Oh, Murderer Mine - Norbert Davis (best love novels of all time .TXT) 📗

IT WAS TWENTY-THREE MINUTES AFTER eleven when Eric Trent closed the textbook he was reading with a sharp, disgusted snap and said, “I’ve been reading the same page for the last half hour, and it still doesn’t make sense. Let’s go get a beer.”

Doan had been lying on his back on the chesterfield with his hands folded across his chest. He sat up instantly and started hunting around for his shoes.

“Now you’re talking,” he said enthusiastically.

Carstairs was sprawled all over the floor in front of the door. He sat up, too.

“Trent and I are going to the library and get some books,” Doan told him.

Carstairs watched him.

“Don’t look so damned skeptical!” Doan shouted. “I can read. And dogs aren’t allowed in the library, so just relax and lie down again. You’re staying here.”

Carstairs stood up and turned his back and put his nose against the door.

“All right, all right,” Doan said. “Hurry up, Trent. The bars close up in this cockeyed state at midnight.”

He opened the door, and Carstairs preceded them down the long hall. This apartment was on the third floor, and there was no elevator. There were no elevators in any of the university buildings with the exception of those frequented by T. Ballard Bestwyck. He did not believe in pampering the lower classes. Doan and Trent, with Carstairs still ahead of them, went down the stairs past Melissa’s floor, and on down the first flight and out through the lobby.

Trent’s car—a small and shabby two-door sedan—was parked at the curb fifty yards north of Pericles Pavilion. Doan opened the door on the right side and hitched the seat forward.

“Get in back,” he ordered. “Snap it up.”

Carstairs climbed in distrustfully.

Doan popped the seat back into place and slid into it. “Hurry up. It’s half-past eleven.”

Trent started the car, and they drove through the narrow, sharply curved residential streets that bordered the university and then out on the smooth, wide sweep of the boulevard that ran south of the campus.

“There’s a place,” said Doan. “Kerrigan’s Klub Kar. Under the green neon sign ahead.”

“All right,” said Trent absently. He drove the car into the empty graveled lot beside the building and parked.

“Roll your window up about three-quarters of the way and get out and shut your door,” Doan said casually. He was lounging back in the seat with his hands folded back of his neck.

Trent looked at him curiously. “Okay.”

Doan waited until Trent’s door was shut, and then he slipped the catch on the door next to him with his knee. In one smooth motion, he darted out of the car and slammed the door shut behind him. He was not a split second too soon. Carstairs broad, moist muzzle slapped against the inside of the glass an instant after the door thumped shut. His eyes glared through at them, greenishly malignant.

“What’s the idea?” Trent asked.

“He’s a dry,” Doan explained. “He hates liquor. I don’t like to take him in bars because he raises hell. He sneers at the customers and barks at the bartender and tips over tables. Hurry up. It’s twenty minutes to twelve.”

They went up three steps and into a long, dreary room with a bar running along the length of one wall. The place was empty except for the bartender and one chummy customer. The chummy customer hailed them with a loud and lonesome cheer.

“Hiya! Hi there, fellas! Have a drink, huh?”

“Now, Bert,” said the bartender.

“Well, I know that guy there,” said Bert. “I sure do know that guy. I sure seen his face before lots of times. Sure. Now wait a minute. Don’t rush me.” He came weaving along the bar. “Hi, fella! I seen you before, ain’t I, huh? Huh?”

“Lay off, Bert,” said the bartender.

“Yee-hoo!” Bert yelled joyously. “I got it! I know where I saw you! In all them ads for all that face cream junk! Sure! How are you, little old Handsome little old Lover little old Boy? Woo-woo-woo!”

Eric Trent hit him on the side of the neck with the edge of his palm. Bert came apart at the seams. He hit the floor so hard he bounced. After that he didn’t move at all.

“Here!” the bartender said indignantly. “What’s the idea? He’s my best customer. I recognize your face myself. If you want to marry some old crow for her dough and advertise it in all the magazines, you’ve got no right to get sore if people rib you about it. What did you do to Bert?”

“This,” said Trent.

The bartender’s jaw smacked against the edge of the bar, and then he slid gently and slowly down out of sight behind it.

“Let’s get out of here,” Trent said.

“I think maybe that’s a good idea,” Doan agreed reluctantly, looking at the electric clock behind the bar.

It was thirteen minutes of twelve.

They went back outside, and Doan opened the left door of the sedan.

“Oh, stop snorting at me,” he ordered. “I didn’t have anything to drink—not even a beer. Get in the back.”

Carstairs climbed over the seat, muttering to himself.

Doan got in. “We’ll have to hurry,” he said. “It’s almost midnight.”

Trent pushed the starter. “I’ve lost my thirst.”

“Well, I haven’t,” said Doan. “Drive around fast and find a place where I can pick up a pint.”

Trent drove out on the boulevard. “I’ve got a bottle at home you can have.”

“Where?” Doan demanded. “I searched that apartment from stem to stern the other morning when I was suddenly taken with a hangover.”

“That big green book in my bookcase—the one with the Greek lettering on it—is a fake. It’s hollow. There’s a fifth of bourbon in it.”

“Do tell,” said Doan. “Have you got any more literature like that?”

“No. I wouldn’t have that except for the fact that my wife bought it for me.”

“She’s very thoughtful of you,” Doan told him. “She not only gives you liquor, but she also provides you with a party named Doan to drink it.”

“Yes,” said Trent.

They drove back through the winding residential streets. Trent parked the car at the curb near the Pericles Pavilion, where it had been before. Garages are an affectation in Southern California and aren’t used except by people who wish to impress, or don’t trust, their neighbors.

“Come on, stupid,” Doan said, holding the door open for Carstairs.

The three of them were on the steps of the apartment building when the chimes in the university chapel tower began to boom lugubriously.

“Twelve o’clock,” said Doan, pushing through the doors into the lobby, “and all’s well.”

And then the three of them stopped short.

“What was that?” Trent demanded.

“A dame screaming,” said Doan. “There must be a wife-beater hidden around this rat trap somewhere.”

He was watching Carstairs. Carstairs had his head raised alertly. His ears were pricked forward, and a muscle quivered nervously in his shoulder.

“Find them,” said Doan.

Carstairs and Doan both moved so fast then that Trent was caught flatfooted. Carstairs was at the top of the first flight of stairs and Doan was halfway up before Trent could get started. He pounded after them, taking the steps three at a jump. He turned out into the hall at the top.

Doan was halfway along it, standing in front of an open apartment door. He had his right hand inside the front of his coat. Trent pulled up behind him and stared over his shoulder.

Melissa was lying in a bedraggled heap in the middle of the living room floor. Her eyes were shut and her mouth was open and her legs were sprawled immodestly. Carstairs was just inside the door, watching her with his head lowered and one huge paw raised.

“What?” said Trent. “What was… Why, it’s that homely girl who wanted me to give her my office! What’s the matter with her? What happened to her?”

“Somebody popped her on the jaw,” Doan said absently, “and knocked her cold. See where her heel dragged in front of the bedroom door?”

Trent looked at the heel mark and then he looked down at Melissa. “Well, not so homely.” He twisted his head around and took a step across the room. “In fact, considered from the proper angle, rather nice. I’ve seen the time when I could use something like this. I’d prefer her conscious, of course.”

“Huh,” said Doan. “From what I hear, when she’s conscious she doesn’t prefer you.”

Carstairs swung about to stare up at Doan and give him an inquiring look.

Doan nodded. “Yeah. Let’s find the bird who did the bopping.”

Carstairs walked out into the hall, still eyeing Doan.

“Go on,” said Doan. “Get him.”

Carstairs started with a lunge and headed down the hall toward the back of the building like an arrow out of a bow.

“Pick up the doll and paste her together,” Doan said to Trent. “We’re busy.”

Doan turned and ran back down the front stairs. He skidded to a stop in the lobby, listening. He was holding a .38 Colt Police Positive in his right hand now.—Carstairs bayed from the back of the building.

“Yeah!” said Doan.

He ran back through the lower hall, whirled around a corner with the revolver up and poised. Carstairs was standing up against a closed door further along, pawing at its panels with the claws of both front paws.

“Get away,” said Doan, shouldering him aside. “This is the cellar, I think. Watch it.”

He pulled the door open, staying partially behind it. There was nothing on the other