Sally's in the Alley by Norbert Davis (best color ereader .txt) 📕

id="calibre_toc_8" >Chapter 7

“HEY! HEY, you!”

Doan rolled over and opened one eye. “What?”

“I’m Dust-Mouth Haggerty. Peterkin said you wanted to see me.”

He was standing against the cell door with the bars making parallel grooves in his paunch. He had a round, moon face with a fringe of reddish whiskers and a pug nose that was tilted up at an acute angle. He was wearing what had once been a pair of overalls, and a sheepskin vest and a straw hat with the brim torn off in front, and if Doan hadn’t been able to see or hear him, he would still have known he was in the vicinity.

“Oh, yes,” said Doan, fanning the air in front of his face with the palm of his hand. “I want to make a deal with you on that ore deposit you discovered. I’m representing the Japanese government.”

“What kind of a deal?”

“We want to buy the location.”

“For cash money? I don’t go for none of that Jap yen-sen confetti.”

“Cash money,” Doan confirmed. “Gold.”

“How much?”

“You name it,” Doan said carelessly. “We’ve got lots of dough, and as soon as we invade the United States and capture Fort Knox, we’ll have lots more.”

“Hmmm,” said Dust-Mouth. “How do I know you are a real Japanese agent? How do I know you ain’t some traitor that’s just pretendin’ he’s one?”

“Do you think I’d stay in jail if I had any pull with the United States Government?”

“I dunno,” said Dust-Mouth. “Them government men are awful tricky. A fella’s liable to find them almost any place. There was even one in the asylum. Went around claimin’ he was Hitler, but he didn’t fool me.”

“Sure not. Where’s the claim?”

“It’s just—aw, no! We ain’t agreed yet.”

“Let’s get started. Name your asking price.”

Dust-Mouth rubbed his chin. “Well, now. I can’t hardly until I see what this other fella has to say, on account he really has first call.”

“What other fella?” Doan asked.

“The other Jap agent. Do you know him?”

“Could be. What’s his name?”

“Pocus.”

Doan sat still. “Pocus?” he said at last. “H. Pocus? Hangs out in Hollywood?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s a character I wouldn’t trust too far if I were you. Who told you he was a Jap agent?”

“Oh, I knew that on account of the warrant they got out for him.”

“Which they?”

“The government. They’re gonna hang him because he’s a spy, if they catch him, but of course they won’t. I mean, they won’t catch him.”

“I trust not,” said Doan. “How are you going about negotiating with this guy, Pocus?”

“I’ve got an agent of my own on the job. I figure on getting you and Pocus to bidding against each other—”

“That will be very interesting to watch,” Doan commented.

The door into the reception room opened suddenly, and Harold’s bald head glistened eerily in the light.

“Murder!” he shrieked. “Murder, murder!”

He slammed the door shut again.

“Hey, Harold!” Dust-Mouth called. “Who? Who got murdered? Where?” He lumbered down the corridor and opened the reception room door. “Hey, Harold? Who?” He went on into the reception room and closed the door.

Doan sat on the edge of the cot and held his head in his hands. He sat there for about ten minutes, and then the door opened once more and Harold came slowly and shakily down the corridor and peered gloomily through the bars.

“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 office, 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,