The Mouse in the Mountain by Norbert Davis (detective books to read TXT) đź“•
"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 t
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Doan cleared his throat. He was standing on the stairway with his head and shoulders protruding up through the trapdoor. He smiled at them benignly and said:
“Sorry to interrupt, but I wondered if I could send a wireless message through your soldier setup.”
“You could not,” said Captain Perona definitely. “I have already sent a message to your agency, telling them that you are safe—at the moment.”
“Oh now, be reasonable,” Doan requested. “I’m not trying to sneak out any information or anything you wouldn’t want me to send. I just want to reassure my wife and kids.”
Janet looked surprised. “I didn’t know you were married.”
“Sure. Didn’t I tell you? I’ve got three kids. Little girls. Cute as bugs’ ears. They’ll be worried about me if they don’t get a personal message, and so will my wife. See, I send the kids a telegram every couple of days when I’m away from home. It goes on my agency expense account, of course. But they’ll know that if I don’t send them a message after this earthquake it’s because I’m not able to do it, and they’ll imagine I’m at death’s door or something. Please, Captain. The seven-year-old is sick with the measles, and the whole joint is quarantined, and they’re pretty lonesome.”
“Oh, let him!” Janet begged.
Captain Perona stared narrowly at Doan. “What kind of a message do you want to send?”
“Just dopey stuff that kids like. How Papa and Carstairs are okay and thinking of them and loving them. I mean, your man will see that it’s addressed to the kids.”
“Well…” said Captain Perona doubtfully. “All right.”
Doan looked embarrassed. “Well, would it be okay if I sent it in pig-Latin?”
“What?” said Captain Perona. “Pigs?”
Janet said: “It’s a sort of a schoolchild language. Switching the syllables of words around.”
“For the kids,” Doan explained. “They dote on that stuff. I always send them telegrams that way. Anybody can read it, of course, but they think it’s a code all for them, and they get a big kick out of it.”
“You give me your word you will not give them any information about the murders here or about Bautiste Bonofile?”
“Absolutely,” said Doan. “I promise.”
Captain Perona took a notebook from his pocket, scribbled on a page, and tore it out. “Here. The transmitting set is at headquarters. Give this to the sergeant in charge. He will send your message—if it is addressed to your children.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Doan. He kicked backwards. “Get off the ladder, Carstairs. Go on. Back down, you big goop.” His head disappeared through the trapdoor.
“I think he’s nice,” Janet said.
“I wish I thought so,” Captain Perona stated gloomily. “I really think Eldridge’ s death was accidental, and I do not believe Doan could possibly be concerned in the murders of Patricia Van Osdel and Maria, and I am sure that I know more about this affair than he can know. But still he worries me. I wish he were anywhere but here. He is too quick and too clever and too experienced, and this whole thing can be very bad for me unless it is cleared up at once.”
“Why?” Janet asked. “It isn’t your fault.”
Captain Perona spoke slowly: “It is like this. Major Nacio is in charge of the search for Bautiste Bonofile. I am his second-in-command. I am not under the authority of Colonel Callao, although I must defer to him to a certain extent because of his rank. He is merely the district officer here. Major Nacio and his troops are specialists in anti-espionage—in work against subversive elements and spies as well as bandits. I asked to serve with them. It is an honor.”
“Of course,” said Janet.
“When we trailed the man Doan shot—Garcia—to Los Altos, then we knew that Bautiste Bonofile must be here somewhere close, because we knew that Bautiste Bonofile had some contact with Garcia, although we did not—and do not now—know what it was. Then Major Nacio’s plan was put into effect. Every exit and entrance was watched day and night. Lepicik got through as he did only because of the excitement caused by the pursuit of Garcia. He would have been reported very soon if he had not reported himself. We watched Garcia continuously—to see whom he spoke to, whom he met, whom he even looked at. But Bautiste Bonofile managed to warn him anyway. After that, we chased Garcia back and forth through the town, blocking him off each time he tried to get out, hoping that Bautiste Bonofile would attempt to help him. It was a very small chance, I admit. Bautiste Bonofile is too cold-blooded to risk betraying himself to help anyone. However, had your tourists tried to get back out of Los Altos, you would have had a great deal more difficulty than you did coming in.”
Janet shivered. “No wonder!”
“So then,” said Captain Perona, “Garcia was shot by Doan. Major Nacio had planned for even a contingency like that. The town had been separated into small area units and soldiers assigned to each area. They went to work instantly, searching, questioning each person. You see, I was not neglecting my duties when I took you to the museum. There was nothing for me to do, then. The men are experts. They knew just what to do and how to do it. I had only to wait and sift any evidence which they found. Then came the earthquake.”
“Even Major Nacio couldn’t foresee that,” Janet observed.
“No. Not even he. But since I am isolated here for the moment, I must handle what happens quickly and efficiently. The murders of Patricia Van Osdel and Maria… they must be solved at once, or it will reflect on me and on Major Nacio, too. I must find Greg. I have uncovered Bautiste Bonofile, due to your help, and I must find him, also. It is directly my responsibility, and it is a very grave one.”
“Perhaps I could help you,” Janet suggested.
Captain Perona looked at her. “Senorita, do you think this is some children’s game? Do you realize the type and kind of men I am seeking? Do you realize that Greg and Bautiste Bonofile are murderers and would not hesitate for a second to strike again?”
“Of course I realize it.”
“Then kindly occupy yourself with your ludicrous sightseeing and leave serious matters to those who understand them. I must go now. Excuse me, please.”
“Good-by!” Janet said definitely.
JANET FELL IN WITH LOCAL CUSTOM AND took a siesta, and it was early in the afternoon when she came sleepily down the stairs into the bar-restaurant of the Hacienda Nueva Inglesa. The room was warm and shadowy, and the odors of spilled wine and tobacco hung comfortingly close in the air.
“This one!” said Mrs. Henshaw enthusiastically. She was holding up one of Amanda Tracy’s paintings. “This is the one I want. It’ll look wonderful in the living room.”
“Relax,” Henshaw advised. He was sitting in front of the door into the kitchen like a cat waiting at a mousehole. “You ain’t gonna buy any pictures.”
“In the living room,” Mrs. Henshaw repeated, staring at the picture raptly. “Right over the mantel.”
“Over my dead body,” Henshaw corrected.
Timpkins came in from the kitchen. “Dinner’ll be served at six sharp, if you please. It ain’t gonna be fancy, and them as don’t like it don’t need to eat it.”
“Mr. Timpkins,” Janet said. “Has my room been cleaned today?”
“No,” Timpkins answered.
“Well—who cleans it?”
“You do,” Timpkins informed her. “If it gets cleaned.”
“Haven’t you any help at the hotel?”
“No. I don’t need none.”
“Timpkins,” said Henshaw.
Timpkins looked at him. “What, now?”
“Sit down,” Henshaw invited, crooking his finger and smiling enticingly. “Right here in this nice chair. Rest yourself, Timpkins. You’ve been working too hard all day.”
Timpkins sat down slowly and suspiciously.
“I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about your business problems,” Henshaw told him.
“I ain’t got no business problems.”
“That’s just it,” said Henshaw. “That’s your trouble right there. Now you’ve got a swell setup here. You could make this hotel a gold mine.”
“How?” Timpkins inquired skeptically.
“Think of your situation. Analyze it, Timpkins. That’s the first step, always. Los Altos, with its scenery, with its quaintness, with its artistic history. It’s a sure tourist-puller. And you’re on the ground floor. I envy you, Timpkins. I see you as independently rich in the near future.”
“Arr?” said Timpkins.
“Yes, indeed. Now consider the international situation. After this war, Europe is going to be a mess. Take my word for it, Timpkins. I know. People aren’t going to want to go there any more. Besides that, they won’t be able to afford it. They’ll want to see new and different things closer to home. They’ll want the atmosphere and adventure of foreign lands. Where will they go to get that, Timpkins?”.
“Where?” said Timpkins.
“Here. In Los Altos. They’ll come by the hundreds with money in their pockets. And when they come to Los Altos, they’ll come here to this hotel—naturally. You’ll coin dough. The place could be a mint for you. For instance, how much do you charge for rooms now?”
“Five dollars a day.”
“You robber—I mean to say, that goes to prove what I’m telling you. You could charge much more—if you were progressive.”
“Progressive?” Timpkins repeated.
“Yes. For instance, take the matter of a bathroom. Now I’m not trying to sell you a bathroom, Timpkins. Don’t think that for a minute. I’m just using it for an illustration. Suppose tourists come in here after sightseeing in the town—tired, dirty, discouraged—and they step into the hotel bathroom and they see something like this.” Henshaw flipped out the shiny folder like a magician producing a rabbit. “4A, right here. A beautiful setup. Lavish and luxurious. Yellow and black tile with a guaranteed imitation marble trim and plastic streamlined fixtures.”
“Naw!” said Timpkins.
“Wait, now. I’m not suggesting you should buy it. Maybe something else would be more suitable. But the tourists would be impressed, Timpkins. In the United States people judge you by your bathroom. It’s the most important part of your house. These tourists, after they’d seen 4-A, would go away feeling impressed and refreshed. They’d advertise you by word-of-mouth to other tourists. Now just look through this folder. Pick out something to your own taste.”
“Naw!” said Timpkins.
Doan was sitting in the corner near the end of the bar with his hat down over his eyes. Carstairs lay in front of him, snoring in pleasantly deep gurgles.
“Timpkins,” said Doan, pushing his hat up. “What part of England do you come from?”
“I’m a British subject,” said Timpkins.
“Also a Canadian, I’ll bet.”
“Arr,” said Timpkins. “What’s it to you?”
“Nothing. Ever been in England?”
“Yes!”
“For how long?”
“Two weeks,” said Timpkins sullenly. He got up. “Now I don’t want none of you botherin’ me any more. I’m busy.”
He went back into the kitchen and slammed the door.
“Thanks, Doan,” Henshaw said. “That gives me a new lead. I don’t know what kind of bathrooms they got in England, but I’ve been in Canada once. I went to Niagara Falls and walked across the bridge. I’ll run in some references to that the next time I catch him. Always establish some common ground with a prospect. You notice how I sneaked
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