Puzzle of the Pepper Tree

by Stuart Palmer

  “Dr. O’Rourke is a pretty good vet,” offered the driver. “Better take him in town to the doc.”

  Phyllis nodded. But Hildegarde Withers was climbing out of the bus. “Wait,” she insisted. “Look at him.”

  Mister Jones was shaken by tremor after tremor. Then followed a series of choking coughs.

  “If you want to be sick, be sick,” Phyllis admonished the dog.

  “If he wants to be sick, keep him often the bus,” put in the driver.

  It was Miss Withers who analyzed the situation first. She did not hesitate. Swiftly she caught up Mister Jones in her arms and ran toward the shore, with Phyllis dazedly following and the bus driver staring at them as if they were all demented.

  The animal’s heartbeats were like the pounding of a drum. “Poisoned!” gasped Miss Withers, as she ran. “I’ve seen it happen before, when neighbors get to fighting over their pets in the city.”

  “What should we do?”

  Miss Withers’s sensible heels were clattering over the pebbly shore.

  “We ought to have salt and warm water. But there’s no time for that. Here—you hold him.”

  Mister Jones was pathetically easy to hold. Phyllis held on as Miss Withers demonstrated, with the whiskery jaw open.

  Then the schoolteacher took her two cupped hands and proceeded to dip up portions of the Pacific, at the expense of her shoes, stockings, and dress. Mister Jones gagged and fought weakly as the bitter salt water drenched mouth and stomach. But Miss Withers kept on.

  “All right, you can put him down,” she said finally. Phyllis found a large and flat-topped stone and laid the unhappy dog on its side.

  It was just in the nick of time, as Mister Jones chose that moment to get rid of sea water, breakfast, crackerjack bits, and, as the auction bills say, “other articles too numerous to mention.”

  “You’ve just made him all the sicker,” Phyllis complained.

  “He had to be sicker before he could be—weller,” said Miss Withers. “See—he’s all through.”

  Mister Jones gave her the lie by instantly becoming more unwell than ever.

  The two women surveyed the sufferer in perplexity. “Maybe we should have taken him to Dr. O’Rourke after all,” admitted Miss Withers.

  Finally Phyllis picked up the little dog and started back toward the bus, where the plump young man leaned on his horn.

  “I hope he doesn’t go and die on me before we get him to town,” Phyllis murmured as they came up the walk. “Tell me, do you really think he was poisoned?”

  “I do.” Miss Withers was very definite.

  “And you think it was the same—the same as the man on the plane?”

  Again Miss Withers was sure.

  “Poor little Mister Jones,” Phyllis cooed. “Does he feel better now?” The little dog wriggled in her arms. “Oh, Lord! There it goes again!”

  Hurriedly she put the dog down. But this time the invalid made no efforts to die, nor was there a single retch. As the two worried women bent over the tottering animal, they saw what it was that had impelled Mister Jones to want down.

  With twin sighs of relief, they hurried on toward the bus while Mister Jones trotted soberly behind with the prize.

  The bus swung away from the airport, leaving the landing to the motionless red-and-gilt Dragonfly with its dark secret. Overhead the gulls were screaming, and their dark shadows swept crazily across the faces of the two women who were riding back toward the city, a sadder but not wiser little dog cuddling between them with a crackerjack box beneath its paws.

  CHAPTER VI

  THE WIND THAT BLOWS nobody good blew, upon that sunny August afternoon, a gratifying rush of business through the wide-open doors of Catalina’s approximation of a grand hotel, the St. Lena.

  “You might as well get off here with me,” advised Miss Hildegarde Withers, as the red bus which bore Mister Jones, Phyllis La Fond, and herself came down out of the canyon and skirted the hotel grounds. “It’s the best and only hotel.”

  “And I always stay at the best hotels,” Phyllis said. “Heaven only knows how.” She signaled the plump youth to stop.

  “Unless I miss my guess,” went on Miss Withers, “We’ll have company before long. For Chief of Police Britt has put his foot down upon the idea of anybody leaving the island—anybody who was on the Dragonfly this morning.”

  “It ought to be a regular old-home week here,” Phyllis remarked, as her bags were being carried through the door and up the stone steps. “We’ll sleep well, anyway—knowing that one of the party is a murderer.”

  “Then you agree with me?” Miss Withers was gratified.

  Phyllis grinned and enclosed an unwilling Mister Jones in the leatherette container. “I might as well agree with you,” she admitted. “You seem to be a person who is usually right, and I’m wrong nine tenths of the time. All the same, I don’t see who could have bumped off that little guy with all of us sitting right there in the plane.”

  “That’s for him to know, and us to find out,” Miss Withers concluded. “When you register, young woman, insist that the clerk give you a five-dollar room. He has a few—the one next to mine was vacant this morning—but he’ll try to sell you one on the third floor for eight.”

  “Yeah? Well, listen to me, sister. If that clerk at the desk was ten years younger and if I wasn’t so tired from that ride in our fresh friend’s wheelbarrow of a bus, I’d show you how to get a room on the third for five, or maybe even three-fifty.”

  Phyllis held out her hand, with fingernails like dropsical rubies, and Miss Withers shook it gravely.

  “I’ll probably see you at dinner, Miss—was it La Fond?”

  “Among a lot of other things, yes. Born Schultz. My friends call me Phyd, and my enemies call me towhead. Take your pick.”

  “His intimate friends called him Candle-ends, and his enemies, Toasted-cheese,” quoted Miss Withers. “Well, good-bye, Phyd.”

  Miss Hildegarde Withers had enjoyed her quiet room near the stairs on the second floor for the past week in comparative seclusion. To that seclusion she now said a painless good-bye.

  She washed quickly and changed her dress for dinner. In her bathroom she heard sounds of bustle next door which told her that Phyllis had succeeded in obtaining the five-dollar room.

  But Miss Withers had a strong hunch that Phyllis La Fond was not the only one of the Dragonfly’s passengers likely to seek the luxurious shelter of the St. Lena. “Lucky I came here instead of taking a bungalow,” she told herself.

  She made a survey of her room and discovered that from the vantage point of a chair mounted beneath the open transom above her door, she could obtain an excellent view of the stair—with only two upper floors the St. Lena did not have or need a lift—and of the hallway.

  During the hour or two remaining before dinner, Miss Withers at the cost of a stiff neck had the pleasure of watching Roscoe, the octogenarian who acted as bellhop for the St. Lena, as he variously disposed of the Dragonfly’s passengers.

  The first to come was T. Girard Tompkins, who bore, as if in explanation of his disappearance, additional baggage consisting of a pair of very decorative blue glaze bowls. He was given a room across the hall—Number 17.

  Mr. Ralph O. Tate, who followed very soon after, was led on up the stairs toward the more expensive suites. Mr. Tate’s two sad-eyed henchmen, Tony and George, were placed in Room 18, far down the hall of the second floor. Then came Captain Thorwald Narveson, freckled and blue-eyed, with his corncob pipe going full blast. His was Room 19—like all the odd-numbered rooms, it faced, not the ocean, but the hills in the rear. It was evident that Captain Narveson placed no premium on a sea view.

  One by one Miss Withers checked them off—there had been nine passengers aboard the Dragonfly. One of them lay in the infirmary with a sheet over his face. That left only the honeymoon couple unaccounted for. They were probably mooning through the curio shops that lined the waterfront, Miss Withers hazarded a guess as she climbed d
own from her chair.

  The schoolteacher shook her head a little sadly as she thought of the sobering effects that the events of the morning must have had upon the young couple. It was not the sort of excitement that honeymooners seek, to have a dead man topple into the midst of their orange blossoms.

  But they were young enough to forget it easily, Miss Withers reminded herself. Probably were too full of the future to think of the present anyway.

  Miss Withers replaced the chair in its proper place beside the wide windows that opened out on the balcony above the sea and went down to dinner.

  On the stairs she passed T. Girard Tompkins, who, if he was glad to see her, managed to hide his delight admirably.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” said Miss Withers cheerfully.

  “Oh, yes,” said Tompkins. “I always stay here. Good hotel, don’t you think?” He started to move on and then paused.

  “I suppose you’re wondering what happened to me after our ride into town together?” Miss Withers wasn’t wondering anything of the kind, but she put on an interested expression.

  “I made an effort to find Chief Britt, who is a personal friend of mine,” explained Mr. Tompkins unnecessarily. “When I heard that he was already at the infirmary, I went about my business at the pottery works, which is very urgent. I hope my absence did not inconvenience anybody?”

  “On the contrary,” said Hildegarde Withers, and went on. She could not have explained why she disliked the man, but there was something in the air when he was near—an aura of Rotary good-fellowship and cheap gin. Besides, when he talked to her his glance turned to the floor, the ceiling, the pictures on the wall—anywhere but at her.

  But then, murderers were rarely shifty-eyed and unpleasant, as Miss Withers had learned to her sorrow. She shrugged her shoulders and strode onward, through the wide doorway that led into the palatial dining room of the St. Lena. Outside the thousand windows a sea was fast losing its blue-green color, and the gulls were swinging back and forth with their haunting cry like the creak of a rusty gate. But Miss Withers had no eye for the beauties of the evening. Her glance was turned toward the center of the well-filled dining room.

  There, at a large circle of white linen reminiscent of Arthur of England’s storied Table Round, were dining a number of persons whom she had never thought to see gathered together again—unless in a courtroom.

  Phyllis La Fond was signaling her frantically, and Miss Withers moved in that direction, tacking between the crowded lesser tables like a schooner making way through an island passage.

  “The more the merrier,” called Phyllis, as Miss Withers came within hailing distance. “The Ancient Order of Dragonflies is having its first banquet!”

  There was an empty chair between Tony, the more worried of Tate’s two assistants, and Phyllis herself. Miss Withers sank into it.

  “If this is the Dragonfly Club, I’m afraid I’m not eligible for membership,” she observed.

  Phyllis hastened to reassure the newcomer. “This was my idea,” she confessed. “So I snagged everyone of the bunch who ventured in here. We might as well stick together and have a couple of laughs.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry,” Phyllis told her. “You belong as much as any of us. Didn’t you discover that Mr. Forrest was—well, discover that he was dead? Besides, I’ve been telling the others about our trip up to the plane this afternoon—”

  Miss Withers could have cut her throat for that, cheerfully. But Phyllis rattled on, while the schoolteacher bit her tongue.

  “And about how you’re interested in the case and everything. So we’ll make you an honorary member, won’t we, gang?”

  The gang evidenced its individual consent by various monosyllabics. However, Miss Withers could not help but notice that Phyllis’s good-humored raillery at their predicament, combined with the dinner which was proving itself excellent, had put a different complexion on the group. Even Ralph O. Tate was unbending a little. Captain Narveson twinkled from across the table as if he considered this all part of a theatrical performance put on for his especial benefit. Tony and George forgot to match coins, and the general air was one of festivity.

  “Shall we make it by acclamation?” went on Phyllis, still in the role of master of ceremonies. “No—wait, here comes Mr. Tompkins with the bottle. Hurry up, Tommy!”

  Phyllis turned to Miss Withers. “I thought a drink might make the newlyweds feel happier, and Tommy said he had some liquor in his suitcase.”

  Miss Withers nodded. “He wouldn’t have a toothbrush, but he’d have liquor,” she remarked acidly.

  “Well, the liquor probably took out his teeth years ago,” Phyllis came back. Tompkins, who had quite evidently halted on the way to tap one of the square bottles which appeared in either pocket of his coat, was approaching the table.

  Already the waiter was distributing tall glasses half full of ice, and began pouring ginger ale into them. People at other tables turned enviously.

  “A highball with dinner?” inquired Mr. Tate blankly. But he held out his glass all the same.

  “None for me, please,” Miss Withers said.

  “You aren’t supposed to drink this,” Phyllis informed her. “All right, fellow Dragons—or is it Flies? Anyway, a toast to our new honorary member, Miss Hildegarde Martha Withers—good health to her!”

  The others all rose—all except the newlyweds, who had first to be jogged out of their accustomed daze. Ice tinkled in the glasses. …

  Miss Withers sat in her chair, ill at ease and more than a little nervous at the way Phyllis had dragged her out into the limelight.

  “One of you is drinking that toast with a wagon tongue in his cheek,” thought Miss Withers, but she did not say it.

  As she murmured an appropriate sentiment, her eyes, roving through the crowded dining room, fell upon a man who sat, solitary and somber, against the farther window. He had been staring toward the center table, perhaps attracted by Phyllis’s spectacular charms. As their eyes met, Miss Withers was sure that he recognized her. Then he turned away.

  “It’s too bad that Mr. Barney Kelsey is not sitting with us,” she said, very softly.

  But none of the others had heard of Barney Kelsey, until sometime that morning the bodyguard of Roswell T. Forrest. There was another who might well have joined the party, but not even Miss Withers was as yet aware of his existence.

  The dinner continued—aided on its way by Phyllis’s high spirits and by the bottled spirits of T. Girard Tompkins, who by now was urging everybody to call him “Tommy.” By unspoken consent they avoided the tragedy of the morning as a topic of conversation.

  During coffee—which was diluted with gin to make what Phyllis fondly believed was a coffee-royal, that effervescent young lady had another idea. She clapped her hands together, so that two waiters came running and the people at the nearby tables bit their forks.

  “Listen,” she cried. “I’ve got a swell idea. We’re all in the same boat, and we might as well have some fun. Suppose we stick together this evening? They have dancing in the Casino—it’s free, too. What do you say?”

  There were vague murmurs. “I don’t see how anybody could object to going—unless he wanted to be an old crab,” Phyllis added.

  She started around the table. T. Girard Tompkins, on her right, evidenced a loud if sodden spirit of camaraderie. He hoped the party would stick together forever. In all his life he’d never met such a fine bunch. He had, he announced, a house in Pasadena. If the sheriff hadn’t got it yet, wouldn’t they all come and live with him …? His voice ran off in a mumble.

  “He’ll go, he says,” translated Phyllis. “If he’s able.” She pointed at Ralph O. Tate. “How about you?”

  Mr. Tate was dubious. “I’ve got to long-distance some of the studio executives and explain why I’ve lost a day’s shooting,” he said. “But maybe I’ll drop in at the Casino afterwards.”

  Phyllis leaned toward Captain Narveson, who still twinkled in comf
ortable silence. “How about you?”

  “A boat from my whaling ship meets me about midnight,” he told her. “Ay have to be down on the wharf and explain to my son Axel why Ay don’t go till tomorrow. But maybe Ay yust stop in to see you dancing with the young fallers here, eh?”

  The young fellows, in the persons of George and Tony, were of one mind about it. They had no long-distance calls to make and they had no ships to meet and they would just as soon go dancing as anything else.

  Phyllis had got round to the newlyweds. “How about it, Mr. and Mrs. Deving? Hey, I mean you!”

  Kay Deving opened her large, soft eyes very wide. “Who—me?”

  “Haven’t used the name long enough to get used to it, huh? Well, are you coming with us, you two? Bright lights, soft music, and the best dancing floor in California!”

  “Well—if Marvy wants to—” said Kay.

  “Well—if Kay wants to—” said Marvin. They spoke with one breath, and left off, looking rather foolish.

  They began again. “I’m afraid—” said Kay.

  “I don’t think—” said Marvin.

  “Perhaps we’d better go some other night,” finished Kay. She smiled, a little apologetically. “You see, we—we just got married—”

  “And we haven’t even registered and got a room yet—”

  “So maybe you’ll excuse us?”

  T. Girard Tompkins began to chuckle, and a broad remark trembled on the tip of his tongue. But Phyllis kicked him savagely in the ankle.

  “And we’ve been dancing a whole lot lately,” finished the redheaded girl. Miss Withers noticed again the eyes, which without their dark shading goggles of this afternoon were surprisingly luminous and deep. They were brown, with little flecks of a green in them which was sometimes almost yellow—eyes that were an excellent reason, Miss Withers thought, for the adoration which fairly surged toward her from the slick-haired young husband.

  Phyllis was a young woman of some force. “Oh, come on, you kids. You’ve got all your lifetime to register and get a room. But you’ve never seen a ballroom like the Casino!”