The Doan and Carstairs Mysteries

by Norbert Davis

  "Murder," he croaked. "Just plain murder."

  "Who was the victim," Doan asked, "if you can bear to tell me?"

  "Poor old Tonto Charlie. Free-Look Jones went and stabbed him in the neck just because Tonto caught him cheating at cards. Why, that's the nastiest thing Free-Look ever did. A man that'll do a thing like that isn't fit to associate with decent people. You come on out now."

  "Why?" Doan asked. "Does this business about Tonto Charlie give everybody a furlough from jail?"

  "Oh, no. Parsley Jack got away. He was just faking all the time. When Doc Gravelmeyer gave him the ether, Jack just held his breath, and then when Doe turned around to get a knife, Jack hopped off the operating table and jumped out the window. Doc Gravelmeyer is pretty mad. He says Jack has got no business exerting himself like that because he's got a couple broken ribs."

  Doan followed him down the corridor and into the reception room. Harold sat down behind his desk and sighed.

  "Murder," he said. "Think of that."

  "I am," said Doan. "Thanks for the nap."

  "No charge," said Harold. "Good-by."

  Doan went out the jail's front door and down the street to the corner. He stopped there and, shading his eyes with the palm of one hand, surveyed the signs along the main street. A block and a half to the south there was a ten-foot tall stretch of red neon tubing that said

  BURIALS IN THE BEST OF TASTE

  AT REASONABLE RATES

  CASH

  Doan headed in that direction. The sign ran around and over a narrow brick building that had draped, darkened windows on the ground floor. There was a door beside the windows that was labeled conservatively

  DOCTOR ETHELBERT GRAVELMEYER PHYSICIAN & SURGEON

  CORONER COUNTY SURVEYOR

  Opening the door, Doan went up a long, narrow stairway and into a vintage waiting room that was empty save for some interesting antique chairs and magazines. Another door, at the back, was open, and Doan went through that into a small office lined with glass-doored cabinets full of ferociously shiny instruments. There was a desk in the corner and a man behind the desk. He had big ears and a bald head and a long, drooping, houndlike face. He didn't say anything. He didn't move. He sat still and looked at Doan without much interest.

  "Doc Gravelmeyer?" Doan inquired.

  The man nodded once slowly.

  "I'm Doan," Doan said.

  Gravelmeyer nodded again more slowly.

  "I came to inquire about a corpse named Tonto Charlie," Doan told him. "Where is he?"

  Gravelmeyer put out one hand and pointed a long yellow forefinger at the floor.

  "Downstairs?" Doan asked. "In the undertaking parlor?"

  Gravelmeyer nodded.

  Doan said, "It's a funny thing about this climate around here. Corpses deteriorate very rapidly in it. Don't you think so?"

  Gravelmeyer shook his head.

  "You don't?"

  Gravelmeyer shook his head again.

  Doan sighed. "Well, how much would you take to think so?"

  Gravelmeyer held up his hand with the forefinger pointing up this time.

  "One," said Doan. "One dollar?"

  Gravelmeyer raised the hand and the finger.

  "Ten?" said Doan.

  Gravelmeyer raised again.

  "One hundred," said Doan. "And that's where the bidding stops."

  Gravelmeyer nodded and dropped his hand on the desk lifelessly.

  Doan pointed at the shiny tin alarm clock on Gravelmeyer's desk. "I've been in jail for the last two hours. Tonto Charlie was killed an hour and twenty minutes ago. Right?"

  Gravelmeyer turned his hand over, palm up.

  "Sure," said Doan. "I haven't got it now, but I'll get it and come back in a minute. Hold everything."

  Gravelmeyer smiled.

  Doan went out through the waiting room and down the narrow stairs and up the street to the Double-Eagle Hotel. Gerald, the shiny clerk, was still behind the desk in the lobby, and he smiled his nicest.

  "Mr. Doanwashi, I'm glad to see you again so soon. There's a telegram here for your friend, Harriet Hathaway."

  "Did one come for me?" Doan asked.

  "Yes. I gave it to Sheriff Peterkin to deliver to you at the jail."

  "Peterkin!" Doan echoed, aghast. "Where's the telegraph office? Quick!"

  "On the side street, half a block to your left as you go out the door. It's in the second building."

  Doan was on his way. He blew out the front door and down the block, weaving and dodging around startled sightseers. He whirled around the corner, skidded slightly on the turn, and then stopped short.

  Peterkin was coming toward him. His head was bent, and he was counting some bills he had in his hand with tenderly absorbed interest.

  "I'll take that," Doan said.

  "Ah?" said Peterkin, startled. He made an instinctive gesture of concealment. "Oh. What?"

  "The money," Doan said.

  "Oh," Peterkin said. "The money. You mean--this?"

  "That," Doan agreed.

  Peterkin sighed and handed him the bills. Doan counted them and then silently held out his hand. Peterkin sighed more deeply and disgorged another twenty-dollar bill. He moistened his lips, watching Doan stow the money in his wallet.

  "If you're planning on making an investment," he said, "I could steer you..."

  "My gun," said Doan.

  Peterkin gave it to him. Doan flicked out the cylinder to make sure it was still loaded and then slipped it into his waistband.

  "Say," said Peterkin, "did you know that we was both right about Free-Look Jones?"

  "How is that?" Doan asked.

  "Well, you said he might use his knife if somebody caught him cheatin' at cards, and I said he'd likely run. He did both."

  "Where'd he run to?"

  "Somewhere or other," Peterkin said vaguely.

  "Have you looked for him?"

  "Me?" Peterkin said. "Well, no. Not yet. But I'm goin' to as soon as I get around to it. I probably won't find him, though. Say, do you know you parked that big car of yours right smack in the red zone? I hadda give you a ticket."

  Doan took a dime out of his pocket and gave it to him.

  "Thanks," said Peterkin. "I'll tear that ticket right up."

  "Don't bother," Doan told him. "Save it for next time. Have you seen Dust-Mouth Haggerty?"

  "Not since he left for Hollywood."

  "What?" said Doan. "Hollywood? When did he do that?"

  "Oh, a while back."

  "Well, why did he do that?"

  "He's gonna kill a fella there."

  Doan took a deep breath. "He wouldn't, by any chance, be going to kill a guy named Pocus, would he?"

  Peterkin looked surprised. "Why, sure. That's it. How'd you know?"

  "I wonder myself," said Doan. "What has he got against Pocus?"

  "Oh, he's crazy."

  "Pocus or Dust-Mouth?"

  "Dust-Mouth. I told him that Free-Look Jones was the one that did for Tonto Charlie, but Dust-Mouth claims that Tonto Charlie went to Hollywood to see this Pocus on a deal Tonto Charlie and Dust-Mouth was hatchin' up, and Dust-Mouth says you told him this Pocus wasn't to be trusted, so he thinks Pocus had something to do with Tonto Charlie gettin' killed. He's just crazy, like I said. You can't talk sense to him."

  "Did he say when he'd be back?"

  "I don't think he will."

  "Why not?"

  "Say, you should see the stuff the FBI sent out about this Pocus party. They say he's a Jap spy and a gunman and a murderer and a train robber and all kinds of things. I figure that if Dust-Mouth finds him, this Pocus will snaffle him off so fast it'll be funny. I told Dust-Mouth that, but you can't reason with him when he gets up on his ear."

  "Good-by, now," said Doan wearily.

  He left Peterkin there and went back to the suggestively fiery area illuminated by Doc Gravelmeyer's neon sign. He went in the side door and up the stairs and through the reception room. Everything in the small offi
ce, including Doc Gravelmeyer, looked exactly the same as he had left it.

  Doan counted out one hundred dollars on the desk. Doc Gravelmeyer smiled and nodded at him in a kindly manner, and Doan went out again.

  Carstairs was sitting on the sidewalk right in front of the street door, looking gloomily bored.

  "Now don't you give me any trouble," Doan warned. "I've got enough already."

  Carstairs merely snorted in contempt.

  "Mr. Doan!" Harriet Hathaway screamed. "Oh, Mr. Doan!"

  She came running headlong across the street, dodging through the double line of parked cars in its center, and the nearby loungers stopped smoking and/or spitting temporarily and watched with languid interest.

  "I've got a telegram!" Harriet panted, waving the yellow envelope crumpled in one hand. "But I can't tell you what it says! But I didn't want to! I mean--Oh, Mr. Doan!"

  "Pit it out in papa's hand," Doan advised. "What's the matter?"

  Harriet pointed an accusing finger at Carstairs. "It's all his fault-- the nasty, dirty thing!"

  "What did he do this time?" Doan asked.

  "Well, we were in that restaurant, and that theatrical person and her manager--ha! manager, indeed!--insisted enjoining Mr. Blue and myself in spite of the fact that it was very obvious we didn't want her to and making sarcastic remarks when I was explaining the Air Force to Mr. Blue, and then he"--her finger stabbed at Carstairs again--"kept walking back and forth under the table and tipping over Mr. Blue's beer and snorting and making nasty sounds!"

  "Shame, shame," Doan said to Carstairs.

  Carstairs burped at him.

  "There!" Harriet cried. "Just like that! Right under the table! And that theatrical person said it was because he wanted to go for a walk! Only she didn't say walk, and she's just nothing but vulgar!"

  "Yes," Doan said dreamily. "I mean, isn't she, though? Was there anything else?"

  Harriet gasped suddenly. "Oh, yes! I mean, I'm so excited--this telegram... I mean, I got so angry that I just took this awful animal right out of the restaurant and to the hotel, and I was going to lock him in your room! And when I opened the door I saw a duh-duh-duh--"

  "Duck?" Doan hazarded.

  "No! A dead man!"

  Doan groaned. "Oh, no! Not another!"

  Harriet gaped at him. "What?"

  "A slip of the tongue," Doan said quickly. "This is terrible. Are you sure he was dead?"

  "I certainly am! I'll have you know that I graduated at the top of my--"

  "Red Cross class in first aid," Doan finished. "Yes, yes. I know. Did you recognize deceased?"

  "I think he's that awful little man who sold blondes and brunettes."

  "Oh," said Doan in a sick voice. "Just hold still for a minute." He put the palms of his hands against his ears and listened to his brain grind like a rusty cogwheel running around in a rain barrel. He looked up. "All right. Listen closely. Does the name Captain Meredith mean anything to you?"

  Harriet opened her mouth and shut it again.

  Doan nodded, tapped himself on the chest. "I'm Secret Agent Z-15."

  "You!" Harriet said breathlessly.

  "In person," Doan agreed. "I had you contacted through headquarters so there wouldn't be any doubt in your mind." He lowered his voice a few dramatic notches. "Are you ready to do, and perhaps die, in the service of your country?"

  Harriet stood up straight. "I am."

  "Good," said Doan. "Maybe we can arrange it. In the meantime go and sit in the Cadillac. Wait there for me. Take Carstairs with you." He jerked his thumb at Carstairs. "Scram, stupid."

  Carstairs eyed him, unmoving.

  Doan took a step toward him. "Get!"

  Carstairs went, looking back over his shoulder with his upper lip lifted malignantly.

  Doan took a deep breath and trudged back up the street and into the lobby of the Double-Eagle.

  "Well, good evening!" said Gerald.

  Doan didn't bother to answer. He went wearily up the stairs and down the hall. Harriet had used a passkey, and had left it in the lock of the door. Doan opened it, took another deep breath, and looked inside.

  The light was on, and Free-Look Jones was laid out neatly on the bed. His hands were folded across his chest, his feet pointed precisely at the ceiling, and he had a knife with a green handle stuck in the side of his throat.

  Doan went over and looked at him. He hadn't been mussed up at all. He hadn't even bled on his dapper brown suit or even on the bedspread. His eyes were closed. Doan put his thumb on one of the lids and pushed it open. The pupil of the eye was dilated enormously. Someone had been kind enough to give Free-Look Jones a big slug of morphine before they had operated on him.

  Doan went back to the door, looked up and down the hall and listened carefully. After a moment, he took the passkey out of the lock and stepped across the hall to the door opposite and knocked.

  The door jerked open, and a red, sullen face peered out at him.

  "Well, what?"

  "I'm offering a short correspondence course in authorized classics of English Literature--"

  "Go away!" the red face snarled. "Shud-up!"

  The door slammed emphatically. Doan went to the next one and rapped again. A feminine voice called coyly, "I'm busy right now, dearie."

  Doan went on to the next door and tried again. No one answered this time. He rapped again, more loudly. Still he got no results. He tried the passkey in the lock, and it opened at once. He pushed the door open, reached around and flipped the switch.

  The room was empty, and the bed was made up. There were no clothes or other odds and ends to indicate that the room had an immediate occupant. Doan went back to his own room and picked up Free-Look Jones as carefully as a mother cradling a baby.

  Free-Look Jones wasn't very heavy, and he didn't make any trouble at all as Doan carried him across the hall and deposited him on the bed in the empty room. With his thumb and forefinger, Doan took hold of the green knife handle and pulled the blade free. The skin on Free-Look Jones' neck puckered slightly and then loosened and a few dark drops of blood trickled down on his shirt collar.

  The knife looked remarkably like the one that Doan had left appended to Tonto Charlie, and for all he knew it might really be the same one. He was taking no chances. He closed the thin, slanting blade and put the knife in his pocket.

  "Nighty-night," he said to Free-Look Jones.

  He went out and locked the door. He made another trip into his own room and retrieved the .25 automatic from under the mattress and picked up his suitcases. Carrying them, he went downstairs to the lobby.

  "Oh, my," said Gerald. "You're not leaving us so soon?"

  "Urgent business," said Doan.

  "Well, I hardly feel that we can charge you the full rate for the use of the room for such a short time. Would two dollars be too much?"

  "Yes," said Doan. "But here it is. Where's Joshua?"

  "Do you want him to carry your bags? I'll call him."

  "No. I just forgot to tip him. Where is he?"

  "You'll find him in the broom closet at the end of the back hall."

  Doan went through the rear door and down a long bare hall. The door at the end of it was ajar, and one of Joshua's feet protruded out of it in a casual fashion.

  Doan opened the door wider. Joshua was sitting on the floor, leaning back languorously on a varied assortment of mops that served him for a pillow. He opened his eyes and blinked at Doan without seeing him at all.

  "Hi, Joshua," Doan said. "Lend me your pencil, will you? I want to sharpen my knife."

  "Sure," said Joshua. He fumbled around in the pockets of his jacket and came up with a stub of pencil.

  Doan made a few passes at it with the green handled knife, and then put the pencil in his own pocket and handed the knife to Joshua.

  "Thanks," he said.

  Joshua put the knife in his pocket. "Think nothing of it, pal. Want a drink of root beer?"

  "No," said Doan. "You take one. In fact,
maybe you'd better take two."

  He went back to the lobby and picked up his suitcases.

  "By the way," he said to Gerald, "that Joshua is rather a strange character, isn't he?"

  "Quite," said Gerald.

  "Do you ever have any--ah--trouble with him?"

  "Oh, no."

  "I'm a psychologist," Doan said. "I detect certain traits of homicidal nature there. I'd remember that if I were you, if anything should-- happen."

  Gerald smiled soothingly. "Oh, nothing will happen here."

  "That's what you think," said Doan, going out the door.

  He lugged the suitcases over to the Cadillac. Harriet was standing beside it, biting her lower lip and making little jerky, angry motions with her clenched fists.

  "Now he won't even let me in! He just growls at me!"

  Doan opened both a rear and front door. "In front," he said to Carstairs. "And no acts if you don't want a pop in the puss. I'm a busy man at this point."

  Carstairs took his time about crawling out of the back seat and into the front. He sat on the floor, with his nose pushed against the windshield and glowered sullenly.

  "Can you drive this?" Doan asked Harriet.

  "With him in there?"

  "He won't bother you. He's sulking now."

  "Well, why?"

  "He has to associate with me because I own him," Doan explained. "But he picks his own friends."

  "But I don't want to sit close to him!"

  "Are you refusing an order from your superior officer?" Doan demanded severely.

  "Well, no."

  "Drive," said Doan.

  Harriet gulped bravely. "Well, where?"

  "To Hollywood. Wake me up when we get there if I don't die in my sleep, I hope."

  Chapter 8

  SUNRISE ON THE DESERT IS NOT SO TERRIFIC AS sunset, but it's pretty disconcerting at that when it comes on you unexpectedly. It's awfully bright and enthusiastic in a gruesome way.

  "Mr. Doan!"

  "Uh?" said Doan. He was tied in a running bowline knot on the back seat. He sat up and looked at the leering bloodshot eye of the sun, and got cramps in both legs and a slight case of mal de mer simultaneously.

  "Wake up!" Harriet ordered.