The Mouse in the Mountain by Norbert Davis (acx book reading TXT) 📖

Do you know anyone in England who owns a glue factory?"

"Nope," said Doan. "Did Ortega fix your arm for you?"

"Yes. He said he set it. I think personally that he cut it off. It feels like hell."

"Have a drink," Doan invited.

"Okay."

Feet thundered along the hall above them, and then Henshaw shouted down the staircase:

"Hey! Have you seen this bathroom up here?"

"Now, Wilbur," Mrs. Henshaw said absently. "No business on this trip. You promised."

"Business, hell!" Henshaw said. "Why, the thing is a disgrace! I bet it's fifty years old! Where's the guy that owns this dive? Timpkins! Timpkins!"

A man came in through the door beyond the end of the bar. He was scrawny and small and bow-legged, and he was wearing a soiled flour sack for an apron. He looked as though being born had been such a disappointment to him that he had never recovered.

"Well, what?"

"Timpkins," said Henshaw, "that bathroom of yours is a terrible hole."

"It works, don't it?"

"After a fashion. But that isn't the point, Timpkins. It's obsolete. Why, it's an antique."

"If you don't like it, you don't have to use it."

"What would I do if I didn't?" Henshaw asked blankly.

"That's your question," said Timpkins. "You answer it."

"Hey, you," said Doan. "Captain Perona told me to stay here. Trot out your register, and I'll sign up."

Timpkins stared at him sourly. "You the chap that goes around killing people?"

"Now and then," Doan said.

"You ain't to kill nobody in my hotel, just remember that. I'm a British subject, and I know my rights. One murder, and out you go, Captain Perona or no Captain Perona."

"Okay," said Doan amiably.

"The register is under the bar. You sign yourself up--and by your right name, too. If there's a room upstairs that's empty, you can use it.... And just remember I marked the level on that gin bottle and one of you two is gonna pay for what's gone out of it. And I don't want none of you guests hollerin' at me and botherin' me any more because I'm busy."

Henshaw had come very quietly down the stairs. "Timpkins," he said softly. "Timpkins, look." He whipped a shiny, colored folder out of his pocket. "Look at Model 9-A illustrated here. Orchid tile, Timpkins!"

"Arr!" Timpkins snarled. He went back into the kitchen and slammed the door violently behind him.

"He's a tough prospect," Henshaw said in a pleased tone. "But that's the kind I like. I'll work up a little sales talk especially for him. Would you like to see Model 9-A, Doan?"

"No," said Doan.

"Where's Mortimer, Wilbur?" Mrs. Henshaw asked.

"He's takin' a nap. He said he was tired."

"The little sweet," said Mrs. Henshaw. "He's been so brave through it all."

"Brave, hell," said Henshaw. "He loved it. He's got no more sense than a sawhorse."

"Gangway! Gangway!" Amanda Tracy shouted hoarsely. She slapped the side door back against the wall and wiggled her way through, almost hidden under an immense stack of canvases. She dumped them carelessly on the floor and shouted over the racketing clatter:

"Hello, Janet, dearie. Hello, Doan. Hi, everybody else. Where's Timpkins? Timpkins, you dirty little thief! Come here! Front and center!"

Timpkins opened the kitchen door. "Well, what? Oh, it's you now, is it? What you want?"

"I want a room and a good one," said Amanda Tracy. "And no bedbugs, either."

"Ain't got one," said Timpkins.

"You'd better find one, chum," said Amanda Tracy. "Starting now. And I mean a room, not a bedbug."

"Why don't you stay home where you belong?"

"My house has got no roof. Scram, Timpkins! Scat!"

"Arr," said Timpkins sullenly, retiring back into the kitchen.

Amanda Tracy nodded cheerily at Doan. "I got to hand it to you, fatso. You must not be near so dumb as you look. That was very nifty the way you rubbed out Eldridge."

"Mr. Doan didn't do that," Janet protested. "The earthquake killed Mr. Eldridge."

"Ha-ha," said Amanda Tracy. "Don't you believe it, dearie. Doan did it. He's snaky. He'd just as leave kill you as spit. Wouldn't you, Doan?"

"Sure," said Doan. "Massacres organized any hour of the day or night."

"Yeah," said Amanda Tracy. "And don't think I think you're fooling, either."

"Pardon me," said Captain Perona.

"Here's that man again," Greg observed gloomily.

Captain Perona was standing in the doorway. He was in uniform now, and he looked tall and leanly competent. He crossed the room and stopped beside Doan's table.

"And the stooge," said Greg.

Sergeant Obrian came in the room and said: "I heard you. Do I have to take cracks like that from a lousy tourist, Captain?"

"Yes," said Captain Perona. "Doan, I find that in my haste I neglected a certain formality. Stand up and raise your hands."

Doan sighed and got up.

"Search him," said Captain Perona.

Sergeant Obrian searched fast and expertly. "One .38 caliber Colt Police Positive revolver and--fifteen extra rounds for same. That's all the weapons."

"Look once more. He is reported to carry two."

"Nope," said Sergeant Obrian. "He's clean."

"Where did you hide your other weapon?" Captain Perona asked coldly.

"Nowhere," said Doan. "I didn't have one."

Captain Perona looked speculatively at Carstairs. "Tell your dog to stand up."

"Up-si-daisy," said Doan.

Carstairs lumbered reluctantly to his feet.

"Tell him to open his mouth."

"Say 'ah,' " Doan ordered.

Carstairs lolled out a thick red tongue at him.

"All right," said Captain Perona. "Tell him to lie down again."

"Boom," said Doan.

Carstairs dropped on the floor with a thud and a grunt.

Greg said: "That's a very nice hat you have, Doan. May I see it?" He reached out and picked it up with his good hand. There was a clasp knife lying on the table under the hat. "Oh, excuse me," Greg said.

Doan nodded at him. "Hi, pal."

Captain Perona pounced on the knife. It looked something like a scout knife, except that it was larger and longer. Captain Perona pressed a catch on the haft, and a thick, wide blade snapped suddenly into view.

"Very nice," he said. "Very efficient."

"It isn't mine," said Doan. "I never carry a knife. They give me the creepies."

"Then how did it get under your hat?"

"I'll give you one guess," said Doan, looking at Greg in a speculative way.

"Did you put this under his hat?" Captain Perona asked.

"No," said Greg.

"I'm afraid," said Lepicik, "that you are not telling the truth." He was standing on the stairs, just far enough down them so he could see under the ceiling. "You did put the knife under Mr. Doan's hat."

"You're a liar," said Greg.

"I'm so sorry," said Lepicik politely. "But I saw you do it."

"Well?" said Captain Perona.

Greg shrugged his left shoulder. "Okay. I did. I was afraid you and your stooges were going to search us all, and I didn't want it found on me. I just bought the thing today--for a souvenir."

Captain Perona balanced the knife on his palm. "You bought this in Los Altos?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"From a street peddler."

"What did he look like?"

"Oh, he was a little guy with a funny face. What's the matter with you, anyway? You don't really think I'd carry a thing like that around with me all the time, do you?"

"Yes," said Captain Perona. "I really think you would--and do."

"Prove it," Greg invited.

"Perhaps I will," said Captain Perona, putting the knife and Doan's revolver in his pocket. "And some other things as well. Colonel Callao, the commandant of this district, is coming to interview you tourists soon. I have some important matters to tell you before he arrives. Are you all here now?"

"Mortimer's upstairs asleep," said Henshaw.

"Don't you dare wake my little darling!" Mrs. Henshaw warned.

"I would not think of it," said Captain Perona. "I would be very pleased if he continued to sleep permanently. Now attend to me, please. You all know that Patricia Van Osdel was killed during the earthquake. You know also, I think, that Doan suspected her death was not an accident. I ask you again, Doan: Why were you so quick to suspect that on the meager evidence available?"

"I've got an evil mind," said Doan. "Can I sit down and rest it?"

"Yes."

"Can I have a drink?"

"Yes."

"Pour me one, too," Greg requested.

Doan looked at him.

"Oh, I'm sorry about the knife," Greg told him. "Forget it. It was just one of those things."

"Some day you're going to pull one too many of those things," Doan said, pouring gin.

"Are you quite comfortable?" Captain Perona asked. "Can you give me your attention now?"

"Go right ahead," Doan said.

"Thank you. As a result of investigation, we have found that your suspicions were justified. Patricia Van Osdel was not killed by accident. She was murdered by being struck on the head by a jagged piece of stone, which was subsequently found in a lane beside her maid, Maria, who was seriously injured by being struck with the same stone."

"How is Maria?" Janet asked.

"Doan was right in his diagnosis there, also. Her skull is fractured. She is not conscious and probably will not be so for several days. She is under guard at the military hospital, and I do not wish to hear of any of you attempting to visit her. As soon as she recovers she will be able to tell us who murdered Patricia Van Osdel and attacked her, but I do not propose to wait that long to find out."

"Why not?" Doan asked. "You've got lots of time."

"Patricia Van Osdel," said Captain Perona, "was an enormously rich and influential citizen of your country. Your country and mine are now allies in the war. We do not wish any incidents to occur which would disturb our relationship. If it were known that Patricia Van Osdel had been murdered here, it would inevitably arouse suspicions of our ability to protect visitors and tourists, and start demands for investigation of the circumstances surrounding her death and rumors of fifth column activity in military zones and such things. Do I make myself clear?"

"Not yet," said Doan.

"I will proceed. Patricia Van Osdel's death is to be known as an accident until such time as we can find and arrest her murderer and prove that the Mexican Army and Government were in no way responsible or negligent."

"Now I get it," said Doan. "Hush-hush."

"Yes. There is no way for any of you to communicate with anyone outside Los Altos. All exits and entrances are guarded by soldiers. All telephone and telegraph wires went down with the bridge."

"Some bridge," Henshaw remarked. "Couldn't even stand a little shaking up."

Captain Perona eyed him narrowly. "I recall that not so long ago a bridge in the United States--a new one--blew down in a high wind."

"Oh," said Henshaw, subdued. "Yeah, I remember that, now you mention it.... Well, what're we gonna do?"

"Stay here. The bridge supports at either end are intact. We will put cables across as soon as we receive the equipment. We are in touch with Major Nacio by military field wireless now."

"Who's he?" Henshaw asked.

"The man who warned you not to come here."

"Yeah," said Henshaw. "He did at that, didn't he? And was he right!"

"He was," Captain Perona agreed. "Your presence here is a needless complication. However, if you will give me the names of the people concerned, I will see that they are notified that you are safe. You may be forced to remain here for a few days, but there will be no shortage of food or supplies. Now I wish to ask you: Do any of you know why Patricia Van Osdel was so determined to come to Los Altos at this particular time?"

No one answered.

"You," said Captain Perona, pointing at Greg.

"I don't know," said Greg. "I didn't know anything about her business affairs. I was strictly a social acquaintance of hers."

Captain Perona pointed at Doan. "You."

"Now, look," Doan protested. "You're going to have to make a choice here. I can't have killed both Eldridge and the Van Osdel at the same time when they were a half mile apart."

Captain Perona counted on his fingers. "Garcia. Eldridge. Patricia Van Osdel. Maria. A death by shooting, a so-called accidental death, a murder, and a near-fatal attack. All since you came to Los Altos."

"Don't forget the earthquake," Doan suggested. "I had that hidden in my hat along with Greg's knife."

"Captain Perona," Janet said, "I