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

through barred windows at Doan and Carstairs, but there was no one on the street. Several dogs came out of hiding to investigate Carstairs, and he began to dawdle along pretending to sniff at the walls while he watched them out of the corners of his eyes.

Doan bunted him in the rear with his knee. “Go on. Keep moving.”

Carstairs swung his head toward the sightseers and lifted his upper lip. The dogs went away yipping in incredulous terror. Carstairs ambled arrogantly on ahead of Doan. He stopped at the corner and looked around it, ears pricked inquiringly, and Doan stopped beside him to look, too.

There was nothing in the little jog in the street except an easel, looking like a foreshortened skeleton of an Indian tepee, with a big canvas fastened on it. There was no sign of the artist.

Doan walked up to the easel and examined the canvas. It was a half-finished painting, and he turned his head first one way and then the other, trying to figure out what it was meant to represent.

“Hey, you!”

Doan turned and after a moment spotted the source of the voice. It was coming out of the barred porthole of the front door of a house across the street.

“Yes?” he said.

“Have they nailed that gun-crazy screwball?”

“Yes,” said Doan.

“You’re sure?”

“Sort of,” said Doan.

The door opened and a woman came out. She was short and squat and broad without being a bit fat. She had an upstanding mane of gray hair that frizzed wildly around a face as lined and weather-beaten as an old boot. She wore an orange painter’s smock and a floppy pair of moccasins.

“A hell of a note,” she said. “Shooting in the streets. How can you paint with stuff like that going on? What’s your name, and where’d you come from?”

“Doan. United States.”

“I’m Amanda Tracy. Ever heard of me? Don’t lie.”

“No,” said Doan.

“Good. Know anything about art?”

“No.”

“Fine. What do you think of that picture?”

Doan studied it again. “Well—”

“It’s lousy, isn’t it? It looks like a cold fried egg in a pan of congealed grease, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Doan admitted.

Amanda Tracy whacked him on the back so hard his neck snapped. “That’s the old pepper, fatso! Now I know it’ll sell! If they stink, they sell. Always. Remember that when you start painting pictures.”

“Okay,” said Doan, feeling the back of his neck tenderly.

Amanda Tracy pointed at Carstairs. “Where’d you get that stilt-legged abortion?”

“I won him in a crap game,” said Doan. “And he’s not an abortion. He’s a very fine dog.”

“The only good dog is a dead dog, Doan. No one but morons and perverts keep pets. Are you a pervert?”

“No,” said Doan. “Just a moron.”

“Good,” said Amanda Tracy. “I like morons. Did you come on the bus with that burbling little twerp of a Bartolome?”

“Yes.”

“Any more morons come with you?”

“A couple,” Doan admitted.

“Any dough in the crowd?”

“Plenty.”

Amanda Tracy picked up the easel, painting and all. “Then I’ll go down and paint in the marketplace and act artistic as all hell and probably I can take some sucker for a dime or two. See you later.”

“Wait a minute,” Doan requested. “Do you know which of these houses Eldridge lives in?”

“Don’t tell me you’re a friend of that mealy-mouthed rum-dumb.”

“No friend,” said Doan. “But which house?”

“Second one around the jog. See you later, fatso. Keep your nose clean.”

“All right,” said Doan.

He watched her stride solidly around the corner and out of sight down the slope, easel trailing behind her.

“That’s quite a character,” he said absently to Carstairs. “Let’s go.”

They went on around the jog. The second house was set a little apart from its neighbors. The bars on the front windows were newer and thicker and not so ornamental, and it was walled up high with no windows at all on either side.

There was a knocker in the shape of a stirrup on the wide, arched front door, and Doan hammered it loudly. He could hear the echoes inside the house, sodden and dull, but there was no answer.

Doan waited awhile and banged the knocker again, even more emphatically. There was still no answer, and he tried the long, wrought-iron latch. It clicked, and the big door swung silently and slowly inward. Carstairs growled in a low rumble.

“Shut up,” said Doan.

He stepped into a narrow hallway. The air felt still and moist and cool against his face. He blinked his eyes, trying to accustom them to the deep shadow. The hall was floored with stone, and its walls were dimly white.

Doan jerked his head at Carstairs. “Come in, lame-brain.”

Carstairs’ growl raised a little in tone. He stood with his feet braced in the doorway, head lowered. His eyes glistened dully. Doan caught him by his spiked collar and hauled him inside. “Don’t get temperamental with me.”

Carstairs’ claws scraped on the floor, and then a voice—a little sad and a little thick—said. “I guess he smells the blood.”

The man who had spoken was standing in the shadow of a draped doorway back a little along the hall. His face was invisible, but he was short and thick-bodied, and he was holding a revolver in his right hand.

Doan let go of Carstairs and straightened up slowly. “Eldridge?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you planning on using that gun in the near future, or are you just carrying it around to scare small children?”

“Oh,” said Eldridge. “This? Well, I guess I’m kinda scared, to tell the truth. You’re Doan, huh? I mean, I know you on account of the dog. I’m glad you got here so quick. You wanna drink?”

“Sure.”

Eldridge led the way along the hall and out into the bright-walled enclosure of a tiled patio. There were palms and ferns, green and lacy, around the borders, and a fountain burbled softly in the center.

Carstairs strolled over and lapped at the water and then turned his head to watch Doan, drops drooling from his broad muzzle. When Doan glanced at him, he ambled over to a green trash box half hidden behind a fern against the back wall. He snorted once at it and then came back and sat down beside the fountain and began to pant comfortably.

“What’s in the box?” Doan asked.

“That was what he smelled, all right,” Eldridge said. “Go look.”

Doan walked over and lifted the hinged lid. The box was half filled with empty cans and bottles. A small dog that looked like a dusty, black mop lay on top of them. The dog’s eyes were rolled back, and its tongue protruded purple-red between its teeth. Its throat had been cut.

“Nice,” said Doan, dropping the lid. “Are you saving it for supper?”

“That there was a nice dog,” said Eldridge. “It wasn’t no fancy number like you got, but it was a friendly little guy, and I think it maybe liked me.”

“So you killed it.”

“Now, Doan,” said Eldridge. “You know I wouldn’t do a dirty thing like that.”

“Who did, then?”

“A fella,” said Eldridge vaguely. “A fella that don’t like me, I guess.” He had very light blue eyes shot with reddened veins, and even when he was relaxed, as he was now, his hands shook slightly. His thick body had a weakened, self-pitying sag. “Sit down, Doan.”

Doan sat down in one of the rawhide easy chairs. Eldridge walked slowly over to another one that was pushed flush against the back wall of the house. He lowered himself into it laboriously, breathing hard.

“Want a drink, Doan?”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Doan answered.

“Concha!” Eldridge called. “Whiskey!”

A girl came through the rear door of the patio. She was carrying a bottle and two glasses on a tray. She was young and slim and lithe, and her hair gleamed blue-black in the sunlight. Her eyes were lowered modestly, and the front of her dress was just lowered.

“Pour him one,” Eldridge said. “It’s Johnny Walker Black, Doan. You want a chaser or a mix?”

“No,” said Doan, watching Concha. “Where’d you find this little gadget?”

Concha presented the tray to Eldridge, and he poured himself an eight-fingered dollop.

“This here is that fella Doan I told you about, Concha,” he said. “Concha’s my wife, Doan.”

“Another?” Doan asked. “What did you do with the one you left in the States?”

“Oh, I divorced her.”

“Does she know it?”

“I guess not,” Eldridge admitted. “I just never did get around to telling her about it.”

Doan raised his glass to take a sip and looked at Concha over the top of it. Her eyes weren’t lowered now. They were staring at Doan with such pure venom in them that he could feel it plainly at a distance of ten feet. He lowered his glass very carefully.

“Come here, honey,” he said softly. “You take a sip of this before I drink it.”

Concha stepped closer and jerked the glass out of his fingers. She didn’t drink out of it. She threw it at the patio wall. It made a crunch and an ugly little splatter against the clean white plaster.

“Now Concha, lovey,” said Eldridge mildly.

Concha went back through the rear door and slammed it violently behind her.

“She’s shy with strangers,” said Eldridge.

“I never would have guessed it,” Doan told him.

“But don’t think she’d poison your drink. Why, she don’t know any more about poison than I do.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Well, have a drink out of the bottle, then.”

“I’ll sit this one out,” Doan said. “You go ahead and get drunk for both of us.”

“Okay.” Eldridge took a big gulp of whiskey and sighed contentedly. “Well, Doan, how much are they offering?”

“How much is who offering of what?” Doan asked.

“Dough. How much are the boys willing to pay?”

“Oh, that. They said the best they could do was dollar sign decimal zero zero.”

“Dollar sign decimal—” Eldridge sat up straight with a jerk. “What? You mean, nothing?”

“Correct,” said Doan.

“Why, they can’t do this to me! I’m gonna go right back to the States and raise hell!”

“Oh, no.”

“Why ain’t I?”

“Look real closely,” Doan invited.

“At you?” Eldridge said. “You mean you think you could stop me?”

“Yes,” said Doan.

“Hah!” said Eldridge, taking another drink. “Well, you couldn’t. And even if you could—for a little while—there’s nothing to prevent me from going back as soon as you leave.”

“I know one thing that would.”

“What?” Eldridge asked skeptically.

“A funeral,” Doan said. “Yours.”

“Well, of course, if I was dead I couldn’t—Hey! Just what do you mean by that?”

“Just what you think I mean.”

Eldridge had laid his revolver down in his lap. He picked the gun up now and looked warily from it to Doan. Doan didn’t move a muscle. Eldridge put the revolver down again and took another drink.

“You wouldn’t dare pull anything like that in Mexico,” he said defensively. “You ain’t got no drag down here, and I have.”

Doan shrugged. “Do you remember the guy who was district attorney when you pulled out of Bay City?”

“You mean Bumpy? Sure, I remember that oily little rat.”

“He’s going to be elected governor any minute now.”

“Bumpy?” Eldridge said incredulously. “Governor?”

“Yes. If somebody got in trouble down here, Bumpy could fix it for the guy to be charged with treason or murder or something and then request the Mexican government to extradite him. As soon as the guy got out of Mexico, Bumpy could kill the charge against him.”

Eldridge stared. “Bumpy never thought that one up—he’s too dumb!”

“I thought it up,” said Doan. “Before I came down here.”

“What a twister you are!” said Eldridge admiringly. He