Murder Queen High (12 page)

“For once this week end, we’re ahead of the game. Sin. Look. You wait at the edge of the road for Trim to drive up. Nothing’ll happen to you because he’ll want us both. As soon as he’s out of the car, I’ll jump him. I’ll be in the bushes — ”

“I don’t know, Johnny — ”

“Why not? I’m a good fifty pounds heavier.”

“But, honey,” Sin reasoned, “what if we’re wrong about him? What if he turns out to be just a nice little man and nothing else?”

“Then we apologize. It’s simple.”

“I don’t think I’d laugh it off if you jumped all over me. And I didn’t know you very well.”

John Henry stood up and stretched. He felt better now that there was actually something he could do of his own volition. “Baby, that’s a chance we have to take. We’ll find out darn soon. From the story in the paper, it’s obvious Jones got the combination.”

“But — ”

“And if Trim is Jones, he’s not letting that slip of paper get out of his hands. He’ll have it on him somewhere. So we’ll search him for the answer.” He checked. A sedan was coming slowly down the road from the direction of the Tomahawk. The driver was flicking his lights from high to low beam at regular intervals.

“Johnny, I’m scared!” Sin jumped up and put her arms around her husband.

“That’s him, all right. Now don’t be scared, Sin. Just do what I say and we’ll be okay. Come on, now — show me what a brave girl you are.”

“But I’m not a brave girl,” Sin whimpered. “I’m
scared!”

John Henry shoved her hastily through the mesquite toward the road. The automobile was almost upon them. It was slowing down. Tires bumped in the rough ground at the side of the highway.

“Is that you, Mrs. Conover?” Trim’s high-pitched voice called.

“I guess so,” Sin quavered. Trim turned out the car lights and shut off the engine. John Henry could hear a car door open and close, then the sound of footsteps crunching in the dirt, coming closer.

“Where’s Mr. Conover?” Trim asked as he approached.

“He’s — he’ll be back in a minute,” Sin stammered.

“Well, I certainly was worried about you two, Mrs. Conover, I don’t mind saying,” Mr. Trim was saying.

“Let’s get off the road,” Sin managed. “Here, behind these bushes — over here.”

“Say, but I was relieved to get your phone call. I just knew you two couldn’t be involved in what happened this afternoon,” the little man continued. John Henry braced himself for the spring. Through the leaves, he could see the bobbing outlines of their two heads as they trudged toward him. Trim seemed to be wearing a three-cornered hat.

“We’ve been worrying, too,” Sin said, glancing nervously toward the bushes. They were two yards away now.

One yard.

John Henry leaped like a tiger for Mr. Trim’s throat.

The small man let out a yelp of pure terror and jumped backward. John Henry’s hands missed the scrawny throat and fastened instead on a wide leather belt. The two men crashed heavily to earth and rolled toward the ditch. Sin was jumping up and down and shouting encouragement to her husband. “He’s got a gun, Johnny! He’s got a gun!”

Trim wriggled away and got up on his knees. John Henry tackled him around the waist again. A wizened hand scrabbled at the leather belt, trying to draw a long pistol from it. As though he had nothing else to think about, John Henry suddenly realized the significance of the cocked hat. Like Faye Jordan, Mr. Trim was all ready to go to the costume ball. He was dressed like a pirate, complete with skull and crossbones cockade on his hat. The long pistol was wood, with a cork on a string in the muzzle.

Trim brought the wooden gun up as if to use it as a club. John Henry’s free hand snaked out and hit the other man’s arm. The pistol sailed off harmlessly to clank on the running board of the car.

Sin screamed. Mr. Trim had slid away again and was scampering off down the road. John Henry loped after him and launched his stocky body into a flying tackle. The two men collapsed like a falling tree and slid along, face down in the sandy earth.

Sin ran up, “Johnny, Johnny,” she was sobbing.

John Henry got up, panting, and brushed off his hands. “I’m okay, Sin. Lit right on top of him.” Mr. Trim still lay crumpled on the ground.

“Is he — ” Sin whispered.

“Nope. Just knocked out for a minute. He’s still breathing.” John Henry knelt and scooped up the limp figure in the pirate costume. “Come on.” He strode back to the shelter of the mesquite. Sin tagged along, staying close behind. The moon, new-risen in the east, painted the scene in silver.

“I’ll pass out his things, Sin. You go through them and look for the combination. Feel the linings especially.”

“Hurry, honey — before he wakes up.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just make sure you don’t miss anything,” her husband said grimly.

He began to go through the little man’s costume. Mr. Trim was breathing heavily, his mouth wide open. John Henry decided to start at the top and passed out the cocked hat for Sin’s examination. Then, after quick arithmetic, he divided the task in half. Over the bushes to his wife, he tossed the long dark blue coat and the bright-red knee-breeches. “That paper’s pretty small. Feel carefully.” On his side of the leafy barrier, John Henry searched the white ruffled shirt, the leather hiking boots with black oilcloth tops, the long white stockings, the shorts and undershirt.

The combination was not there.

“Find anything?” he called to Sin.

“Not a thing,” she said, throwing down the wide leather belt.

“Maybe he wasn’t hiding it. Let’s look in the obvious places. Try his wallet.”

“What wallet?”

“In his pants.”

“There wasn’t any.”

“Maybe it fell out when I tossed them over.”

Sin poked noisily around in the underbrush. “Here it is.

“Good,” muttered John Henry and felt around inside Trim’s boots again.

Sin let out a horrified cry.

“Find it?” John Henry burst through the bushes. Sin was standing by the car. She had turned on the parking lights to aid her search. In her hands she held a black-leather wallet and she stared at it with stunned eyes.

“What is it, Sin?” John Henry grabbed her arm.

She looked his way and her eyes got wider and wider. “Johnny, look at this!” Sin handed him the wallet. He took it and held it up to the light. Something gleamed back, something small and golden. It was a badge, and the lettering on it said FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION.

“GOLMIGHTY,” SAID Mr. Trim.

Sin kept stroking his bald head with one soothing hand. His inert form had been clumsily redressed except for pirate hat and coat, and she kneeled on the ground, holding the bruised head in her lap. John Henry sat morosely on the running board of the gray sedan.

“I think he’s feeling better,” Sin whispered.

Her husband didn’t answer. A vision occupied his mind, a vision of John Henry Conover gripping the bars of a cell while Sin pleaded with a relentless Trim about three stories high. He had assaulted and battered a guardian of the law and the law provided for actions like his.

“I wish we had a drink of something,” Sin said, watching the face in her lap twitch.

“I could use it,” John Henry answered emphatically.

“I meant for Mr. Trim. Sshh! I think he’s waking up.”

The pseudo-tooth-paste representative moaned again, stirred and rocked his head back and forth. John Henry leaned forward. Trim’s brown eyes, more watery than ever now, opened and cleared. When he saw the two faces hovering over him, he tried to squirm away.

“It’s all right, Mr. Trim,” Sin comforted him, her hands holding his shoulders down.

“Let me up, dammit!” he croaked and spit out a mouthful of sand. Sin obeyed hastily, putting’ her helpful hands behind her back. Trim sat up quickly and then seized his head as if to keep it from rolling off his shoulders.

“Look,” said John Henry, “I’ll come along quietly.”

This was not the greeting Trim had expected. He slid along the ground a yard or two, got to his feet, and said, “Huh?” warily.

“It’s all right, Mr. Trim,” Sin repeated. “Really we’re not criminals. Now that we know about you in the FBI and everything.”

“Of course, it’s out of the question to apologize. But if it’ll make things any better, I’m sorry. Things just got moving too fast for us.”

Mr. Trim wiped fine white dust from his face and considered them through narrowed eyes. He seemed taller. And when he spoke, his voice had dropped a full octave. He said, unsmiling, “Well, you stumbled into everything else.”

“We didn’t have any idea before we searched you,” John Henry explained resignedly. “Your badge, I mean.” He held out his wrists for the cuffs. “Here.”

“Uh-huh. Just who the devil did you think I was?”

“Well, I figured — ”

“No, Johnny,” Sin spoke up. “We figured. You see, Mr. Trim, we thought you were this Jones that Barselou has — ”

“Start from the beginning,” Trim said wearily and sat down on the running board to hold his head.

John Henry felt more and more like holding his too, as Sin explained the tenuous reasoning that had led them to believe that Trim was the mysterious Jones who was leagued against Barselou in the race for the galleon. It all sounded pretty thin now. “We thought we’d be smart and capture you first,” Sin concluded.

Trim showed no surprise at the mention of the Qneeu or anything else. He just sat there, his brown eyes hard as marbles.

“We’re awfully sorry,” Sin added weakly. “Does your head hurt much?”

“Never mind that,” he said curtly. “I’ve had worse days. You’ve seen the papers, I suppose. Gayner’s dead. Whoever killed him made off with the route to the galleon.”

“We guessed that from the pencil,” John Henry interposed. “And that means two people know how to get there now.” He elaborated eagerly, as if he were turning state’s evidence, telling Trim how they had bargained with Barselou during the afternoon, lost overwhelmingly and escaped from the cellar with Faye Jordan’s help. “Gayner’s murderer is headed for the
Reina
right now, the same as Barselou. That’s for sure. We thought you had the combination. That’s why we searched you. I’m sorry.”

Trim stood up and worked his shoulder muscles. “Where’s the rest of my clothes?”

“In the front seat,” said Sin, getting out of his way. “We’re awfully — ”

“I know,” Trim snapped. He opened the car door and put on his coat. He donned the pirate hat at a rakish angle and jammed the wooden pistol back into his belt. Then he faced the fearful Conovers.

“Very well,” he said, “we’ll call it quits. You probably thought you were doing the best thing and you haven’t exactly gotten in the way — yet. Besides, as the Bry-Ter Tooth-paste man, I haven’t been any great help to your vacation.”

John Henry thought it wise to keep silent. But Sin asked, “There’s really supposed to be a tooth-paste man here?”

Trim grimaced. “Yes. I’m taking his place for a while — a deal the Bureau cooked up so I’d have a good reason for wandering around town. As you’ve found out by now, Barselou’s got it pretty well sewed up.”

“You’re after Barselou?” John Henry burst out.

Trim sat on the edge of the car seat and stared down at him. After a while of consideration, he went on. “I’ll tell you what I can, but you two have to be frank right back at me. In answer to your question: only incidentally. There’s some tie-up there with Sagmon Robottom and — ”

“What’s he done?” cried Sin.

“Nothing yet — that we can prove. He just keeps popping up in key positions. A professional organization one place — a crackpot discussion group somewhere else. The L. A. office — that’s Robottom’s home town — thinks there’s something off-key about him.”

“Off-key?”

“Subversive. Undercover.”

“Gosh,” said Sin, awed. “If I’d known that, I’d have really been scared this morning.”

Trim pursed his lips irritably at the interruption. “Nothing had come of my work when I ran across this lost treasure business. Okay — that’s not my jurisdiction — finders-keepers and so forth. The two murders aren’t my jurisdiction, either. Just a minute!” He held up a small hand to cut off the Conovers’ questions. “I do come into it sideways. If Barselou finds the Queen, the money’s his. But the government is interested if he’s going to back Robottom in some subversive activity with that money.”

John Henry began to pace back and forth, plucking thoughtfully at his lower lip. “Then Robottom could be Jones?”

“Oh, he could be,” admitted Trim. “But the two dead bodies belong to Lieutenant Lay — not me. I’m here to cinch a subversion case. All I know about Jones or Joneses is that a Barselou employee — Anglin — sent a wire to them yesterday morning. That’s all I got from the telegraph office and I was too late to find out who picked it up at the San Diego end.”

“But how about us?” Sin wanted badly to know.

“Oh, you’re clear. San Diego cleared you this morning.”

“I know we’re not spies, too!” cried John Henry. “Just being murderer has got us worried!”

Trim scratched his pug nose. “Yes, I can see that Lieutenant Lay may be a little hard to deal with, being up the tree he is. I have some unpleasant memories of local authorities myself. However, once the killer is found, you should have no further trouble.”

“That may take months.” John Henry hurled a stone viciously across the highway.

Sin screwed her face up pitifully. “If you couldn’t be Jones, why couldn’t you just be the real tooth-paste man? We need help!”

“It is too bad,” Trim said. “The Company wasn’t supposed to send their winners here this month. I wasn’t much help to the last couple, either. No one was more surprised than I when that writer woman told me you’d arrived last night.” The agent laughed for the first time since John Henry had jumped him. “My dear young lady, for someone who’s been playing detective, your guesswork’s way off. Do you think a tooth-paste company would choose a representative with bad teeth?” He gaped to show his.

“Well, I didn’t know,” Sin protested. “I didn’t know what their old tooth paste would do. I always use salt!”

Trim chuckled, his good humor apparently restored. “I’ll do this much. I’ll do what I can with Lay tomorrow morning. I’m sorry I won’t be able to run you back to the hotel, but from what you’ve told me, I better get a move on.” He started to slide under the steering wheel.

Sin looked at the agent quizzically. “What are you going to do now, Mr. Trim? Or is it a secret?”

“Well — ” Trim squinted at the moon-painted mesquite. “I’m going out and wait for Barselou at his ranch. Now that you’ve run this galleon rumor to earth for me, I might as well warn him about registry and tax and some other details. Then it’ll be his move if he wants to play with Robottom.”

“Couldn’t we come with you?”

John Henry looked up sharply. “What did you say, Sin?”

Trim frowned whimsically at the girl. “Hardly. You’d just be in the way for sure, Mrs. Conover. Besides, I’d imagine that the Bar C was about the last place on earth you’d care to go back to.”

“It is,” said Sin earnestly and grabbed the little man’s hands. “But, Mr. Trim, look — wouldn’t you like to follow Barselou and Jones and Robottom or whoever it is to the Queen? That way you could — ”

“What are you talking about, Sin?” John Henry interrupted. “I thought you — ”

“It has its points,” Trim mused. “I might find out pretty definitely about the subversion angle. It would certainly catch Robottom off base.” He laughed harshly. “But, unfortunately, Mrs. Conover — I don’t know the way. All I can do is wait at the ranch for one or both of them to come back.”

“That’s it exactly,” said Sin, jumping up and down with excitement.

“Sin, talk sense,” John Henry insisted angrily. “We’ve got enough trouble without borrowing any. Let’s get back to town and start looking for a good lawyer.”

“Johnny, don’t you see? We know where to start — Walking Skull.”

“What do you mean we know where to start? Where’s Walking Skull?”

“Never mind,” said Trim quietly. “I know where it is. Let her talk.”

“And we’ve got a third copy of the combination — me.” Sin pointed a proud forefinger at herself.

John Henry was disgusted. “Don’t be silly. You’ve said it once. Now it’s gone. Why should that list of numbers stick with you?”

“Because,” Sin explained slowly and deliberately, “they don’t make sense!”

“She hasn’t had much to eat,” her husband said to Trim.

“No, Johnny! Just to prove it, here’s the first two directions. R dash one. L dash three.” Her words tumbled over one another getting out of her mouth. “I know I can remember it, Johnny. It just isn’t a silly old quotation or anything — it doesn’t have any order and I can remember it perfectly. I knew it when I recited it for you back at the ranch, but I didn’t want to tell you then for fear it would spoil things or you’d want to go after the Queen by yourself later on. But now we’ve got help. And, Johnny, honest — I can’t get the darn thing out of my head!”

“It’d be too dangerous for you, Sin. I don’t want you — ”

She put her arms around him. “I don’t want to go to jail, and I don’t want you to, either. This way we won’t have to, honey. Because Jones will be at the Queen.”

“But aren’t you scared, honey?”

“Uh-huh. I’m scared to death. But I want us rid of this horrible thing. The only way we can be is to find Jones.”

John Henry felt the tempting excitement begin to bubble inside him again. “I wouldn’t mind running into the guy responsible for all this, at that. I feel I owe him something.”

Triumphantly, Sin turned to the wizened agent in the sedan. “There! Now how about it, Mr. Trim? What do you say?”

Trim didn’t say anything for a moment. He opened the glove compartment and took out a heavy service automatic. Leaning back in the car, he checked the magazine under the dashlight. When he came into view again, he shoved the gun at John Henry, butt foremost.

He said, “Stick close to your wife then, and come along. This may be the bag of the year or it may be a wild-goose chase. I guarantee it won’t be any picnic.”

The tan-shirted cop pounded loudly on the door to Cottage 14. Then he opened the door and motioned Thelma Loomis into the room ahead of himself and his companion.

She scanned the room coolly. Every light in the cottage had been turned on and the air was hazy with cigarette smoke. The desk, the wastebasket and the area around the doorknobs had been dusted with a gray powder. Near the desk, the carpet bore the dark oval of dried blood like a seal.

“Wait here,” one of the policemen said, and they went into the bedroom. Voices wandered back out to her. Miss Loomis fished in the unaccustomed pocket of her blue patrolman uniform and brought out a package of Fleet-woods. She was lighting the cigarette with a steady hand when Lieutenant Lay came in from the bedroom. His brown suit was wrinkled and his horse face was hemmed about with tired lines. He still needed a shave.

“Thelma Loomis?” he asked heavily. The blonde woman nodded her helmeted head slightly. Lay motioned at a chair and sank into the one opposite. His eyes studied her keenly. Thelma Loomis worked her lips and a smoke ring came out. Then she crossed her legs without hitching up the knees of her trousers.

“That your real name?” Lay asked suddenly.

“Don’t you know?”

“Don’t be smart. I asked you a question.”

“It’s my real name.”

Lay nodded. He pulled a brown imitation-leather notebook from his inside coat pocket and flipped a couple of pages. Then he looked up. “You say you’re a writer?”

“That’s right.”

“Work for
Fan Fare
. Campbell Publications.”

“That’s right.”

Lay closed the notebook and shook his head. “That’s wrong. We checked with Campbell Publications this evening. Want to see the wire we got back?”

Thelma Loomis grinned. “Never mind.”

“Okay, then. Suppose you tell me who and what you really are, Miss Loomis. Campbell says they never heard of you or anybody like you.”

The blonde woman took another slow drag on the cigarette. “If you want to know what I really am, check the Castle-Scudder Detective Agency in L. A. They’ll tell you. So should this.”

He looked at the plastic-sealed card in her wallet and handed it back. “Private cop, huh?”

“Yep. Except the movies say shamus, Lieutenant.”

“Glad to know. Let’s have the whole story,” Lay suggested and closed his eyes to slits as he leaned back in the chair.

“It’s nothing you haven’t heard before. Errant-husband stuff.”

“Who’s the victim?”

“Sagmon Robottom. The archaeologist. You’ve probably talked to him by now — and he probably told you plenty about himself. What he didn’t tell you was that he walked out on his wife a week ago. Myra Robottom. Now Myra’s not the gal to take that sort of thing lying down.”