The Mouse in the Mountain - Norbert Davis (dark academia books to read txt) 📗

spoke to, whom he met, whom he even looked at. But Bautiste Bonofile managed to warn him anyway. After that, we chased Garcia back and forth through the town, blocking him off each time he tried to get out, hoping that Bautiste Bonofile would attempt to help him. It was a very small chance, I admit. Bautiste Bonofile is too cold-blooded to risk betraying himself to help anyone. However, had your tourists tried to get back out of Los Altos, you would have had a great deal more difficulty than you did coming in."

Janet shivered. "No wonder!"

"So then," said Captain Perona, "Garcia was shot by Doan. Major Nacio had planned for even a contingency like that. The town had been separated into small area units and soldiers assigned to each area. They went to work instantly, searching, questioning each person. You see, I was not neglecting my duties when I took you to the museum. There was nothing for me to do, then. The men are experts. They knew just what to do and how to do it. I had only to wait and sift any evidence which they found. Then came the earthquake."

"Even Major Nacio couldn't foresee that," Janet observed.

"No. Not even he. But since I am isolated here for the moment, I must handle what happens quickly and efficiently. The murders of Patricia Van Osdel and Maria... they must be solved at once, or it will reflect on me and on Major Nacio, too. I must find Greg. I have uncovered Bautiste Bonofile, due to your help, and I must find him, also. It is directly my responsibility, and it is a very grave one."

"Perhaps I could help you," Janet suggested.

Captain Perona looked at her. "Senorita, do you think this is some children's game? Do you realize the type and kind of men I am seeking? Do you realize that Greg and Bautiste Bonofile are murderers and would not hesitate for a second to strike again?"

"Of course I realize it."

"Then kindly occupy yourself with your ludicrous sight-seeing and leave serious matters to those who understand them. I must go now. Excuse me, please."

"Good-by!" Janet said definitely.

Chapter 12

 

JANET FELL IN WITH LOCAL CUSTOM AND took a siesta, and it was early in the afternoon when she came sleepily down the stairs into the bar-restaurant of the Hacienda Nueva Inglesa. The room was warm and shadowy, and the odors of spilled wine and tobacco hung comfortingly close in the air.

"This one!" said Mrs. Henshaw enthusiastically. She was holding up one of Amanda Tracy's paintings. "This is the one I want. It'll look wonderful in the living room."

"Relax," Henshaw advised. He was sitting in front of the door into the kitchen like a cat waiting at a mousehole. "You ain't gonna buy any pictures."

"In the living room," Mrs. Henshaw repeated, staring at the picture raptly. "Right over the mantel."

"Over my dead body," Henshaw corrected.

Timpkins came in from the kitchen. "Dinner'll be served at six sharp, if you please. It ain't gonna be fancy, and them as don't like it don't need to eat it."

"Mr. Timpkins," Janet said. "Has my room been cleaned today?"

"No," Timpkins answered.

"Well--who cleans it?"

"You do," Timpkins informed her. "If it gets cleaned."

"Haven't you any help at the hotel?"

"No. I don't need none."

"Timpkins," said Henshaw.

Timpkins looked at him. "What, now?"

"Sit down," Henshaw invited, crooking his finger and smiling enticingly. "Right here in this nice chair. Rest yourself, Timpkins. You've been working too hard all day."

Timpkins sat down slowly and suspiciously.

"I've been spending a lot of time thinking about your business problems," Henshaw told him.

"I ain't got no business problems."

"That's just it," said Henshaw. "That's your trouble right there. Now you've got a swell setup here. You could make this hotel a gold mine."

"How?" Timpkins inquired skeptically.

"Think of your situation. Analyze it, Timpkins. That's the first step, always. Los Altos, with its scenery, with its quaintness, with its artistic history. It's a sure tourist-puller. And you're on the ground floor. I envy you, Timpkins. I see you as independently rich in the near future."

"Arr?" said Timpkins.

"Yes, indeed. Now consider the international situation. After this war, Europe is going to be a mess. Take my word for it, Timpkins. I know. People aren't going to want to go there any more. Besides that, they won't be able to afford it. They'll want to see new and different things closer to home. They'll want the atmosphere and adventure of foreign lands. Where will they go to get that, Timpkins?".

"Where?" said Timpkins.

"Here. In Los Altos. They'll come by the hundreds with money in their pockets. And when they come to Los Altos, they'll come here to this hotel--naturally. You'll coin dough. The place could be a mint for you. For instance, how much do you charge for rooms now?"

"Five dollars a day."

"You robber--I mean to say, that goes to prove what I'm telling you. You could charge much more--if you were progressive."

"Progressive?" Timpkins repeated.

"Yes. For instance, take the matter of a bathroom. Now I'm not trying to sell you a bathroom, Timpkins. Don't think that for a minute. I'm just using it for an illustration. Suppose tourists come in here after sight-seeing in the town--tired, dirty, discouraged--and they step into the hotel bathroom and they see something like this." Henshaw flipped out the shiny folder like a magician producing a rabbit. "4A, right here. A beautiful setup. Lavish and luxurious. Yellow and black tile with a guaranteed imitation marble trim and plastic streamlined fixtures."

"Naw!" said Timpkins.

"Wait, now. I'm not suggesting you should buy it. Maybe something else would be more suitable. But the tourists would be impressed, Timpkins. In the United States people judge you by your bathroom. It's the most important part of your house. These tourists, after they'd seen 4-A, would go away feeling impressed and refreshed. They'd advertise you by word-of-mouth to other tourists. Now just look through this folder. Pick out something to your own taste."

"Naw!" said Timpkins.

Doan was sitting in the corner near the end of the bar with his hat down over his eyes. Carstairs lay in front of him, snoring in pleasantly deep gurgles.

"Timpkins," said Doan, pushing his hat up. "What part of England do you come from?"

"I'm a British subject," said Timpkins.

"Also a Canadian, I'll bet."

"Arr," said Timpkins. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing. Ever been in England?"

"Yes!"

"For how long?"

"Two weeks," said Timpkins sullenly. He got up. "Now I don't want none of you botherin' me any more. I'm busy."

He went back into the kitchen and slammed the door.

"Thanks, Doan," Henshaw said. "That gives me a new lead. I don't know what kind of bathrooms they got in England, but I've been in Canada once. I went to Niagara Falls and walked across the bridge. I'll run in some references to that the next time I catch him. Always establish some common ground with a prospect. You notice how I sneaked up on him, then? I'm gonna sell him. You watch."

"Mr. Doan," said Janet, "did you get your message off all right?"

"Yes, thanks," Doan told her. "My little girls will get a great kick out of it."

"How old are they?"

"Five and seven and nine. Two brunettes and a blonde."

"What color is your wife's hair?"

"It changes. It's red now."

"Hi-yo, Silver!" Mortimer yelled. He came galloping in through the front door. He had strapped the spurs on over his tennis shoes, and he had to run both bowlegged and pigeon-toed to keep from tripping over them. He had stuffed paper in the band of the sombrero, and it waggled precariously on his head, the enormous brim extending far out beyond his puny shoulders.

"Whoa, Silver," he commanded belligerently, prancing and kicking out with the spurs. He had a braided leather quirt in his hand, and he slashed furiously at the air around him.

"Where'd you get that whip?" Henshaw demanded.

"Just picked it up," Mortimer answered.

"Well, you just pick it back again. Do you wanna get me shot or something, you little rummy?"

"Go dive for a pearl," Mortimer invited. He pranced over to Doan. "Hey, puffy, can I ride the flea-trap?"

"Carstairs?" Doan asked. "Oh, sure. Go right ahead, Mortimer."

Mortimer straddled the sleeping Carstairs. "Get up!" he yelled, punching Carstairs with the quirt.

Carstairs got up--and fast. Mortimer did a neat back-flip in the air and landed flat on his face on the floor. Carstairs sat down on him.

"I figured that would be it," said Doan.

Mortimer yelled in a choked, wheezing gasp. Mrs. Henshaw screamed and ran for him. One of Mortimer's arms stuck out from under Carstairs, and she grabbed that and tugged with all her might.

"Get off, Carstairs," Doan said. "You'll squash the little dope."

Carstairs looked interested but not cooperative. Doan sighed and got up. He took hold of Carstairs' spiked collar and heaved. Mrs. Henshaw pulled at Mortimer. Nothing happened.

"Quit it, Carstairs," Doan ordered. He spat on his hands, took a new grip on the collar, and heaved back with all his might.

Carstairs stood up. Doan sat down hard, and so did Mrs. Henshaw. Mortimer's face was blue, and his mouth was wide open, and his eyes were popped like grapes. He drew in his breath in a strangled gulp and promptly let it go again.

"Yeow! Maw!"

Mrs. Henshaw blubbered over him. "Mama's poor, poor baby! Don't you cry! We'll have the soldiers shoot the nasty, dirty, old dog!"

"The hell we will," said Henshaw. "We'll buy him a medal or a beefsteak or something."

Doan got up and brushed himself off tenderly. "Damn you," he said to Carstairs. "That floor has got slivers in it."

Carstairs yawned and walked to the door. He stood there looking back over his shoulder at Doan.

"Well, go on out," Doan said. "The soldiers are gone now. Nobody will stop you."

Carstairs mumbled deep in his throat.

"Listen," said Doan, "you're a big dog now. You can go out and attend to your private affairs without me supervising you or them."

Carstairs barked once and made the kerosene lamp jump and jingle on its chain.

"All right," Doan said. "All right!" He went to the door and bunted Carstairs in the rear with his knee. "Get going then, stupid."

Mortimer sat up and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Mrs. Henshaw dabbed and cooed at him in her worried, futile way.

Timpkins opened the kitchen door. "What's all this noise, now? I ain't gonna have no riots in my hotel!"

"Timpkins," said Henshaw quickly, "I didn't know you were from Canada. That's a beautiful country, and I've always admired it. I went across from Niagara Falls, and that reminds me of our new waterfall flushing system. If you'll just sit down I'll explain--"

"Naw!" said Timpkins, and slammed the door.

"He's weakening," Henshaw said in a satisfied tone. "I'll get him."

Running footsteps made a crisply angry tattoo on the paving outside, and Captain Perona burst through the door.

"Where is he?" he demanded. "Where is that Doan?"

"He just stepped out a second ago to walk his dog," Janet answered. "What's the matter?"

Captain Perona had a slip of yellow paper in his hand, and he waved it in front of her face. "Look! Look at this!"

Janet caught at the paper. "It's a message addressed to Mr. Doan."

"Read it!" Captain Perona snarled.

The message was printed in block letters in pencil, evidently just as the military wireless operator had taken it down. It said in English:

WHY THE PIG