She slapped a card on the windshield and said, "It would be my luck to be on alone."
"I'm glad to see you again, too," Doan told her. "Do you suppose you could scare up some warm gruel--warm, not hot--all full of cream and junk for poor old Carstairs?"
"Not for a seven-cent tip."
"I'm in the chips now. I'll make it a dime even."
"Four bits."
"I'm bleeding, but it's a deal. What'll you have to eat, Harriet?"
"Make it heavy, honey," said the waitress. "For what you have to put up with, you need strength."
"I don't know what you mean," Harriet said coldly.
"Then I sure pity you. You're going to live but not for long or very well if I'm any judge."
"I'll have an order of hot cakes and coffee," said Harriet. "But are you going to let the dog eat here?"
"We're not any more particular than you are, honey," said the waitress. "What do you want?"
"Same," said Doan.
"And three glasses of water, I suppose--"
"Four," said Doan. "Five, counting Harriet's."
"Anything for a gag," said the waitress, going back inside the restaurant.
"She's horribly rude," said Harriet. "I don't see why you didn't go to a better place than this. I don't think it's good policy to eat in cheap places."
"I'm saving the government money."
"Oh, yes!" said Harriet. "I'm sorry. I'd forgotten you had an expense account. I think it's very decent of you to save on it."
"Me, too," said Doan.
The waitress came back with three trays, and gave Doan and Carstairs two in the back seat, and Harriet one in the front. She made an extra trip for the water, and then brought the hot cakes and gruel.
Doan tied into his hotcakes eagerly, pausing only to pour water for Carstairs, and then to shove him off the seat when he tried to climb up on it. He had speared the last portion of hotcake and was carefully mopping up the remains of his syrup with it when Harriet said, "Oh!"
She started the motor, and before Doan could even raise his eyes, she slammed the car into reverse and shot backwards across the graveled lot and straight out into the humming traffic of Sunset Boulevard. Doan cringed. Tires wailed, and horns wapped indignantly from all directions, and then there was a long, lingering, final crunch.
Doan hit the plate on his tray with his face. He straightened up slowly and wiped the syrup out of his eyes with a paper napkin. Carstairs snarled in a manner that indicated that he had had just about enough.
"Double that," said Doan. "Now what--"
Harriet wasn't in the front seat any more. Doan opened the rear door and got out and listened to seven drivers tell him what they thought about things in general.
The Cadillac had traveled clear across the street, and was backed half-up over the opposite parking strip. Doan walked around to the back of it. The Cadillac had pinned another car--a topless, nondescript little roadster--right against the base of a concrete lamp post. It had done the roadster no good, at all.
Blue was standing up in the seat of the roadster, surveying the strips of tin that were pleated neatly fore and aft of him. He didn't seem excited or frightened, just hopeless.
"What did I ever do to you?" he asked Harriet. "Well, I saw you going past," Harriet said, "and I didn't know how to stop you."
"Oh yes, you did," Blue contradicted.
The waitress tapped Doan on the shoulder. "So. Trying to sneak out without paying, and with the trays and dishes, huh? See what happens to people who try to chisel? Let it be a lesson to you."
"All right," said Doan wearily.
"The bill will be one dollar and twenty-one cents--plus four bits--"
Doan gave it to her. The waitress tested the coins one after the other with her teeth, and then got the trays and dishes and strutted back across to the restaurant. She went in the door and came right out again. She stuck out her tongue in Doan's direction and made a loud, rude noise.
"And the boss said I could! And he says don't come back!"
They had attracted quite a rooting section by this time, and a policeman came puttering along the boulevard on a blue and chrome scooter, and wheeled around beside them and stopped.
"All right, all right. Now who hit who and why?"
"I hit him," said Harriet. "I wanted to talk to him."
"Talk to me instead," the policeman ordered.
"It's business of a purely private nature," Harriet informed him.
"What do you say?" the policeman asked Blue.
"I can't think of anything," Blue said.
The policeman pointed at the roadster. "Well, what about this?"
"It's my contribution to the scrap metal drive," Blue said. "Tell them to come around and pick it up."
"Oh, that's patriotic!" Harriet exclaimed.
"No, it ain't," said the policeman. "He just thinks he's gonna dodge out of a tow charge, but it don't work."
Harriet snapped around at him. "Are you trying to hinder the war effort?"
"Lady," said the policeman, "do you think it would hinder the war effort if I put you in jail?"
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Just go ahead and dare me, and see," the policeman invited grimly.
"Tweet-tweet," said Doan, holding out a twenty dollar bill between two fingers. "Would this cover the tow charge?"
"Sure," said the policeman, capturing the bill with practiced skill. "And who are you?"
"She's my driver," Doan said, indicating Harriet.
"Man, you sure hold your life cheap," the policeman said. "Now come on, folks. Break it up. Move on. And as for you three playmates, go somewhere else and have fun. I don't want to find you around this district again in the near future."
"I want Mr. Blue to come with us," Harriet said.
"Okay," Doan agreed. "Anything you say, but I drive from here on in."
"Now you're getting half way smart," the policeman told him. "Come on, folks. It's all over. No blood and brains. Move on. Break it up."
Doan boosted Carstairs into the front seat, and slid in under the steering wheel. Blue and Harriet got in the back. There was one last heave and rattle from the roadster as they pulled loose, and then the Cadillac rolled on down Sunset toward Vine.
"Now, Mr. Blue," said Harriet, "I want to talk to you about the draft."
"I don't feel it," Blue said.
"No, no! Not that kind of a draft. It's not really a draft at all. It's selective service, and it's the way the government chooses the men who are to have the honor of serving in our Armed Forces. Are you registered?"
"Nope."
"You aren't! Then you'll have to go and do it right away!"
"Nope."
Harriet gasped. "But why not?"
"I don't wanna."
"You don't want to be in the Army?"
"Nope."
"But why?"
"I don't like war."
"Oh," said Harriet, breathing deeply in relief. "That's just because you don't understand the great issues that are involved in this worldwide conflict between the powers of evil and the forces of freedom. Do you?"
"Nope."
"I'll explain them to you--"
Doan turned down Vine Street. "Just a moment before you do. How come you followed us to Los Angeles, Blue?"
"Followed you?" Blue echoed. "I ain't that crazy, Mr. Doan. I came here on business."
"Name it."
"Well, I came to see a doctor."
"Oh, are you sick?" Harriet asked.
"Yup."
"Do you think you're too sick to pass the Army examination?"
"If I ain't, I will be soon," said Blue.
"Now you're just being silly. I'm sure you just don't take care of yourself properly. Do you take deep breathing exercises every morning?"
"Nope."
"You should. I'll show you how."
"All right," Blue said resignedly.
Doan turned off Rossmore, and pulled the Cadillac in at the curb in front o
f the Orna Apartment Hotel. A round, sleek little man with horn-rimmed glasses and three strands of blue-black hair slicked across the dome of his skull was standing on the steps. He had his hands clasped behind him, and he was teetering up and down on his toes surveying his surroundings with a proud, proprietary smile.
"Mr. Rogan," Doan called.
The bald man's smile curdled. He stared in glazed horror for a split second, and then whirled and dove through the front door.
"Wait here for a moment," Doan told Blue and Harriet. "We'll be back."
He and Carstairs went into the apartment lobby. It was very thoroughly empty. Doan went the length of it to the door next to the back hall that had a neat, enameled plaque saying "Manager" on it.
"Mr. Rogan," Doan said, tapping on the door. "Whoo-hoo, Mr. Rogan."
There was an emphatic silence from behind the door.
"I've come to pay my bill, Mr. Rogan," Doan said.
No answer.
Doan took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet, folded it lengthwise, and then knelt and thrust the edge of it tantalizingly under the door. Somebody tried to snatch it from the other side, but Doan jerked it back.
"Mr. Rogan," he said.
The bolt snapped, and then the key grated in the lock, and then the door opened just wide enough to show that there was a heavy metal chain holding it from opening farther. One of the lenses of Mr. Rogan's horn-rimmed glasses glittered through the crack.
"You give me my money."
Doan rustled the bill enticingly. "Mr. Rogan, I want to rent my apartment again."
"No!"
"Aw, come on," said Doan. "I'll pay my bill and pay in advance."
"We're full up! We're closed! I'm out of business! Go away!"
"Now, Mr. Rogan, you know what happens to people who tell lies."
"Mr. Pocus, I will not have you in my building. You're a criminal!"
"Oh, no," said Doan. "Not any more. I've changed my character and my business and even my name. My name is Doan now. Don't you think that's an improvement on Pocus?"
"No! Go away!"
Doan looked over his shoulder at Carstairs and said, "Woof."
Carstairs sat down and filled his lungs to capacity, and tilted his head back and bayed. The sound was indescribable. It filled the lobby until the walls bulged, and the echoes whimpered in the corners for minutes after Carstairs had cut off their source
"He can do that all day," Doan said, taking his fingers out of his ears.
The chain rattled, and Mr. Rogan crept cringingly out into the lobby. He was holding his head in both hands.
"Please, Mr. Pocus--I mean, Mr. Doan---why don't you go away?"
"I like you, Mr. Rogan," Doan said. "Carstairs does, too. And we both like your apartment hotel. It's so quiet here. That is, it will be unless you refuse to give me my apartment back again."
"Why do these things happen to me?" Mr. Rogan demanded plaintively. "I'm a good citizen. I'm honest. I'm only trying to earn a living for my three divorced wives." He sighed deeply. "What is this new profession of yours, Mr.--ah--Doan?"
"I just go around looking at things."
"An inspector?" Mr. Rogan inquired.
"You could call it that. I collect things, too."
"What things?" Mr. Rogan asked suspiciously.
"Secrets and stuff."
"You give me your word that it's an honorable profession?"
"Certainly," said Doan. "People in my new line of work are much sought after these days."
"All right," said Mr. Rogan. "But in advance, remember. In advance, strictly. Edmund!"
Very slowly Edmund's curly head rose above the level of the desk. He parked his snub nose on the edge of it and looked from Doan to Carstairs, and then back again.
"Ah, Edmund," said Doan. "And how are you, my boy?"
"Mr. Pocus," said Edmund. "I mean, Mr. Doan, I didn't tell those G-men on you. I really didn't. They asked me if you lived here, and I wouldn't tell them."
"That's very nice of you, Edmund," Doan said. "I'll remind Mr. Rogan to give you a raise. Now you two just ready up the receipts and things, and I'll be back flush in a flash."
He went out to the Cadillac. Harriet had Blue crowded into one corner of the back seat, instructing him in a firm and kindly manner on the latest theories of medicine.
"Private Hathaway," Doan said. "We're going to set up temporary headquarters in a couple of apartments here. Come on in."
"You come, too," said Harriet. "I'm not through yet."
"Yes, ma'am," said Blue glumly.
They went back into the lobby.
"Mr. Rogan," Doan said, "I want you to meet Miss Harriet Hathaway. She works for me. I want to rent an apartment for her, too."
"Oh, no!" said Mr. Rogan. "Strictly, no! None of that sort of thing in my building."
"Just what do you mean by that?" Harriet snapped.
"No goings on," said Mr. Rogan.
"Do you dare to stand there and insult your country's uniform?"
"What?" said Mr. Rogan, dazed.
"Shush-shush," Doan said to Harriet.
"Well! Governmental secrecy or not, no one is going to insinuate that I--Well, indeed! I'll have you know, Mr. Rogan, that I'm doing confidential work for Mr. Doan and that we're the merest acquaintances in private life. We're not emotionally interested in each other in the slightest. Mr. Blue, here, has preempted that position in my heart."
"What?" said Blue hoarsely.
"Well, you know you have. There's no point in being silly and bashful about it."
"Hey!" said Blue.
"Not now. We'll discuss it at some more opportune time, in private."
"Oh," Blue moaned.
Harriet looked Mr. Rogan right in the eye. "Are you going to rent me an apartment so I can continue my work for Mr. Doan, or shall I report you to the authorities as a traitor to your country and a fifth columnist?"
"Excuse me," said Mr. Rogan. "I think I'll go lie down. I don't feel well. Edmund, sign the people up. And remember. In advance, strictly."
Chapter 10
THE BATHTUB IN APARTMENT 229 HAD BEEN cleaned and polished during Doan's absence, and he was sitting in it splashing and splattering contentedly when he felt a draft on the back of his neck.
"Yes," said a voice. "You've got all the soap off."
Doan turned around slowly. Arne was standing in the doorway. Barstow was looking over his shoulder.
"Now don't get in an uproar," Doan said. "I've already been to Heliotrope. I just got back."
"Where's the ore deposit?"
"That's a matter we'll have to go into at great length some time. How about next Tuesday?"
"Here," said Arne, handing him a towel.
Doan sighed, turned the drain lever and got up and dried himself.
"And here," said Arne, handing him the bathrobe.
Doan put it on and followed them into the living room. He sat down on the chesterfield. Arne and Barstow sat down and watched him. There was quite a long silence.
"Where's Carstairs?" Barstow asked at last.
"In his sulking corner," Doan said.
"What's he mad at now?"
"He doesn't like the job you gave me. It involves associating with too many people he disapproves of."
"How does he feel about us, anyway?"
"Hey, you," said Doan.
Carstairs' head appeared very slowly above the back of the chesterfield.
"Look who's come to see us," Doan invited.
Carstairs studied Arne and Barstow thoughtfully for about thirty seconds, and then he yawned in a very elaborate manner and pulled his head down out of sight.
"I get it," said Barstow.
"Don't feel hurt," Doan advised. "You should have seen the way he looked when I introduced him to a senator once."
"Let's stop the clowning," Arne said. "Doan, what was the idea of going around telling everybody that you were a Japanese spy? All this cute stuff about I. Doanwashi and the rest of it?"
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The Essential Works of Norbert Davis Page 45