Murder Queen High Page 3

  Mr. Trim paused here, ready to go saddle the horses. “Are you staying here at the hotel, too, Mr. Trim?” was John Henry’s question. The black-suited man blinked and nodded. “Then we’ll know where to get in touch with you — if we have to.”

  “That’s right!” Mr. Trim nodded his old head with its scant horseshoe of hair vigorously. “Please feel free to call on me.” He massaged the door handle wistfully. “I’m always available — day or night.” His laugh was forced. “Well — this is good night, Mr. and — uh — Mrs. Conover.”

  In the momentary silence, Sin said, “Johnny, what was he carrying on about, anyway?” She appeared in the doorway, tugging the green dress about her. “He’s gone, hasn’t he?”

  “No,” said John Henry.

  “Oh,” Sin turned fire-engine red and went back where she’d come from. John Henry and the tooth-paste representative went back to looking at each other. Surely, thought Conover, this fellow can read the longing for food in my eyes.

  “Well — ” Mr. Trim made his final attempt to carry the whole thing off on a gay plane. “Welcome to Azure.”

  He stepped out onto the brightly lit porch of the cottage. “Thank you,” said his host. But the Bry-Ter agent wasn’t gone yet. He peered at the cottage wall beside the doorway and turned back. “Say! That looks like blood!”

  John Henry sighed, “It certainly does,” and closed the blue door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THEY WENT to the Ship of the Desert for dinner. Just a block east from the Las Dunas, it catered to the hotel’s wealthy clientele, a set that could pay four dollars for steak without expecting stock in the restaurant.

  With sincere heartiness, the Conovers ate at a candle-lit table near the bandstand where a small waterfall rippled over neon-illuminated rocks. To the left of the waterfall, contorted ironwork stairs led to a small balcony that ran across the north wall and commanded a view of the entire establishment. It was quite a view. An orange peel of a moon had just cleared the eastern horizon and it all seemed the special property of the Ship of the Desert rather than due to an enormous plate-glass wall. The amber light from outside threw faint shadows against the restaurant’s walls, which were painted in blues and browns to simulate the sweep of the desert. Palm trees — Azure’s trade mark — supported the décor to carry out the illusion.

  Atmosphere was rampant — even the waiters wore vivid Arab burnooses — but the management had underwritten the lushness with excellent cuisine, and not the least of their drawing cards was Duncan Hine’s enthusiastic recommendation.

  Sin pushed back her plate with a contented noise. “Now if I can just have some coffee — ”

  John Henry reconnoitered after their waiter and then craned his neck still farther. “Odd,” he said softly.

  “Um?”

  “I thought for a minute I saw — him. Our friend with the gun.”

  Sin’s laugh blanketed her exasperation but John Henry looked defensive. All the more so since the suspect had turned out to be just another tourist, after all.

  “That was the first time anybody ever drew a gun on me,” he said, almost complainingly. The duties of assistant personnel manager of an aircraft parts factory didn’t satisfy a deep-rooted urge for adventure which lurked behind his conservative manner. He had never been able to make Sin understand this trait completely. Now that he had taste excitement, John Henry was reluctant to spit it out.

  “Well, as a matter of record, the whole thing happened mainly to me,” Sin pointed out.

  “Uh-huh. But it was me he was talking about.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t go ahead and report it to the police then.”

  “That’s right — take all the glamor out of it — tie it up with red — ”

  “Why not?” she grinned back. “If you’re going to worry about it, I’d just as soon get it cleared up — then you’ll forget it and enjoy our vacation.”

  “Sin — I don’t think you have any lust for adventure. A mysterious stranger with a gun, a bloody handprint on our own front porch — ”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Just because I don’t think there’s a mad doctor hiding under our table or — or — ”

  John Henry looked sideways quickly and hunched closer to his wife. “That’s the strange thing, Sin,” he murmured. “I’ve had a kind of a feeling that we’re being watched.” Her green eyes didn’t change expression but he straightened and flushed, anyway. “All right, all right — I know it sounds funny.”

  The waiter, plump even in the loose burnoose, was at his elbow. Conover flinched and Sin asked sweetly, “You having dessert, dear?”

  “No, I guess not.” Dourly, John Henry ordered two coffees. “Black. And the check too, please.”

  After the waiter had hustled off, Sin regarded her husband with gentle amusement. “I suppose you think our Arab’s been spying on us, too.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s been at my elbow all through the meal.”

  “You’re just not used to good service, honey. People who eat here expect attention.”

  “Well, I still think something’s going on behind our backs. Something big.” Sin hoped to herself that the portly lady at the table behind Johnny couldn’t hear him. “I wouldn’t be surprised if somehow we haven’t accidentally upset some criminal conspiracy.” What exactly, John Henry wasn’t sure “… dope smuggling, illicit diamond buying …”

  “But doesn’t that only happen in South Africa? I mean, don’t you have to have diamonds first?”

  He waved the objection off as irrelevant. “Just an example, Sin.” He nodded and locked his fingers under his chin. “We do know this. It involves a transfer of something from someone to someone. Didn’t the man say he had ‘it’ for me? And he looked like he might be a miner.”

  “‘It’ could be anything.”

  “I’d like to meet that fellow again. Next time, you can bet your life I’ll find out just what’s going on.”

  Her elfin face reflected a hint of alarm. “Johnny, he has a gun.”

  John Henry shrugged casually, showing plainly that firearms held no terror for him. After all, he pointed out, he had seen plenty of guns during his three years in the army — though he neglected to add that as an air force personnel officer his knowledge of them was more academic than practical. Besides, there were always means of taking a gun away from an adversary. Or so the training films indicated.

  The rounded Arab-gowned waiter returned with coffee in the rough pottery jug that the Ship of the Desert affected. He poured quickly and skillfully, deposited a woven salver containing the bill on the table and journeyed back toward the mecca of the kitchen.

  “I won’t be surprised the next time.” John Henry stared balefully at his coffee. “Just let anybody make a suspicious move.”

  Sin sipped in some of the steaming black liquid. “Good coffee,” she murmured. “But I still think your imagination’s running away with you.” She jumped and screamed, “Johnny!”

  John Henry had knocked over his coffee cup. All around, chairs scraped and customers craned toward the commotion. Curious eyes saw a young man with a white face staring at the bill as it lay on the woven salver. The portly woman at the next table said half-audibly, “I felt the same way the first time I got the check here, too.”

  Sin reddened, semi-angry at being part of the floor show. She looked at the spreading brown stain. “Honey, you’ve certainly ruined their tablecloth — ”

  But her husband’s white face was curiously triumphant. “There!” he whispered.

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “There, Sin — that ought to prove what I said. Look at that!”

  His forefinger stabbed toward the salver. Sin indulgently looked at it, at the bill lying across it. Then she stared, awe-struck.

  It wasn’t a bill, at all. It was just an ordinary playing card. The Queen of Diamonds. And across the queen’s face someone had written in a bold hand: “Your deal.”

  The headw
aiter, colorful in his Foreign Legion uniform, paused at the top of the staircase and waited for the Conovers to reach the balcony. Sin held tight to John Henry’s arm. He could feel her trembling a little and when he looked at her, the greenish eyes were sober and slightly scared.

  Behind them, down the twisted staircase, there dinned the renewed clatter of dishes as the Ship of the Desert continued business as usual. All four pieces of the orchestra had returned to their stand and were mutedly tuning up.

  The headwaiter knocked on the oak-paneled door at the east end of the balcony. A man’s bass grated, “Come in,” and the Foreign Legionnaire opened the door to bow the Conovers into the office ahead of him.

  It was all leather except for the spacious plate-glass window at the other end. A burly man stood there contemplating the glowing pattern of Azure, his light-blue suit contrasting with the brown walls and the moon-touched velvet outside. He wheeled and took his hands from his pockets as the headwaiter closed the door to shut out the multi-noises of the restaurant.

  “This is the owner, Mr. Barselou,” he said. “Mr. and Mrs. — ah.”

  “Conover,” John Henry filled in. Barselou inclined his bold head. The Legionnaire started a sentence but his employer shifted colorless eyes his way and the headwaiter subsided, bowed again to the Conovers and left, closing the door softly.

  “Now, Mr. and Mrs. Conover,” Barselou rumbled in a slow-freight voice, “suppose you sit down and tell me what seems to be the trouble.”

  Overwhelming as both the man and his huge desk were, Barselou didn’t gain complete domination. Sin sank gratefully into the leathery embrace of a chair, but John Henry advanced belligerently to the older man. “This,” he said, and flipped the pasteboard queen face up on the desk’s surface.

  Barselou lowered his big frame into his swivel chair and picked up the card with the tips of his fingers. After a moment of study, he smiled amiably at John Henry. He murmured, “‘Insipid as the queen upon a card.’”

  Sin replied automatically, “Aylmer’s Field. Alfred, Lord Tennyson.”

  Barselou quirked an astonished eyebrow but John Henry didn’t intend to explain about his wife’s trick memory at this moment. He said, “That’s what goes on in your restaurant. That’s why I insisted on seeing you.”

  “What and why?” Barselou chuckled. “I’m further in the dark than you are, Mr. Jones.”

  “Conover,” Conover corrected.

  The man behind the desk snapped his fingers. “Sorry. I’ve been thinking all evening about somebody named Jones. Tell me about the Queen.”

  “Start at the beginning, Johnny,” Sin suggested immediately.

  “Yes, do.” Barselou’s face was fierce even in geniality. “Right in my own establishment — like a mystery story, isn’t it? I’m quite a mystery fan.”

  “Okay,” said John Henry. He felt uncomfortable standing now while the other two sat, so he dropped abruptly into the padded chair by the desk. “Okay,” he said again. “It was like this.” John Henry told what it was like.

  When he was done, Barselou rubbed a spadelike hand over his heavy jaw. He swung his flinty eyes from one to the other before he spoke. “Incredible.”

  “I suspected that waiter-from the beginning,” Conover said truculently.

  Sin was more tactful. “We’re getting tired of that sort of thing, Mr. Barselou.”

  Pale eyes sparked. “Why? Has something else like that happened?”

  “Not exactly,” said John Henry, silencing his wife with a husbandly glance. “My wife means we’re tired from our trip, that’s all.”

  “Yes, quite a drive from San Diego,” agreed the restaurant owner, fiddling with the card again. “The queen symbol intrigues me — it might be the calling card of a wealthy woman. Yet you say it or this ‘your deal’ inscription has no significance for you.” Insistence raised subtle spikes in his deep voice. Sin shook her dark-red locks.

  “What are you going to do about the waiter responsible?” John Henry wanted to know.

  “Get him up here,” said Barselou decisively. “What’d he look like?”

  That stopped Conover. How do you remember a waiter? “I think he was short and kind of fattish — ”

  “He had red eyes,” added Sin.

  Barselou said, “I know all the waiters who work here at the Ship — I should, since I see to my own hiring and firing. The simple fact, Mr. Conover, is that we have no such waiter.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” The young man shoved to his feet. “Don’t tell me a stranger could walk in here, serve us our meal — and nobody would know the difference! How about the headwaiter? How about the cook?”

  Barselou remained undisturbed, almost mocking. “I hate to think it’s possible. But what else are you suggesting, Mr. Conover?” Before the other man could think of a specific accusation, “Why don’t you come out on the balcony, both of you, and we can watch the staff at work?” He led the way, his nimble bulk dwarfing the slender St. Clair.

  The late supper crowd had thinned out. The small orchestra drifted syrupily through a pit-a-pat chorus of “I’ll See You in My Dreams.” Barselou leaned big fists on the balcony railing, a roughly adzed palm trunk, and stared down. “See him now?”

  The brown head and the red head swiveled slowly, surveying the shadowy pit below. Figures in flowing burnooses flitted like clumsy moths among the candle-lit tables. But after a moment, John Henry nudged his wife’s middle. “See anything, Sin?”

  “They’re all too thin or too tall.”

  “I didn’t expect he’d hang around. He did his job and made a getaway.” He turned around to face Barselou’s big smile.

  “Perhaps it was a joke, Mr. Conover. Perhaps even a joke intended for somebody else. Some of these wealthy visitors have elaborate senses of humor. About all I can do is apologize profoundly — which I do — on behalf of the Ship of the Desert. And to pick up your check, of course.”

  Sin’s hand was tugging at his sleeve but John Henry’s stubborn chin jutted out. Barselou’s bland assumptiveness annoyed him. “That’s very nice,” he said, “but if it’s all the same to you I think we’ll take a look around before we go.”

  When Barselou spoke his voice had changed but his words were still polite. “Naturally. I’m anxious to find out anything I can.”

  Odell lounged restlessly against the stucco wall of the restaurant about ten paces up the alley from Date Street and smoked his cigarette with short, nervous blasts. Wadded up under his left arm was an Arab burnoose.

  The luminous dial of his wrist watch read 9:15 and he wondered if Barselou had gotten anything out of the young couple. They hadn’t left yet, so maybe the deal had worked out. He believed in forcing the issue, and the queen right in their laps ought to start some fireworks. Behind Odell’s vacuously cherubic countenance a constant flame of impatience sputtered. He prided himself — and his employer agreed dryly — that he was a man of action rather than of ideas. No use fooling around with these Conovers or Joneses or whatever their real names were. The girl wasn’t a bad-looking head, at that. He let his mind roam sensuously.

  A faint scuff of shoes against the pavement twirled him alertly around, head cocked. Somebody was coming down the alley from the other direction, the direction of Andreas Street. Odell strained his eyes through the dimness and cursed the buildings for being high enough to keep out the moonlight.

  The man stumbled as if he too were having trouble with the dark. Odell slid his hand to the cold butt of his .32 and brought it out of its lair next to his chest. He let his cigarette drop and squashed it underfoot.

  The footsteps stopped. Odell held his breath and waited. A match rasped against boxside and the blackness thirty yards away was momentarily shattered as the stumbling man held the flame in front of him, peering.

  A silent laugh rippled Odell’s fat. Talk about luck! After all the trouble, here was Anglin walking right into the net. Okay, he wouldn’t wriggle out this time. He put the gun muzzle on the dark blob and walked
toward the other man.

  Anglin froze. Then he hissed, uncertainly, “Who is it? Who’s there?”

  Odell kept walking toward him. “You know who it is, Anglin. Just don’t make any funny moves and you’ll be all right for a while. The chief says no obituaries.”

  “Odell!”

  Anglin whirled, tottered and groped wildly for the door in the alley next to his hand. Odell dropped the bundled burnoose and jumped forward, pistol menacing. Inside, he was laughing again. The jerk was walking right into the Ship of the Desert. Walk into my parlor, said — wait a minute!

  Was that the glint of moon on gun metal down at the alley’s end?

  Before Anglin could find the handle, the door abruptly swung open, letting a damned-up flood of bluish-white light into the alley. It blinded the startled Odell, but he remembered not to pull the trigger.

  Then he could see the groping figure outlined in the doorway. And beyond that squat silhouette, eyes wide and excited, was the amazed face of John Henry Conover.

  John Henry thought the alley had exploded. He barely had time enough to recognize the prowler in the doorway when the man was driven violently against him, staggering him. Then he realized all the noise had been a gunshot.

  Sin screamed and jumped forward to grab his coat. “Johnny, Johnny, are you all right? Johnny — ”

  “Okay, honey.” Automatically, he held up the leather-jacketed body by its armpits. He couldn’t see anything in the gloom. Dying away in the distance, he could hear the sound of footsteps, running.

  Barselou brushed past him into the alley. John Henry felt a shudder go through the figure in his arms. Sin was sucking in her breath noisily and staring cloudily at the man.

  “Isn’t there something — he’s hurt — ”

  Wetness had dyed a somber circle on the back of the leather jacket. The circle spread. The man twisted his head and sighted painfully up at him. He squinted his foggy eyes. They cleared momentarily and recognition showed there. A gasp was born in his throat. John Henry bent over him to catch the words.