The Mouse in the Mountain by Norbert Davis (detective books to read TXT) 📕

>“Friend,” said Henshaw, “you do that, and you’ve got a lifelong pal, and I mean it. I’m in the plumbing business—‘Better Bathrooms for a Better America.’ What’s your line?”

“Crime,” Doan told him.

“You mean you’re a public enemy?” Henshaw asked, interested.

“There have been rumors to that effect,” Doan said. “But I claim I’m a private detective:”

“Oh,” said Henshaw indifferently. “One of them, huh? Well, I always say a man’s got to make a living some way.”

The woman who had previously shouted for Mortimer appeared. Mortimer was close behind her, peering around her, first on one side and then the other, as she advanced.

“Now, Mortimer,” she said firmly, “you show me that dog that attacked you and I’ll—Oh! Oh! Wilbur, save me!”

“From what?” Henshaw asked sourly.

The woman pointed a plump, quivering finger at Carstairs. “From that—that horrible thing!” She was wearing a peasant smock and a varicolored full skirt, and she would really have looked like a peasant except that she affected pince-nez glasses with thin gold rims. “It’s a savage beast!”

“You bet,” Henshaw agreed. “Savage and smart. I’ve promised him Mortimer for dinner.”

“Yeow!” said Mortimer. “Maw!”

The woman said severely: “Wilbur, you stop saying things like that! You know you’ll give Mortimer nightmares!”

“Why not?” Henshaw said. “He gives me plenty. This is my wife, folks. Miss Janet Martin and Mr. Doan. When do we start this trip to Los Altos, anyway?”

“On schedule,” said Bartolome. “Just as it exactly prints. Be so kind as to entering and sitting on the luxurious seats with legroom.”

Doan flicked Carstairs’ ear with his forefinger and said: “Up-si-daisy.”

Carstairs got up and sauntered over to the bus.

“He’s not going with us!” Mrs. Henshaw said shrilly. “Not that awful animal!”

“With my permission, positively not,” Bartolome told her. “I refer you to the bloated brigand who proprietors this foul establishment and also the trips of sightseeing magnificence.”

“I won’t go!” said Mrs. Henshaw. “And neither will Mortimer!”

“Good,” said Henshaw. “See you later.”

Mrs. Henshaw turned her head slowly and ominously and peered through the pince-nez at Janet Martin. She looked Janet over detail by detail once, and then repeated the survey, nodding her head knowingly.

“So,” she said. “We’re going.”

“Maw!” said Mortimer. “That dog—”

“Shut up,” said Mrs. Henshaw. “I know your father and his lascivious instincts—to my sorrow!”

Doan opened the door of the bus and helped Carstairs in by giving him a heave from the rear. Carstairs paused to look the bus’s interior over in a leisurely way and then padded along the aisle to the back. He sat down on the floor and sighed and stared gloomily out the window. Doan elbowed him out of the way and sat down in the seat beside him.

Janet said shyly: “May I please sit here with you?”

“Certainly,” said Doan. He put his hand on the side of Carstairs’ head and shoved. “Move over, you oaf.”

Carstairs grunted and shifted his position. When Janet sat down, he stared at her calculatingly, tilting his head first on one side and then the other. Finally he slid his forefeet out a little, lowering himself, and put his head in her lap.

Doan watched, amazed. “Why, he likes you!”

Janet patted Carstairs’ head. “Doesn’t he usually like people?”

“No. He hates them. He despises me.”

“Despises you!” Janet exclaimed. “But why?”

“Well, I won him in a crap game. He resents that. And then my name’s not in the social register, and his is.”

“What is it? His name?”

“Carstairs. Dougal’s Laird Carstairs to be exact.”

“Does he have a pedigree?”

Doan nodded. “Ten miles long.”

“Do you ever show him? I mean, enter him in dog shows?”

“Sure. It’s just a bore, though. He always wins.”

“He must be worth a lot of money.”

“I was offered seven thousand dollars for him once,” Doan said, sighing. “In cash, too. I turned it down. I wish I knew why.”

“I think that’s wonderful!” Janet said. “I mean that you didn’t sell him.”

“I wish he thought so. I hoped it would make him appreciate me, but he just sneered. Do you want to see him sneer? He does it beautifully. Watch.” Doan leaned close to Carstairs and said in a stickily coy voice: “Who is Doansie-woansie’s cutesy-wutesey ‘itty puppy doggy?”

Carstairs looked up slowly and ominously. He raised one side of his upper lip. His eyes glowed golden-yellow and savage.

“I was only fooling,” Doan said quickly.

Carstairs watched him warningly for a moment and then slowly lowered his head to Janet’s lap again.

“He_ can_ sneer!” she said. “Horribly!”

“That was one of his milder ones,” Doan told her.

“Do you ever punish him?”

“I tried it once,” Doan said.

“What happened?”

“He knocked me down and sat on me for three hours. He weighs about a ton. I didn’t enjoy myself at all, so I gave up the idea. Anyway, he has better manners than I have.”

The Henshaws had seated themselves at the front of the bus, and Henshaw turned around wearily now and called:

“Say, when did that bird with the double-talk tell us we were going to start? Or is this trip just a rumor?”

“Here he comes,” said Janet.

Bartolome trotted down the terrace steps and leaned in the door. “Starting instantly in a few moments. Have the kindness of patience in waiting for the more important passengers.”

“Who are they?” Henshaw demanded, interested.

“The lady of incredible richness with the name of Patricia Van Osdel and her parasites.”

“No fooling!” Henshaw exclaimed. “You hear that, Doan? Patricia Van Osdel. She’s the flypaper queen. Her old man invented stickum that flies like the taste of, and he made fifty billion dollars out of it”

“Is she married?” Mrs. Henshaw asked suspiciously.

“That is a vulgarness to which she would not stoop,” said Bartolome. “She has a gigolo. They come! Prepare yourselves!”

A short, elderly lady as thin as a pencil, dressed all in black that wrinkled and rustled and glistened in the sun, came out on the terrace and down the steps. She had a long, sallow face with a black wart on one cheek and teeth that popped out of ambush when she opened her mouth.

Henshaw had his hands cupped against the window, peering eagerly. “She sure has aged a lot, or else her pictures flatter her.”

The elderly lady poked Bartolome in the chest with a stiff, bony forefinger. “One side!” She swished through the door into the bus, sniffed twice calculatingly, and then took a perfume atomizer from somewhere in her capacious skirt and squirted it in all directions vigorously. She selected a seat and dusted it with quick, irritated flicks of a silk dustcloth.

“Hey,” said Henshaw. “Are you Patricia Van Osdel?”

“I am not,” said the elderly lady. “I am Maria, her personal maid. Kindly turn around and mind your own business.”

“Okay,” said Henshaw amiably. He cupped his hands and peered through the window. “Hey! Here she comes! Get a load of this, Doan. Whee!”

The manager appeared, bowing and nodding and waving his hands gracefully in front of a girl who was as fair and fragile looking as a Dresden china doll. She was wearing a long white cloak, and her hair floated like spun gold above it. Her mouth was pink and petulant, but instead of being blue her eyes were a deep, calculating green. Her bearing and her manner and her features were all rigidly aristocratic.

A young man lounged along sullenly a step behind her. He was as magnificently dark as she was fair. He had black curly hair and an incredibly regular profile. He wore white slacks and a white pullover sweater with a blue silk scarf at his throat. He had a pencil-line mustache and long, slanted sideburns.

He stopped on the steps and pointed a forefinger at the bus. “Are we going in that thing?”

“Yes, Greg,” said Patricia Van Osdel gently.

“I won’t like it,” Greg warned. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Now, Greg,” Patricia Van Osdel chided. “This is the democratic way, you see. This is the way we do things in America. We don’t have any rigid class distinctions.”

“It stinks,” said Greg. “I mean the bus and Mexico and the United States and your democracy. I tell you that quite frankly because it’s true.”

“Get in the bus, Greg,” said Patricia Van Osdel. “Don’t be difficult.”

“I don’t approve of this,” Greg said, getting in. “I’m warning you.”

The manager and Bartolome handed Patricia Van Osdel gently through the door.

“You will enjoy yourself most exquisitely,” the manager promised. “Bartolome, you cretin, point all the most beautiful views and do not hit any bumps. Not one bump, do you understand?”

Greg had seated himself and was glowering out a window. Maria ushered Patricia Van Osdel carefully to the seat she had selected and dusted.

The stir of movement floated some of the perfume to the back of the bus, and Carstairs sneezed and then sneezed again, more emphatically.

Maria jumped and glared. “That!” she said imperiously. “Out!”

“It is only a dog,” the manager said quickly.

“A dog of the most intelligent marvelousness,” Bartolome added.

“Please!” said Maria.

“Oh, no!” the manager denied, horrified.

“Emphatically never!” Bartolome seconded. “It is a dog of the most delicate and refined nature.”

“It’s quite all right,” Patricia Van Osdel told her. She smiled at Doan and Janet. “I like dogs. They have so much character. Don’t they, Greg?”

“No,” said Greg.

Henshaw cleared his throat. “My name is Henshaw—”

“Who cares?” Greg inquired coldly.

“Greg,” said Patricia Van Osdel, “now please be pleasant. Mr. Henshaw, I’m very glad to know you. And this is your wife and little boy? What a nice family group you make! I’m sure you all know who I am. This lady is my maid, Maria. And this is my refugee friend, Gregor Dvanisnos.” She turned graciously toward the back of the bus. “And your names?”

“Doan,” said Doan. “And this is Miss Janet Martin. On the floor, here, is Carstairs.”

“Carstairs!” Patricia Van Osdel repeated, smiling. “What an amusing name for a dog!”

Carstairs opened one eye and looked at her and mumbled malignantly under his breath.

“Now!” said Patricia Van Osdel brightly. “We all know each other, don’t we? We can all be friends having a pleasant day’s excursion together, and that’s the way it should be. That’s the American tradition of equality. Although, in a way you are really all my guests.”

“In what way?” Doan asked.

Patricia Van Osdel moved her shoulders gracefully. “It’s really nothing. There was some silly hitch, some petty regulation—The hotel was going to cancel this trip to Los Altos until I persuaded them not to.”

“How did you persuade them?” Doan inquired.

“Well, Mr. Doan, to be frank I bribed them. Money is a bore, but it’s useful sometimes, isn’t it?”

“So they tell me,” said Doan. “Why did you bribe them?”

“Because I was determined to see Los Altos, of course. You’ve surely read about it, or you wouldn’t be going there. A peaceful, picturesque village of stalwart peasants isolated deep in the mountains—happy in their primitive and peaceful way—unspoiled by the brutalizing forces of civilization. Why, until just recently, since the new military highroad was opened, there was no way to get there except by mule back. The village is famous for its peaceful, archaic atmosphere.”

“Is that the only reason you bribed them to put on the trip?” Doan asked. “Just because you wanted to see the peaceful, peaceful peasants at play?”

“You’re awfully curious, Mr. Doan, aren’t you?”

“He’s a detective,” said Henshaw. “All them guys do is make trouble and ask questions.”

Patricia Van Osdel’s voice was sharp suddenly. “A detective? Are you a customs spy?”

“No,” said Doan. “Why? Are you going to smuggle some jewelry into the United States?”

Patricia Van Osdel was