Lance glanced at the spines and decided not to pick it up. It was somewhat globular in shape, not more than two inches across, with eight deeply indented ribs, each rib bearing several brownish-black curved spines, its bright green surface thickly covered with tiny white dots.
Lance raised his eyes to meet Jones’s. “I’ve seen these plants before,” he said. “Not in these parts though. Let me see… seems like I remember seeing some over in New Mexico.”
“Right, right, quite right.” Jones beamed. His gaze sharpened suddenly on Lance. “Very observant, Tolliver. The Astrophytum capricorne is native to New Mexico. Of course—high percentage—New Mexican cacti—found in Arizona. This particular plant, however—beautiful—not found in native habitat—spines—unusual development—so young a specimen.”
“Is this cactus,” Lance asked innocently, “any relation to that peyote I gave you this morning?”
“The Lophophora williamsii?” Jones looked indignant. “Different genus entirely. As a member of the cacti family, yes. Otherwise—certainly not——” He paused. “Incident’ly—reminds me—you say you didn’t find that specimen growing here? Mind—saying where—did you find it?”
Lance decided to hurl a bombshell. He said quietly, “I took it from Frank Bowman’s hand when I found him dead.”
Jones blinked rapidly. Then his eyes sharpened. “You mean to say you found the dead man holding that plant?”
“What’s this?” a new voice broke in. Lance glanced around to see Malcolm Fletcher standing behind him. Fletcher said, “What plant was found in what dead man’s hand?”
Lance wondered how long Fletcher had been standing there.
Jones was explaining, “Why, bless me, Fletcher! Tolliver says he found Bowman holding a Lophophora williamsii——”
“You mean that peyote thing you showed me this morning?” Fletcher asked sharply. “I thought you’d dug that up someplace.” He turned suddenly to Lance. “How’d Bowman happen to be holding that thing? Where’d he get it? What was he doing with it?”
“You tell me, and I’ll tell you,” Lance said calmly. “I’m just telling you where I found it. Further than that I can’t say. Why?—does it mean anything to you, Fletcher?”
Fletcher laughed shortly. “Not a thing. Seemed odd, that’s all.” He turned and started away.
Jones called after him, “Where’s Katherine?”
“Gone up to her room,” Fletcher answered, scarcely waiting to reply. “If she comes down again tell her I’ve gone for a walk. I’ll be back later.” He hurried out the street entrance of the hotel bar.
Lance turned back to find Jones frowning in the direction Fletcher had taken. “Certainly seemed in a hurry to go someplace,” Jones said.
Lance considered. Fletcher had heard part of their conversation. It had seemed to affect him queerly. Why not give Jones some more of the story and see if it brought any results?
“I’ll tell you, Professor,” Lance went on, “maybe I can give you a few more details about Bowman’s death, provided you’ll treat the matter confidentially.” Now he really didn’t care whether the man did or not as a matter of fact.
Jones looked interested. “Of course,” he promised.
“Somebody,” Lance commenced, “had a shipment of those mezcal buttons shipped to Pozo Verde. Now I can’t tell you why Bowman was interested in that shipment, but he was shot after he’d opened the box and taken one of those plants. As he fell he knocked over a bucket of creosote on the station platform. Later, before he died, he was carried out to that dry wash where I found him….” Lance went on and supplied certain other details.
When he had finished Jones’s eyes were glowing admiringly. “If you’re not a detective you should be,” he stated emphatically. “Nice work, Tolliver. Imagine!—discovering all that from a hand painted black.”
“And a pine sliver,” Lance reminded. “If I could discover what the woolly threads were on Bowman’s spur I might find the murderer.”
Jones looked thoughtful. “The murderer sounds like a rather careless man,” he put forth. “The matter of those woolly threads, for instance.” He considered for several moments while Lance watched him narrowly. If Jones knew who the murderer was, Lance decided, there was nothing in Jones’s face or manner to reveal it. “A very careless man,” Jones repeated. “A man like that would be a menace to any gang with which he operated. A careless man might overlook other clues——”
“What, for instance?” Lance asked.
“Tolliver,” Jones asked abruptly, “what’s your interest in this matter?”
“Well,” Lance said cautiously, “I found the body. The murderer should be found and punished. I’m interested, that’s all.”
“Quite so, quite, quite.” Jones nodded impatiently. He appeared to consider the matter for more moments. Finally he said, “A careless man might overlook something. Undoubtedly there was an opportunity for Bowman’s hand, freshly plunged in creosote, to brush against the murder’s clothing when the body was lifted to the horse——”
“By cripes!” Lance exclaimed, “I’ve been a fool! I should have thought of that.” He smiled suddenly. “If you’re not a detective you should be,” he said, repeating Jones’s words of a few minutes before.
Jones laughed disparagingly. “Not at all, not at all. Bit of a hobby of mine—criminology—detection of crime. Only slight interest—y’understand. I merely mentioned—possibility. Something—think about. Cacti—more interesting. Incident’ly—dry talking. Drink up…. Pat, two more of the same.”
“Coming up, Professor,” the barkeep replied.
Jones had again taken up the cactus plant on the table. “This specimen—related to Astrophytum myriostigma—somewhat similar in form—usually only five ribs—rarely spined—sometimes called ‘Bishop’s Hood Cactus’—looks for all the world like a bishop’s miter….”
Lance only heard half of what he was saying, so concentrated were his thoughts in other directions. For the next two hours Professor Jones advocated the merits of collecting cacti. He explained various forms to Lance, told him where they were to be found, pointed out different habits of growth. Twice Lance made excuses for leaving, but each time Jones talked so fast Lance found it impossible to withdraw from the conversation—if such a one-sided monologue could be termed a conversation. Whatever Jones was, or appeared to be, Lance decided, the man certainly knew his cactus.
Lance finally made himself heard. “That’s all mighty interesting, Professor. I got a good notion to pull out for Washington and take a look at your institute.”
“What? What’s that?” Jones appeared startled. He went on rather lamely, “Fine idea, of course. However—suggest you—postpone trip—until my return. Collection—not complete, y’understand.”
At that moment the hotel clerk came into the bar with word that the professor’s niece was awaiting him in the lobby. Somewhat reluctantly Jones stuffed the cactus plant into one of the roomy pockets of his tweed jacket after first wrapping it in a handkerchief, gathered up his papers and rose from the table. Lance started to leave, but Jones detained him with a “One minute. You must meet my niece. You’ll like Katherine.”
The girl was seated at the far end of the lobby when Lance followed the professor into the long room. Jones performed the introduction, adding, “I believe we’re going to be brother enthusiasts, Katherine. I feel Tolliver will prove a most apt pupil in the study of cacti.”
All this was news to Lance. He blinked, though afterward he was never sure whether it was the pro fessor’s words or sight of Katherine Gregory that momentarily threw him off balance. He liked instantly the girl’s cool, rippling laugh that greeted her uncle’s words. The direct, even glance from the girl’s dark, long-lashed eyes did things to Lance Tolliver. She was tall and slim and healthily tanned. Mostly it was her heavy mass of yellow hair, knotted low at her nape, that caught Lance’s attention. The color was so vivid, reminding Lance of the golden pollen dust of certain desert flowers, i
t seemed to cast a pale shimmering light about her head.
“Uncle Uly is always trying to make converts, Mr Tolliver”—she smiled—“so don’t take him too seriously.”
Jones commented on the absence of Fletcher. The smile left Katherine Gregory’s face. “I don’t know where he is. We had a bit of an argument. To get out of it I made the excuse I was going to my room for a handkerchief. I haven’t seen him since. He wasn’t here when I returned.”
Lance put in, “He came into the bar and said something about going for a walk.”
The girl lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. She suggested that Jones and Lance take chairs. Lance seated himself, twirling his sombrero on one finger, scarcely knowing what to say. Katherine suggested that the men smoke. That put Lance more at ease. He rolled a brown-paper cigarette while Jones stuffed tobacco into a battered and ancient-looking brier.
“By the way, Tolliver”—Jones looked slightly apologetic—“do you mind if I tell Katherine of your deductions in the Bowman killing? Very interesting. I remember you said—confidential—that sort of thing—but—but——” His voice trailed off lamely.
“Go ahead,” Lance consented, feeling the professor would tell the girl whether he liked it or not if it pleased him to do so. Jones said, “Thanks,” and related the story in his jerky accents. The girl’s eyes widened, and something of admiration came into them as the story was unfolded. “All this—confidential—of course,” Jones concluded.
The girl was still looking at Lance. “Smart—awfully smart,” she said in a voice that was almost a whisper.
Lance felt a pleasurable flush mounting to his face. “It was just a matter of using my head,” he said awkwardly. “Professor Jones pointed out one clue I entirely overlooked—that matter of the creosote being wiped on the killer’s clothing.”
“Uncle Uly always was quite good that way,” Katherine Gregory said dryly. Lance didn’t understand her tone at the time.
To keep the conversational ball rolling Lance asked the professor if he had ever heard of an outfit called the Southwest Cactus Company. Jones replied promptly, “Why, of course. Situated in El Paso—old company—export to Europe a great deal—all over nation, in fact. Suppose you’ve passed the place—traveling through—Texas——”
Once on the subject of cacti it was natural for the professor to do all the talking. It was nearly midnight by the time Lance rose to leave. Someplace during the conversation he had promised to accompany the professor the following day and study “plants in their native soil,” as Jones put it. Pleading that he expected to be busy all morning had had no effect on Jones who had pointed out the afternoon would do just as well. Finally, when he had said his good nights and once more found himself on Main Street, Lance’s brain was still somewhat in a whirl.
Sheriff Lockwood had gone home by the time Lance arrived back at the sheriff’s office. Oscar was sitting on the cot where he spent his sleeping hours, eating from the usual paper sack. Oscar glanced up as Lance entered. “Huh, you made quite a stay. Learn anything new?”
“Maybe,” Lance said noncommittally. “Oscar, do you remember how sore Kilby got when I mentioned his new overalls?”
Oscar nodded. “That was just before you hit him. Why?”
“Where would he be likely to buy those overalls?”
“One of the general stores—Parker’s or Rumler’s.”
“Do me a favor tomorrow morning. Find out if Kilby did get his overalls at one of those places and if they know what became of his old ones. You can ask questions and get answers that might be refused me because I’m a stranger in Pozo Verde.”
“Sure, I’ll do that. But what’s the idea——?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. I’m working on a hunch. What time does Johnny Quinn open his station? I’ve got to send another tele gram.”
“Probably around seven o’clock. Just before the limited goes through.”
“I’d better get along to bed, then, so I can rise early.”
“It’s an idea for both of us. By the way, did you get to meet the professor’s niece?” Lance nodded carelessly. Oscar said enthusiastically, “Stunner, ain’t she?”
Lance shrugged. “I didn’t notice in particular.”
Oscar snorted skeptically. “The hell you didn’t! You can’t look at that girl without noticin’ in particular. Did you ever see such hair? Pretty as—as—dlemon drops.”
Lance laughed and said good night. He retraced his steps toward the hotel, mounted to his room on the second floor and went to bed to dream of a girl with pollen-dust hair.
IX
A Fighting Deputy
Early as Lance left his hotel room and got breakfast the following morning, Sheriff Lockwood was already at his office desk when Lance arrived. Lance asked, “Where’s Oscar?”
“He’s been sitting around here waiting for the general stores to open up. He just left. He tells me you wanted him to check up on overalls sales.”
Lance nodded. “I’ll tell you about it later. Right now I’ve got to dust over to the railroad station and send a tele gram. See you in a little spell, Ethan.”
“Right, Lance.”
Lance walked rapidly along the street. As he passed Parker’s General Store Oscar was just emerging from the doorway. Lance said without preliminaries, “Any luck?”
Oscar shook his head, lowered his voice and fell in step with Lance. “Kilby hasn’t bought any overalls there recent. I’m going to try Rumler’s next.”
They parted at the corner of Laredo Street, Lance turning right in the direction of the railroad station. Old Johnny Quinn looked as though he’d had a hard night when Lance stepped into the depot. “How’s your hemoglobinuria this morning, Johnny?”
Johnny Quinn raised one hand tenderly to his head. “Poorly, Mr Tolliver. I took my bourbon last night too. Felt right pert then. But this mawnin’ my head thumps fit to be tied. Tongue feels sort of dry an’ parched too. Huh? Oh, my telygraph pad? Here ye are.”
Lance quickly composed and wrote out his message. He passed it across the counter and put down some money. Johnny took the paper, tried to make sense of the written words, then raised his eyes accusingly to Lance.
“Same crazy words like yisterday,” he complained. “Separate, I can read the words, but when I string ’em together they’re jest flapdoodle. I like to know what folks is sendin’.”
“I appreciate your interest,” Lance said gravely. “I’m just trying to make arrangements for Aunt Minnie’s funeral.”
“But the address here is to El Paso,” Johnny Quinn pointed out. “Aunt Minnie passed away in Washington, D.C.”
“I know,” Lance explained patiently. “You see, Aunt Minnie came from El Paso. They’re shipping the remains home to Uncle Obadiah. This feller I’m sending the message to is a relation of ours. He’s to let me know if they’re going to keep Aunt Minnie in a glass coffin or call in a taxidermist and have her mounted in her old rocking chair.”
Johnny Quinn’s watery eyes bulged. “Whut?” he demanded in horror-stricken tones. “Ye ain’t meanin’ to tell me they’re aimin’ to stuff Aunt Minnie and keep her in the house?”
“You’re being hardhearted about the whole matter,” Lance said in mingled sadness and indignation. “Uncle Obadiah would miss Aunt Minnie something fierce if she wasn’t around the house to keep him company. Just put yourself in Uncle Obadiah’s boots. See how you’d feel!”
“I—I guess you’re right,” Quinn stammered weakly.
Lance made as though to brush a tear from his cheek. “I’m glad you understand,” he said in broken accents. “Now, if you’ll just send that tele gram right away——”
“I’ll do it to once, Mr Tolliver.”
Lance turned and left the station. Johnny Quinn gazed after him, shaking his head. “Thet redheaded Tolliver jasper sure must have some mighty peculiar kinfolks,” he muttered.
Oscar was sitting on the corner of Lockwood’s desk talking to the sheriff by the time Lance
returned. He glanced up disappointedly as Lance strode through the open doorway.
Lance nodded philosophically. “Don’t say it, Oscar. I can tell from the length of your face you didn’t have any luck.”
“Not none,” Oscar said gloomily. “I was sort of pinning hopes on them missing garments, too—or would you say overalls was a garment?”
“I’ll tell better when we locate ’em,” Lance said.
“Just what do you expect to find?” Lockwood asked.
“It’s this way,” Lance replied. “There was fresh creosote on Frank Bowman’s hand. I was hoping that when the murderer lifted Frank to his horse some of that creosote might have rubbed on the killer’s clothing. You know how such things go—a man can hardly pick up a paint brush without getting some on his clothing.” He smiled. “That’s always been my experience, I’ve noticed…. Anyway, George Kilby did suddenly get new overalls. When I mentioned the fact to him he sure got riled. He was drunk, of course, but——”
“You figuring Kilby killed Bowman?” the sheriff asked.
“I’ve got hunches that-a-way.” Lance nodded. “Day before yesterday when I found the body and you rode up with Kilby, Herrick and the others I don’t remember Kilby having new overalls then. Things like that stand out sometimes. At the same time, maybe he had ’em then, and I just overlooked it.”
“There’d be no reason for you noticing new overalls then,” Oscar put in.
“Look at it this way,” Lance continued. “Bowman was killed at night. The creosote on his hand wouldn’t be seen in the dark. But in the daylight, when I found the body, it was seen plain enough. All those hombres saw it. Let’s suppose Kilby noticed some on his overalls and figured somebody might tie the two together. He’d want to get rid of his overalls, wouldn’t he?”
The Battle At Three-Cross Page 8
