve this?"
When no one answered him, Humphrey lowered his fists to his sides and for a moment he looked beaten. But then a crafty light came into his eyes and he regarded Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz intently.
"There's one thing your diplomatic immunity doesn't protect you against," he said. "If I accuse you of murder--unless you testify against Doan--there's nothing you can do about it."
Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz gave a loud and long Latin laugh. He hooked out an arm pointed a finger at himself. "Me of murder? Me? Tell me, please, who have I murdered?"
"Frank Ames," Humphrey said. "As a matter of fact I could whip up a pretty good case against you. Already you've confessed being the prowler. That puts you on the scene. All I really need to prove now is intent and motive."
Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz started laughing again. When he had finished, he spat out one word: "Ridiculous!" And then, drawing himself up, crossing his arms on his chest and patting one foot impatiently, he said, "And what about Beulah Porter Cowys? I suppose I am supposed to have killed her too? Maybe I disguised myself as a sunlamp or a permanent waving machine and sneaked into Heloise of Holly wood's Beauty Salon?"
"Maybe," said Humphrey.
"And maybe not," said Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz with a positive air. "Do you happen to know a most attractive young graduate student at the university named Shirley Parker? Well, whether you do or not makes no difference. Miss Parker is a special. She is taking her master's in psychology. She is writing a thesis on sexual behavior--at least sexual behavior has something to do with it--and I am trying to help her by providing her with material...Well, it so happens that at the precise time and moment when Beulah Porter Cowys was killed, I was embarked on a little matter of research for my friend Miss Parker. I was, in fact, in the company of a most attractive young blonde who, though for the moment shall be nameless, could be induced I am sure, in view of the pleasure she seemed to derive out of the assistance she gave me in the research, to testify at the proper time that..."
"What?" Humphrey interrupted. "Get to the point."
"I have an alibi," Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz told him. "An iron clad alibi, as you stupid Americans say. Accuse me of killing anybody or anything and I'll sue you for libel, slander, false arrest, both malfeasance and misfeasance in office, but mostly for malicious prosecution. Accuse me of something--just you dare! I'll sue you for one hundred thousand dollars or maybe one million dollars!"
"Rot!" Humphrey came back at him. "Nonsense! If you refuse to testify against Doan, I'll arrest you just as fast as that..." And he snapped his fingers. "In fact," he shouted, now completely beside himself with rage and frustration, "I'll arrest anybody I want to for anything I want to so long as I--as I wear this badge." He pointed to the shield on his vest.
With an unobtrusive but nevertheless lightning quick motion, the Mexican reached over, jerked off the shield and threw it to the floor.
"Your outbursts are distasteful to me," Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz informed Humphrey. "I shall leave now, but I advise you to remember everything I told you and to act accordingly. I do not propose to be thwarted by your stupidity. Come with me, you."
Doan followed him meekly along the hall and out through the receiving room.
Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz stopped on the steps and nodded coldly. "I shall expect you to search out those scrolls and turn them in to me at once."
"You just go right ahead and expect," Doan invited.
"Aren't you going to do it?"
"No."
"Did you hear what I just told Humphrey?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"That was a very interesting story," said Doan. "Of course, there was one little discrepancy in it. Eric Trent doesn't have a brother named Horace. In fact, Eric Trent doesn't have any brothers at all. Good-by for now, Sebastian. I'll be seeing you."
* * *
It was nine o'clock when Doan came in the front door of the Pericles Pavilion. He had just spent a couple of hours talking long distance to Mexico City. This is a hazardous occupation which, besides time and money, requires persistence, patience, a loud voice, an extensive vocabulary, and a strong constitution. Right now, Doan was dragging his heels.
The door of the Aldriches' apartment opened, and the duplicate Aldrich faces, superimposed one above the other like carbon copies, peered disapprovingly out at him.
"Good evening," said Doan.
The Aldriches continued to peer--in silence.
Doan tried again. "Good evening."
The Aldriches said: "We do not approve of murder. We do not feel that we can longer acknowledge your acquaintance." Their door closed. Immediately it opened again. "Or that of your dog," said the Aldriches. The door closed.
Doan shook his head and went on up the stairs. He knocked on the door of Melissa's apartment. There was no answer. He went on up to the third floor and tried Trent's apartment. The door was unlocked, and he opened it.
Carstairs was lying on the chesterfield with his head dangling over one end and his tail over the other. He was snoring.
Doan went in and looked around. There was a note fastened to the lamp shade with a bobby pin. Doan read it. It was from Melissa, and it said:
I am going to the Get Acquainted Dance at Dullwich Hall with Eric Trent. I persuaded Carstairs that I didn't need a bodyguard just for that, because after all, Eric isn't the murderer, is he?
Under this, in different handwriting, was the one word: No.
Doan studied that "No" uneasily. He was wondering just who wrote it. After a moment, he put the note down and took the large volume with the Greek title from Trent's bookcase. He opened it with an air of wistful anticipation. It was empty.
"Oh, hell," said Doan.
The telephone rang.
Doan picked it up. "Yes?"
"Is Eric Trent there?"
"No. This is Doan."
"This is Heloise of Hollywood. Where is Eric, Doan?"
"I don't know."---
"Well, suppose you find out."
"Okay," said Doan.
"And when you do--tell him I want to see him. I mean, tonight."
"Okay."
"Up at my house. Tell him he can bring that Melissa Gregory mess along. I know he's with her."
"Okay."
"And after that--you're all through."
"What?" said Doan.
"I won't be needing you any more. I'll pay you up to the end of next week if you don't hike your expense account too high."
"Before I exit smiling, I should maybe give you an item or two of information I uncovered."
"I have all the information I need. Just turn
in your bill."
"Okay," said Doan.
"Go find Eric now. Don't stop to get drunk on the way."
"What do you mean--drunk?"
"You probably know the meaning of the word better than anybody I ever came across, Doan. I mean soused and stinko and looping and polluted like I've seen you more times than I can count on both the toes and fingers of all my customers."
"You're maligning me," said Doan. "My mother wouldn't like to hear you talk about me like that--that is, if she could hear."
"Get going."
"Okay."
Doan hung up, and then he reached down and put his thumb across Carstairs' nostrils. Carstairs reared up on the chesterfield, snorting like a grampus.
"I'm not me, really," Doan told him. "You're having a nightmare and I'm a part of your bad dream."
Carstairs looked at him incredulously, raising his eyebrows.
"You're still asleep," Doan said. "The only reason you aren't resting peacefully is that you ate something that disagreed with you."
Carstairs yawned, settled back down on the chesterfield again and closed his eyes.
"Dope!" Doan shouted, and Carstairs jumped up alertly. "Dope, dope, dope, dope, dope. You'd believe anything anybody told you... Come on, we've got business."
* * *
Somewhere or other T. Ballard Bestwyck had picked up the idea that the student serfs under his sovereign sway would like to know each other at least slightly. This naive notion was treated with the contempt it deserved by the normal members of the student body, but that didn't stop T. Ballard Bestwyck from throwing contests he called Get Acquainted Dances everywhere, anywhere and incessantly. No one ever attended them but the bedeviled members of the faculty who were drafted into supervising them and assorted coveys of drips and drools who, upon their arrival, chose up sides according to their sexes, threw out battle lines on opposite edges of the dancing arena, and spent the evening smirking and sneering at each other in frantic frustration.
Things were going normally when Doan and Carstairs arrived at Dullwich Hall, which was a dreary sort of a place, very appropriately named. Several of the faculty couples had ventured out into the no man's land between the battle lines out of sheer boredom and were pushing each other pointlessly around to a natty arrangement of Japanese Sandman played by two feeble fiddles and a rheumatic piano.
Melissa and Eric Trent were among them. Melissa wasn't exactly beaming, but Trent was making very heavy weather of it. His blond hair was sweatily matted, and he was breathing through his mouth, and his eyes roamed ceaselessly in search of succor. He saw Doan and stopped short. Melissa half-tripped. Trent straightened her up and pointed at Doan. They came across the floor, avoiding the other rhythmic navigational hazards.
"Mr. Doan," said Melissa, "do you want me to be frank with you?"
"Sure," said Doan.
Melissa pointed. "He can't dance worth a damn."
"I told you I couldn't," Trent said. "Who do you think I could have practiced with the last few years--polar bears? You're the one who insisted that I try."
"I thought you were a man," Melissa said. "I thought you could stand on your own feet."
"I didn't step on you."
"Just because I'm exceptionally agile, you didn't."
"I can't dance."
"Well, all right," said Melissa. "I'm agreeing with you. That's what I just got through telling Doan. Why are you arguing with me?"
"I'm not."
"You are. And if you don't stop, I'm going to call you something I told you I wouldn't call you."
"And if you do, I'll do what I told you I'd do if you did."
"Do you think he would?" Melissa asked Doan.
"Yes," said Doan. "If you're thinking of calling him what I think you are. Whenever he hears that name, his strength becomes as the strength of ten."
"All right, then," said Melissa. "I won't call you that, but you can't stop me from thinking it at you."
"Oh, yes, I can," said Trent.
"Let's postpone this matter," Doan suggested, "before we get too metaphysical. I have a message for you both from Mrs. Heloise of Hollywood Tremaine Trent."
"Is it printable?" Melissa asked.
"Oh, yes. She wants to see you both up at her house--right away or anyway, pretty quick."
"We're not going," said Trent.
"Yes, we are," said Melissa. "I've got a few conversational tidbits I've dreamed up to try out on her. She got the jump on me last time. I can't think well when my feet are dirty. And, anyway, I want to see her house. I'll bet it's something, isn't it?"
"I don't know," said Trent. "I've never seen it."
Melissa stared at him. "What?"
"I started getting mad at Nome, Alaska, where I ran across the first newsstand I'd seen in four years. By, the time I got to Seattle, I was steaming, and I boiled clear over before I arrived in Hollywood. We did our sparring in her lawyer's office."
Melissa patted him on the shoulder. "You're a good boy."
"Thank you. Doan, what happened to Morales? Melissa says those names he used were just nonsense words. No such clans or gods or whatnot exist."
"That's only the half of it," Doan informed him.
"Morales doesn't exist, either."
"What?"
"His real name is Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz, and he's a detective from Mexico."
"Well, why did he smash my instruments?"
"This one will stop you," said Doan. "He smashed them because your brother, Horace, stole some scrolls from a church in Mexico."
Trent just stared at him.
Doan nodded. "That's what he told Humphrey and Humphrey believed him."
"But why?"
"Because this Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz is a genius. I suspected that, and so I called up Mexico City, and they confirmed it. He is a positive, certified genius at detecting things. If you don't believe it, ask him."
"Another detective," Melissa groaned. "They're getting as thick around here as fleas on a chihuahua. When I started teaching here I thought this was a general arts university, but now it looks as though it's turning out to be a school for rookie cops. If I don't watch myself I'll wake up one day in a police matron's uniform with my name changed to Maggie O'Flaherty."
Trent turned to Doan. "But about this Morales, or Sebastian Rodriguez y Ruiz or whatever he calls himself. Why was he pretending to be a janitor?"
"I told you," said Doan. "He's a genius and genius is inscrutable."
Melissa tugged at Trent's arm. "Come on. I want to go see Heloise."
"Good-by, forever," said Doan.
"What?" said Melissa.
"Carstairs and I have now taken our humble place among the faceless army of the unemployed and unwelcome. We have been fired."
"Oh," said Melissa. "But we want to say good-by to you--I mean, in a big way. Wait here until we get back. You can dance with some of these girls."
Doan shivered. "Thank you," he said, "Thanks a million. But no thanks."
"Well, wait at Eric's apartment, then."
"It's a deal," said Doan. "That is, it's a deal at the moment. But I'm feeling sort of restless and I have a lot on my mind and I don't know where I may end up eventually."
* * *
The road up the canyon wasn't particularly steep, but its designers had done the best they could to make it appear so. It switched back and forth and doubled on itself like a snake with a stomach ache. The headlights of Trent's car illuminated it only about one tenth of the time; during the other nine tenths they swept pretty but aimless swaths in the night off to the right or left. The engine grumbled and complained to itself in a deeply outraged way.
"For goodness' sakes," said Melissa. "Shift into second before you pull a bearing."
"I might have known it," said Trent.
"Known what?"
"That you'd be one of these females who aren't satisfied with just backseat driving. In addition, you've got to run in a lot of senseless lingo you, picked up hanging arou
nd garages. Pull a bearing!"
"Well, people do!"
"Not people named Trent."
Melissa looked miffed. "I'm not as bad a backseat driver," she said, "as you are a dancer."
"I told you I don't like to dance," Trent informed her. "Also I'm out of practice." He took his eyes off the tortuous road for a moment and gave her a little smile. "But let's stop quarreling. As far as not liking dancing is concerned, I have this to say. I almost enjoyed dancing with you. If there hadn't been anyone else there, and even if there hadn't been any music and we'd been just standing there, I think I really would have enjoyed it..."
The Essential Works of Norbert Davis Page 34