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

sat still for a moment, thinking. “How much are you making out of this, Doan?”

“Just my salary—a hundred and fifty a week. I figured the job would take four weeks, and if it does I can jump my expense account for another four hundred.”

“A thousand bucks,” Eldridge said. “Not bad—not good. How would you like to make another thousand in a hurry?”

“Just dandy.”

“Ummm,” said Eldridge. “Bumpy… Governor… That sort of throws a new light on the situation. Now I wasn’t kidding the boys, Doan, about not being so fond of this dump. The people ain’t friendly. They don’t seem to like me.”

“I can’t imagine why not,” Doan observed.

“Neither can I. It bothers me. It ain’t as if I wasn’t legitimate. If I was a crook on the lam or something, it’d be different. But just because there was a little misunderstanding about some presents I took—Why, all cops take honest graft! You know that yourself, Doan.”

“Oh, sure,” said Doan.

“But, of course, I was kiddin’ about wantin’ to go to jail. Nobody with good sense wants to go to jail. I was just tryin’ to shake the boys up a little bit.”

“Sure,” Doan repeated. “I thought I heard you say something about a thousand dollars.”

“I’m coming to that. I wouldn’t go to jail if Bumpy was governor. I know enough about him to hang him six times. He wouldn’t dare even sneeze at me. Why, I could damned near own that state, Doan! Now listen. Supposing you missed fire on this job—supposing I turned up in the States right away—would you lose your job with the agency you’re working for?”

“No,” said Doan. “They don’t dare fire me. I know too much about the outfit.”

Eldridge nodded. “I figured you would. All right, Doan. I’ll give you a thousand bucks the day I step over the border into the United States. No use tryin’ to pump the price up any higher than that, because I ain’t got any more.”

“It’s a deal,” said Doan.

“No!” Concha shrieked. She came out of the rear door like a small whirlwind and stood in front of Eldridge’s chair and stamped her foot. “No! You big drunker! You big cheat! You do not take the college money! No!”

“What’s this?” Doan asked. “Are you going to college, Eldridge?”

“No,” Eldridge said. “Concha is. Acting college. In Hollywood. She’s going to be a movie star.”

“Think of that,” Doan remarked.

“Big liar!” Concha said to Eldridge. “You promise to send me! Thief!”

“Now, lovey.”

Concha pointed at Doan. “Why do you give him my money? Why, why, why? He is nothing! He is not even a policeman!”

“He’s a private detective.”

“Pah! Not here! Not in my country! Here he is nothing but what he looks like! Nothing but a little man with too much fats and a big, lazy dog.”

“That’s right,” Doan admitted, looking down at Carstairs, who was sleeping peacefully.

Concha stamped both feet, one after the other. “You do not give him my money! No, no, no!”

“Now, lovey,” said Eldridge. “Why don’t you be reasonable. A thousand dollars! Chicken-feed! Peanuts! When I get back, Bumpy is gonna give me the key to the state treasury, and I can run in and fill my pockets any old time. I’ll buy you a movie studio—just for you!”

“Pah! Big-mouth!”

“Now, now. Be nice, lovey.”

“You give me the ditch! You try for run away with this fats and leave me!”

“Aw, Concha,” said Eldridge. “Now you know I wouldn’t do that. I love you.”

“Pah! Pooey! I spit!” She did.

“Lovey,” said Eldridge persuasively. “I’m gonna make you famous. You’ll be the best actress in the world. I’ll give you fur coats and dresses and rings and a house with an inside toilet. I mean it!”

Concha leaned close over him. “Coward!”

“I’m not, neither!”

“Bautiste Bonofile!” Concha hissed at him.

Eldridge cringed slightly and took a quick drink.

“See?” Concha sneered. “You are with the shakes like the jello! You think to give the fats my money to keep away Bautiste Bonofile. Pah! Bautiste Bonofile takes the fats in one bite. Crunch, crunch, crunch! Then he takes the big, dumb dog in another bite. Crunch, crunch, crunch!”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Concha,” said Eldridge. “This is just a business deal. We’re gonna make a big profit, and we’ll be rich.”

_”You—don’t—give—the—fats—my—money!“_

“Yes,” said Eldridge.

“No! No, no, no! I’m telling Colonel Callao! He fixes you and the fats, too! He shoots you both! Bang, bang, bang! Pah!”

She whirled and ran across the patio and through the door into the hallway. The front door of the house boomed behind her like a sullen gun. Eldridge smiled painfully at Doan and shrugged his shoulders.

“So far,” said Doan, “I’m due to be eaten—crunch, crunch, crunch—and then shot for dessert.”

“Concha exaggerates,” Eldridge told him.

“Yes. But how much? Who is Colonel Callao?”

“This is a military district, and he’s supposed to be in charge of it. He’s a dope.”

“Is he a friend of Concha’s?”

“Yeah. Anyway, he was. I sort of acquired her from him.”

“How?” Doan asked curiously.

“I married her—or so they tell me. I don’t remember much about it. I was drunk at the time.”

“How about the other party she mentioned?”

“Him?” Eldridge said vaguely. “Oh, I was gonna mention him to you. It might be that he’d start a little something or other if I was to leave here, and then maybe you’d have to calm him down. He’s the gent who cut my dog’s throat.”

“What’s his name?”

“Bautiste Bonofile. At least, that was his name. I don’t know what he calls himself now.”

“All right,” said Doan. “I’ll go have a chat with him. Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what does he look like?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Maybe it would help if you explained a bit,” Doan suggested.

Eldridge sighed. “There were two of them at first—brothers. Bautiste and Louis Bonofile. They were Canadian breeds—half some kind of Indian. They were always tough guys. They served a few terms in Canadian jails, and then they sneaked across into the United States. They were arrested in a dozen states for everything in the book, but they only served a couple of short terms. The rest was probation, parole, bailskips, indictment quashed, insufficient evidence—”

“The payoff,” Doan finished.

“Yeah. Bautiste was the one who could put in the fixes. He was sharper than a razor, but he finally got caught short on a federal charge and had to beat it. He came to Mexico. Louis stayed in the United States. He was a dumb one. Just a killer. I nailed him for shooting a clerk in a cigar store during a ten dollar holdup.”

“And he couldn’t fix you?”

“Not for ten dollars. And he didn’t have any other dough, so naturally he got hung. I mean, I had to turn somebody up once in awhile, or how could I have kept my job?”

“Sure,” said Doan.

“So Bautiste blames me for gettin’ Louis hung. He claims I framed Louis.”

“Did you?”

“Well, yes. He was guilty, though—I think. Bautiste wrote me some dirty letters at the time, but I didn’t worry because I knew he didn’t dare come back to the United States, and I figured he’d forget it or get killed pretty quick, but he didn’t. He’s here in Los Altos and he’s still mad. He’s been writin’ me notes about what he’s gonna do to me when he gets to it, and throwin’ rocks and knives in the windows and cutting my dog’s throat and dirty stuff like that. He’s mean. He says he wants to make me suffer before he finishes me off. He wants to scare me.”

“Of course he hasn’t succeeded.”

Eldridge reached for the whiskey. “Naw. I just laugh it off.” The neck of the bottle rattled a little against the edge of his glass. “The hell of it is, I don’t know who he is now. I’ve never seen him when he was pullin’ his tricks. He might be anybody in the damned town. He’s had years to get himself a new name and a new identity, and he did a honey of a job. Even Perona hasn’t been able to dig him out.”

“Perona?” Doan repeated. “Captain Perona? What’s he got to do with it? I thought he was in the Intelligence or something.”

“He is. That’s why he’s looking for Bautiste Bonofile. Did you ever hear of Zapata?”

“No.”

“Well, Pancho Villa was to Zapata what Mussolini is to Hitler. I mean, Zapata was big stuff. He controlled all of middle Mexico at one time—even took over Mexico City. He was a revolutionary raider, not a bandit or a holdup man. He was an Indian, and he didn’t like white men. Bautiste Bonofile got in with him because Bautiste was part Indian. He was one of Zapata’s lieutenants for a long time. That was a long time ago. Bautiste is no spring chicken. He’s older than I am—a lot.”

“Tell me more,” Doan invited.

“Zapata was killed finally, and his army was broken up. Bautiste took over his own particular company and started playing bandit. The government ran him down and killed most of his men and put Bautiste away on the Islas Tres Marias.”

“I’ve heard of it,” said Doan.

“Yeah. After a few years Bautiste crushed out. They’ve never had hold of him since, and that was ten-fifteen years ago. He could be anybody by this time.”

“Why does the government want him so badly? They seem to be taking quite a lot of trouble.”

“Well, in the old days in Mexico the government was very corrupt at times. An officer of the army would have the right to purchase supplies for his men. Some of them who commanded twenty or thirty soldiers would order supplies—and rifles and ammunition—to equip five hundred. If no one protested the orders, the seller kicked back a percentage on the deal.”

“I wondered how so many of those old-time Mexican generals got to be millionaires.”

“They had a soft racket,” Eldridge said regretfully. “Anyway, all the stuff they couldn’t use, they just stored. Zapata, when he raided military outposts and forts and such, picked up thousands of rifles and millions of rounds of ammunition. What he couldn’t use, he hid. Bautiste knows where he did the hiding. This is a bad time to have thousands of rifles lying around loose. They’re old now, but they’re Mausers, and they could be used.”

“Yes,” said Doan thoughtfully. “Hitler’s army uses Mausers. I can see why the government might be a little worried about the matter. Why doesn’t Bautiste cough up and make a deal?”

“Naw,” said Eldridge. “Not him. He’s mean. Anyway, the government wouldn’t deal with him. He’s a murderer about ninety times over.”

“That’s nice to know,” Doan observed. “So Concha was right. You were going to pay me a thousand dollars to stand in front of you when Bautiste started shooting.”

Eldridge dropped his glass, and it made a little tinkling sound. “Doan! You ain’t gonna back out! We made a deal! You promised! You got to keep Bautiste off my back until I can get out of here!”

“What’s the good of that? He’ll just follow you.”

“Naw! He couldn’t do that—not with Perona after him. Perona is smart, and with the country at war like it is, he’s got all kinds of power and the whole army to hunt with. Bautiste will have to stay under cover right where he is now—which is here in Los Altos. Once I get away from here, I’ll be free as the air.”

“After,” Doan said warningly, “you pay me a thousand dollars.”

“Sure. That’s what I meant.”

“If I got you to the border in one piece,” Doan said, “and you didn’t have the