Lieutenant Ortega looked up quickly. "That is impossible. Eldridge could not possibly have dictated a statement after receiving the injuries which caused his death."
"He did, though," Doan maintained.
Captain Perona frowned at him. "You intend to forge a statement."
"Me?" said Doan. "Oh, no. Why, if I did that all those crooked politicians would haul me into court and prove the charges in the statement were false."
Captain Perona opened his mouth and shut it again, helplessly. "Doan," he said at last, "the United States is an ally of this country's, and as such we wish to treat its nationals with all due consideration, but I warn you to get out of Mexico and stay out."
"Wait a minute," said Doan. "I want to set you straight on a couple of other matters first."
"What matters?" Captain Perona inquired icily.
"I want my dough. I want you to give me the official credit for solving the mystery of Patricia Van Osdel's death."
"And what possible reason could I have for doing that?"
"Because if you do, I'll tell you where to find Bautiste Bonofile."
There was a dead, ominous silence.
Captain Perona stirred a little in his chair. "I now retract what I said a moment ago. You are not going to leave Mexico. You are going to stay here for about twenty years, I think."
"It's nice of you to ask me," said Doan. "But no."
"Where--is--Bautiste--Bonofile?"
"Do I get credit on the Van Osdel deal?"
"No! If you do not tell me at once where Bautiste Bonofile is, you are going to regret it."
"Don't get tough," Doan warned, "or I'll dummy up on you, and then you'll never find him. Come on, Perona. Let's make a deal. I get credit for Van Osdel. You get credit for Bautiste Bonofile. That's a nice offer."
Captain Perona rubbed his hand over his face and sighed deeply. "I dislike you, Doan. I dislike you very much, indeed. You are an unscrupulous, cold-blooded criminal, and I think--and hope most fervently--that you will come to a bad end one day soon."
"I can hardly wait," said Doan. "But let's make a deal first."
Captain Perona said: "I have failed to find Bautiste Bonofile, and that is a reflection on me and on Major Nacio' s organization. The cables will be in place over the Canyon of Black Shadow by tonight. My failure will then be a matter of public knowledge. You have won, Doan. I must bargain with you because I have no choice. You will be given the credit for solving Patricia Van Osdel's death. Where is Bautiste Bonofile?"
"In a tunnel under Colonel Callao's patio."
"What?" said Captain Perona sharply.
Doan nodded. "Yeah. He is."
Captain Perona turned slowly to look at Colonel Callao. Colonel Callao's face was as loosely blank as ever, and he was smiling, but there was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.
"Don't let him kid you," said Doan. "He understands English. Enough to get by, anyway. He's got a swell poker face, but he can't control his eyes. I think he's been dealing for and covering Bautiste Bonofile all along."
Colonel Callao stood up very slowly and leaned his weight against the table. His face was darkly leaden now. No one else in the room spoke or moved. Finally Colonel Callao pushed himself away from the table, swaying a little, and walked toward the door, pushing one foot ahead of the other.
Captain Perona looked at Lieutenant Ortega and nodded once. "I assume all responsibility here. I order you to follow Colonel Callao and place him under close arrest."
Lieutenant Ortega got up and saluted stiffly. He walked out of the room behind Colonel Callao. The door boomed shut.
Captain Perona looked at Doan. "I like you even less after this. Colonel Callao is a drunken pig, but he has done some very brave things in his day. I had some suspicion of him. I thought he understood English, and I have been trying to trick him into betraying himself by insulting him in that language, but he was too clever. Explain to me how you knew where to find Bautiste Bonofile."
"I didn't know, and I didn't find him. Janet did."
Captain Perona glared at her. "You! You knew! And you stood there silent and let me compromise my honor by bargaining with this criminal!"
"You told me to keep still until you addressed me," Janet said.
"So! You choose this particular time--the only time since I have met you--to obey my orders!"
"Stop shouting at me."
"I will shout at you if I please!" Captain Perona roared. "You do not have the brains of a two-year-old child! I think I will put you in jail and keep you there until I decide whether or not I want to marry you!"
"What?" Janet said dazedly. "What did you say? Until you decide whether or not you want--"
"Do not be coy," Captain Perona ordered. "I detest that in a woman. I have not made up my mind as yet whether you would be a suitable wife for me, and after this performance I have grave doubts. But I am a just man, and I will give you one final chance to prove you are worthy of the honor. How did you find Bautiste Bonofile?"
Janet stamped her foot. "If you dare to think I would ever even consider--"
"Answer my question!"
"I won't!"
Doan said mildly: "It was that diary again. There was another cache dug by your illustrious ancestor mentioned in it. Janet was looking for it. Bautiste Bonofile had found it. I forgot to tell you that he's dead."
"Dead!"
"Yes," said Doan. "And I'll save you the trouble of asking. It was me again. I shot him."
"So!" said Captain Perona. "You lied about that also! You did have another gun!"
"Don't you dare talk to him like that!" Janet shrilled. "Mr. Doan saved my life! That Bautiste had a gun poked right against my back, and Carstairs jumped at him, and Mr. Doan shot him, and it was good enough for him! And if you weren't such an arrogant dumb-head it never would have happened because you would have found Bautiste months ago!"
"I am afraid that is correct," Captain Perona admitted ruefully. "So then, Doan, the matter becomes settled. Now all that is needed is for us to find the man, Greg."
"Oh, I know where he is, too," said Doan.
"What?" said Captain Perona incredulously. "You know... Well, where is he?"
"In his grave."
Captain Perona stared at him. "You said--grave?"
"Sure. I knew that right away when you couldn't find him. Greg couldn't hide in Los Altos for five minutes without being spotted if he was alive. A dead man--a buried one doesn't take up much room. There are lots of fresh ruins around here."
"You are insane," said Captain Perona.
"Nope. Look at it this way. Patricia Van Osdel drew a lot of money out of the bank and made a big point of coming here at this particular time--even bribed the hotel to put on the bus trip after they had canceled it. Why? Because she had an appointment with someone here yesterday. Greg might have known about the money she was carrying, but there was one other person who would be sure to."
"Who?" Captain Perona asked numbly.
"Why, the person she was going to pay it to."
The hinges on the door at the back of the room creaked just slightly, and then a voice said bitterly:
"You dirty little rat. You dirty, stinking crook."
"Hello, Amanda," said Doan. "I was just telling the Captain that if he really wanted to find Greg he could probably uncover what's left of him if he dug around under your house a bit."
Amanda Tracy was wearing a bandage like a lopsided turban over her frizzed hair. Under it the tanned skin of her face looked dry and yellowish.
"No," Janet breathed softly. "Oh, no."
"Yes," said Doan. "Amanda cooked up a deal to do Patricia out of some of her dough. Offhand I'd bet that she told Patricia that she had uncovered some of Predilip's paintings. The reason I say that is because Patricia was careful never to mention Predilip's name, although he's one of the best reasons to come to this town. Patricia was a bit of a chiseler in her refined way, and if she thought she could get an undercover bargain in some prev
iously undiscovered paintings which now are very valuable, she'd come running, and she'd bring cash to overawe the person she was dealing with. How about it, Amanda?"
"You're so damned smart," said Amanda Tracy. "I'll tell you something you don't know. I didn't take anything from Patricia Van Osdel that wasn't mine. Do you know where her old man got his flykiller formula? From my mother. She made it up herself and used it around the farm. Old Van Osdel came along selling phony patent medicine one day, and he saw it work. He got my mother to tell him how she made it and got her to sign a release of all her rights in it for five dollars. Five dollars!"
"Patricia came by her chiseling honestly," Doan commented.
Amanda Tracy made a savage gesture with her clenched fist. "Just five dollars, and Van Osdel made millions out of it! And then later, when my father died and we lost our farm, I asked him to give us just a little to help us out--to keep my mother from dying in the county poor-house. He refused. I told him then that I'd get some of his dirty money whether he gave it to me or not--plenty of it. I waited for a long time before I got a chance. I painted up some damned good imitations of Predilip, and I contacted Patricia when she came back to America. I told her I'd found the pictures in an attic of a house Predilip had lived in. I made a good story of it. I intended to sell her the fakes and then tell everybody about it and laugh like hell when she tried to get her money back."
"Not a bad idea," said Doan. "Why didn't you do that instead of killing her?"
"You should ask, little man. Because of some others like you, and that's why I've always hated the whole breed. When I threatened old Van Osdel, he lured some private detectives to follow me around for awhile. I knew that, but I didn't know they had taken pictures of me--candid shots. I knew Patricia had never seen me, but she had seen those pictures. She recognized me right away. She knew then that the whole deal must be a gyp, and she just laughed at me. She didn't laugh long, though."
"Dios mio," Captain Perona whispered.
Amanda Tracy laughed at him. "The earthquake was just what the doctor ordered. Patricia was walking away from me when it happened. I picked up a rock and slammed her and grabbed her purse. Maria started running and squawking, but so was everyone else right then. I chased her and hit her with the rock. I thought I'd finished her. No one noticed me before or afterward. They're used to me in this town."
"What about Greg?" Doan asked.
"He followed me from the hotel last night. He knew why Patricia had come here, and he guessed what had happened. He wanted the twenty-five thousand. All of it, if you can imagine the nerve of him. He was a nasty one, that boy. But I knew he didn't have his knife with him. I did have mine. He slammed me with a rock once. That was all he had time for."
Janet made a little gulping sound.
"Brace up, dearie," Amanda Tracy said. "I've got a surprise for the three of you." She held out her right hand. "Isn't it pretty?"
"Mother of God--a hand grenade!" Captain Perona exclaimed.
"One of yours," Amanda Tracy agreed. "You should really keep better track of them." She reached behind her with her left hand. "I'm going to leave this little iron egg with you. There'll be quite a dust-up when it lets go, and after it's all over I'll be in my little hospital bed looking very surprised and innocent, and I don't think any of you will tell stories about what I've just said."
"Wait!" Captain Perona shouted. "You can't--"
"Good-by, now," said Amanda Tracy. Her left hand had found the latch, and she pulled the door open behind her.
Lepicik was standing in the doorway looking politely interested. He nodded casually to Doan and then hit Amanda Tracy in the back of the neck with the edge of his palm. Her head snapped forward, and Doan dove for her. He caught her right hand in both of his and held it rigid while her thick body twirled and slumped loosely down.
"Get it!" Doan gasped. "Get the grenade! Look out! She's got her finger through the firing pin ring!"
Captain Perona knelt down beside him, breathing hard. With infinite care he untwisted the thick fingers. He had the grenade then, and he shifted it from one hand to the other uneasily and then put it down on the desk.
Doan let go of Amanda Tracy and stood up and wiped his forehead thoughtfully.
"Mr. Doan," said Lepicik. "Excuse me, but I have a message here that came through the military wireless. It's a little confusing, and I thought perhaps you could explain it. It's from a man named Carpenhyer, who is a motion picture agent in Hollywood, California. Have you ever heard of the man?"
"Yes," said Doan. "He's one of the best. Are you really a director?"
"Certainly," said Lepicik. "I have directed many cinema productions--in London, Rome, Stockholm, Berlin, Paris, Vienna, Moscow. Before the war, of course. But this Carpenhyer says he can get me a job at--" Lepicik stopped to verify the figure "--one thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars a week. Could that be correct?"
Doan nodded, wincing. "I'm afraid so, if Carpenhyer says it is. Take it. But quick."
"You!" said Captain Perona, suddenly recovering himself. "How did you get out of my quarters? Where is the soldier who was guarding you?"
"He had a headache," Lepicik said. "So I gave him some opium."
"Opium!" Captain Perona repeated wildly.
Lepicik looked surprised. "Just a small pill. It is very good for headaches. But it put him to sleep."
Sergeant Obrian burst in the room through the front door. "Say, that old artist doll has scrammed out of the hospital, and I can't find--" His mouth stayed open.
"You," said Captain Perona dangerously, "have arrived, as usual, in the nick of time. There is the artist doll. She has just been frustrated in an attempt to massacre us all. Put her in jail and make sure before you do that she does not have any hand grenades or other deadly weapons concealed about her person."
Amanda Tracy stirred and moaned.
"Oh!" said Janet. "I can't stand to see... I've got to get out of here!"
She dodged nimbly around Sergeant Obrian and ran headlong out the door and across a neat, graveled plot of parade ground toward the plaza. Behind her she could hear both Doan and Captain Perona shouting at her anxiously, but she couldn't stop. And then she saw something that did make her stop.
"Yes!" said Bartolome proudly. "Is it not a wonder of wonders most incredible?"
It was the bus. It had dents in it as big as footballs. It was lopsided and swaybacked, and both the rear tires were flat. But it was out from under the debris and up on its own wheels.
Carstairs and Doan and Captain Perona pulled up beside Janet and stared, too.
"The engine," said Bartolome, "has fallen out and broken itself lamentably, but that is only a matter of the most minor."
Henshaw came pacing gloomily up to them. His head was bowed, and his hands were folded behind him.
"Observe!" Bartolome commanded him. "The bus of scenic magnificence resumes itself!"
"It ain't gonna do me no good," Henshaw said.
"What's the matter?" Doan asked him. "Didn't you sell Timpkins the bathroom?"
"No," said Henshaw. "I didn't sell him the bathroom." His voice rose to a wail. "Timpkins sold me his damned old hotel!"
* * *
Contents
SALLY'S IN THE ALLEY
By Norbert Davis
Chapter 1
THIS WILL PROBABLY STRIKE YOU AS HIGHLY improbable if you know your Hollywood, but the lobby of the Orna Apartment Hotel, off Rossmore south of Melrose, is done in very nice taste. It is neat and narrow and dignified, with a conservative blue carpet on the floor and a small black reception desk on a line straight back from the unadorned plate glass door.
At this particular moment its only occupant was the desk clerk. He was small and very young-looking, and he had dark curly hair and a snub nose with freckles across the bridge. His blue eyes were staring with a look of fierce, crosshatched concentration at the pictured diagram of a radio hookup he had spread out on the desk.
The plate glass door opened
, and a man came into the lobby with a quietly purposeful air. He was blond and a little better than medium height, and he was wearing an inconspicuous blue business suit. He looked so much like an attorney or an accountant or the better class of insurance broker that it was perfectly obvious what he really was.
He walked up to the desk and said, "Have you a party by the name of Pocus staying here?"
The desk clerk was following the whirligig line that indicated a coil on his diagram with the point of a well-chewed pencil. The pencil point hesitated for a split second and then moved on again.
"No," he said. He didn't have to bother about being courteous because he intended to quit the apartment hotel any minute now and get a job at a fabulous salary in a war plant installing radios in fighter planes.
The blond man took a leather folder from his pocket, opened it, and spread it out on the radio diagram. "Take a look at this."
The clerk studied the big gold badge for a second and then looked up slowly. "You're a G-man."
The blond man winced slightly. "I'm a special agent of the Department of Justice. Let's start over again. What's your name?"
"Edmund."
"All right, Edmund. Have you got a party by the name of Pocus staying here? H. Pocus or Hocus Pocus?"
"No," said Edmund. He cleared his throat. "Will you excuse me for a second? I've got to call and wake up one of our tenants. He works on the swing shift, and he has to get waked up and eat before--"
The blond man punched him suddenly and expertly in the chest with a stiffened forefinger. "Get away from the switchboard. You're not tipping anybody off." He whistled shrilly through his teeth.
Another man came in the front door. He was short and stocky, and he had sleepy brown eyes and a scar on his nose. A third man came in from the hall that led to the back door. He was very tall and thin, stooped a little. He wore a light topcoat, and he kept his hands in its pockets.
"They're here," said the blond man. "Come on, Edmund. Give. Which apartment are they in?"
Edmund stood mute.
The blond man watched him curiously. "Are you scared of them?"
The Doan and Carstairs Mysteries Page 21
