The Mouse in the Mountain by Norbert Davis (most motivational books TXT) 📖

bus?”

“Under,” said Bartolome, pointing down.

Doan stared at the heap of debris. “You mean the bus is underneath all that?”

“Yes,” said Bartolome, dignified in his grief. “It is catastrophe beyond reason.”

“Where are the passengers?”

“I do not know,” said Bartolome. “And I do not care. Of passengers there are a great number too many—of the bus only one too less. It is unendurable.”

A thin harassed young man in a smeared khaki uniform hurried across the plaza toward them. He said to Doan

“Dispenseme, senor, pero donde esta—”

“I can’t speak Spanish,” Doan interrupted.

“English?” said the young man. “Good. I am Lieutenant Ortega, the medical officer in charge of this district. Did you come with the party in this bus?”

“Yes,” Doan answered. “Was there anyone in it when the quake dumped all this on top of it?”

“No. I was just across the square. All the party had left the bus before that. Will you please find them if you can? Tell them to report here and they will be taken care of. If any are injured, bring them to that white building there, and I will attend them. If they cannot be moved, send for me. Will you do this at once?”

“Sure,” said Doan.

“You will pardon me… There are injured…”

He trotted back across the square, pausing to bark angry orders at a pair of soldiers who were standing and gaping around them with the casual air of sightseers at a fair. The soldiers jumped to attention and then followed him at a snappy run.

“Which way did the others go?” Doan asked Bartolome.

“I am in a state of nervous collapse,” Bartolome informed him. “I have many things on my mind. The one with the loud mouth and the stupid wife and the hellish child went in that direction. The others I did not notice.”

Doan crossed the square, and Carstairs followed, picking his way distastefully through the debris and the yowling throng that was growing in numbers and volume every second. Doan took the first side street and found Mr. and Mrs. Henshaw in the middle of it fifty yards further along.

Mrs. Henshaw was sitting down on the pavement with her peasant skirt draped in a swirl over her chubby legs. One of the lenses in her pince-nez had cracked, and she glared narrow-eyed through the whole one.

“I can’t get up,” she informed Doan. “I’m paralyzed. Call an ambulance.”

“There ain’t no ambulance,” said Henshaw wearily. “And anyway you ain’t paralyzed. You ran out of that store like a rabbit with its pants on fire.”

“It’s shock,” said Mrs. Henshaw. “My nerve centers are shattered. I can feel them.”

“Baloney,” said Henshaw.

“It’s your fault,” Mrs. Henshaw accused bitterly.

“What?” Henshaw yelped. “My fault? Did I think up this earthquake?”

“You brought me here.”

“Now damn it, I didn’t. It was you that brought me. You’re the one that heard about Mouser Puddledip at the Ladies’ Aid and insisted on seeing this anthill because he once lived here and it was full of artistic history.”

“Monsieur,” Mrs. Henshaw corrected. “Monsieur Predilip. This town and its beautiful primitive surroundings were his inspiration.”

“They’re a pain in the neck to me. Did you feel that earthquake we had, Doan?”

“Faintly,” said Doan. “Where’s Mortimer?”

“Hi-yo, Silver!” Mortimer screeched. He came sailing across the street carrying a pair of silvered spurs in one fist and a sombrero so big he could have used it for a tent in the other. “Look, Pop! Look what I snitched! Here. Hold ‘em while I go back for another load. Boy, I wish the gang was here!”

Henshaw took the spurs and sombrero helplessly. “Now look, you little rat! These belong to somebody!”

“Hi-yo, Silver!” Mortimer yelled. “A-waay!” He pelted back across the street and dived into the broken doorway of a store.

Mrs. Henshaw got up instantly. “Mortimer! You come right out of there! Don’t you touch anything! Don’t you dare!_ Mortimer!“_

“The hell with it,” said Henshaw wearily. “I think I’ll get paralyzed myself.”

Doan said: “When you get around to it, report back in the square where the bus was parked.”

“Was?” Henshaw repeated. “What do you mean—_was?“_

“A building fell on it.”

“No foolin’,” said Henshaw. “Well, how do we get back to the Hotel Azteca? Ride a mule?”

“I won’t ride one of those nasty little beasts.” Mrs. Henshaw snapped. “They’re dirty. Don’t you argue with me, either! I won’t do it, that’s all.”

“Have you seen any of the other passengers?” Doan asked.

“That bird, Greg, was ahead of us. I haven’t seen him since the big shake.”

Doan and Carstairs walked on, and behind them Mrs. Henshaw shrieked:

“Mortimer! Put that down! Don’t you dare eat that horrible candy! It’s_ got germs!“_

Doan and Carstairs detoured around a group of people busily burrowing into what had evidently been a bakery, and then a voice called:

“Doan.”

Greg was leaning against a cracked building wall. His handsome face was drawn now, and his lips were pale with agony. He had his scarf wrapped around his right arm above the elbow. He was holding his right forearm cradled across his chest with his left hand.

“Do you know where I can find a doctor?” he asked.

“Back in the square. The big white building on the west side. Want me to help you?”

“No. It’s just my arm. It’s broken. I fell over that damned horse trough there when the quake came.”

“Where is Miss Van Osdel?” Doan asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“I do,” said Doan.

“Try and find out,” Greg told him, and walked back up the street, leaning over sideways to ease his arm.

“Hey, fatso!”

Amanda Tracy came up at a lumbering run, dragging the easel behind her. Her hair was frizzed more wildly than ever, and her eyes gleamed bright and excited in the leathery toughness of her face.

“Some shimmy, huh? Listen, fat, I’m gonna make my fortune out of it!”

“How?” Doan asked.

Amanda Tracy pulled the canvas out of the easel clamps and thrust it in front of his face. “See that? That’s a picture of some buildings, believe it or not. See how squeegeed and cockeyed they look?”

“Yes,” Doan admitted.

“Well, they weren’t ruins when I painted them, but they are now. Get it? The ruins of Los Altos. I got a lot more pictures just as lousy as this one. I’ll sell them for souvenirs of the disaster!”

“If you live in that house where you were when I first saw you—and your pictures are there—you’d better run up and take them in out of the weather.”

“Hah?” Amanda Tracy barked.

“You haven’t got a roof any more.”

“Wow!” said Amanda Tracy. She ran up the street, whacking at anyone who was unfortunate enough to get in her way with the legs of the easel. “Gangway! Gangway!”

Somebody poked Doan in the stomach. He looked down into the face of a little girl who had a smear of dirt around her mouth. Her eyes were black beads that goggled at him excitedly.

_”Senor! La senorita rica y la otra senorita turista son_…”

Doan was shaking his head.

The little girl shook her head, too.

“No habla Mexicano?”

“I guess not,” said Doan.

The little girl dug at her ear with one finger, and then her face lighted up. “Mira!” She struck herself in the head with her fist. “Bong!” She staggered dramatically and fell down in the street.

Doan got it. “Where? Who? Which way?”

The little girl jumped up._ “Venga usted!“_

They went down a steep side street and through a lane where chickens squawked and scurried frantically to get out of Carstairs’ way. They turned to the right and to the left and scattered a family group who were trying to haul a sewing machine out through a shattered window.

_”Mil,” the little girl shrilled, “Ahieston las senoritas!“_

The little group was still there in the lane, and they drew back now, murmuring among themselves. Doan saw Janet Martin and the little man in the faded scrape kneeling down in the dust beside the limp form of Patricia Van Osdel.

“What is it?” Doan asked breathlessly. “Is she hurt?”

The little man shook his head sadly.

Janet said in a stifled voice: “She’s dead, Mr. Doan. Her head… I think she died instantly.”

“Let me see.” Doan knelt down. The golden hair was as soft as mist in his fingers, and then he saw the deep-sunken wound in the back of the small head. “Yes.”

He stood up and looked around slowly—at the ground, at the walls of the buildings on either side of the lane.

“Was she moved?” he asked. “Did someone carry her in here?”

“No,” said the little man. “No. Was lie here.”

“Why?” Janet inquired blankly. “What difference does that make?”

“None right now,” said Doan. “You go on up to the main drag and find Captain Perona. He ought to know about this right away. If you can’t find him, there’s a lieutenant by the name of Ortega in the big white building across from where the bus parked. Tell him. I’ll wait here.”

“All right,” said Janet obediently. She turned and ran out of the lane.

Doan squatted down on his heels.

The little man nodded at him shyly and said,_ “Es lastima.“_

“Probably it is,” Doan agreed.

A voice, far away, shouted an indistinguishable string of words. Other voices, closer, took up the cry. Excitement gathered like an electric charge in the air, and the little man’s eyes were wide and shocked staring into Doan’s.

“What’s the matter?” Doan asked.

The little man struggled for words._ “Puente!” He braced his forefingers together end-to-end and stared at Doan over the top of them. “Puente!“_

“Arch,” Doan guessed. “Roof.” Then he jumped. “Bridge!”

“Si! Si, si! Bridge! Is away!”

“What?”

“Gone. No longer.”

“You mean the earthquake shook the bridge down?” Doan demanded.

The little man nodded. “Si. Shook down. Bust.”

“That makes everything just dandy,” Doan commented.

The small girl with the dirty face burst through the onlookers blubbering words in a stuttering stream. She planted herself in front of Doan and waved both arms at him.

“What’s the beef, sister?” Doan inquired.

The girl pointed down at Patricia Van Osdel and then held up one finger.

“One,” said Doan, nodding.

The girl pointed back the way she had come and held up two fingers.

“Two,” said Doan, and then he leaped to his feet. “What? Another? Who? Where?”

_”Venga usted!” _

They went down the lane—the girl in front and Doan and Carstairs right behind her, and the little man running along behind with his serape flipping in the breeze of their passage. They went around the corner and up the street and across into another lane.

A muttering, peering crowd of people was huddled close around a fat woman kneeling on the ground. Doan looked over the fat woman’s shoulder and saw the long, bony form of Maria, the personal maid, flattened on the dusty ground. Maria’s face was pallidly white and empty, and the mole was like a black spider crouched on her cheek.

Doan dropped down beside her and touched one skinny, outstretched arm. “She’s not dead! She’s—”

The fat woman shoved him angrily._ “No! Cuidado!“_

“What’s your trouble?” Doan asked.

“She feex,” said the little man.

“Is she a nurse?” Doan demanded.

“Nurse?” said the little man, testing the word. “No.” He pointed to the small girl and then held his hands about a foot apart. “Child,” said Doan. “Dwarf. Midget. Baby!”

“Si. Baby.”

“You mean the old doll is a baby nurse?”

“No. Middle momma.”

“Baby,” Doan said. “Middle. Momma. Midwife!”

“Si.”

“Well, this is a little out of her regular line of business,” Doan commented, “but she probably knows more about it than I do.”

A pudgy