The Battle At Three-Cross (8 page)

Meanwhile, after having eaten supper with Sheriff Lockwood and his deputy, Lance returned to the sheriff's office with the two peace officers to smoke a couple of cigarettes before going back to the hotel in search of “Professor Jones”—as he called himself.

“Those Yaquentes,” Lance commented, “seem to have disappeared from the streets. I haven't seen one since suppertime.”

Lockwood nodded. “They don't often stay in Pozo Verde after dark. I noticed a small bunch of 'em crossing the railroad tracks shortly before we went to eat. They'll probably travel all night and keep going, with but little sleep, until they strike their own country. They're tough travelers and tough fighters. They can move through a country where an animal couldn't find forage and be ready to tackle their weight in puma cats at the same time.”

Oscar Perkins fumbled with his sack of lemon drops, thrust it back into his pocket and then rose and lighted two oil lamps resting in their brackets on the walls of the sheriff's office. Velvety darkness settled softly along Main Street. Occasionally the clump-clump of heavy boots could be heard passing along the raised plank sidewalks. Now and then a
rider loped his pony through town, raising dust from the roadway. Across the street from the sheriff's office small knots of Mexican girls and men congregated before the chili restaurant. At the rear of the restaurant, where a dance floor was located, a string orchestra could already be heard tuning its instruments.

Lance rose and donned his sombrero. “I reckon I'll drift down to the hotel and see can I find Professor Jones. He should be through his supper by this time.”

Lockwood asked, “Are you going to tell him you discovered there wasn't any Jonesian Institute in Washington?”

“And that they don't even know of a Professor Jones there?” Oscar put in.

Lance smiled and shook his head. “I won't tip my hand in that direction until I have to.”

He said “S'long” to Oscar and the sheriff and sauntered along Main Street past the rows of shops and stores and saloons, many of which were brightly lighted; others were closed and dark. He crossed diagonally at the corner of Laredo Street and entered the San Antonio Hotel. There were several men lounging about the lobby when he came in. There were two women in sight. One, whom he judged to be the wife of the local minister, was carrying on a discussion with an elderly man regarding the sermon of the previous week. The other, a girl with yellow hair, in a blue dress, was seated at the far end of the lobby conversing with Malcolm Fletcher. Fletcher was talking earnestly to his companion, but the girl was smiling and shaking her head. Whatever the conversation, Lance judged Fletcher wasn't making any headway.

Looking at the girl with Fletcher, Lance paused and felt a small twinge of envy. The girl glanced up;
her eyes met his. She said something to Fletcher. Fletcher frowned impatiently and glanced around. His frown deepened as his gaze fell on Lance.

“You'll find the professor in the hotel bar, Tolliver,” he called tersely, “if you still want to see him. If it's a job, though, it won't do you any good.”

Lance said, “Thanks,” and turned toward a doorway at his left, but not before he had seen Fletcher swing abruptly back to the girl. Passing through into the hotel bar, Lance saw Ulysses Jones seated at a corner table with a bottle of beer before him. At the professor's elbow was a small cactus plant, and he was busily engaged in transferring certain penciled notes from a small notebook to a larger memoranda book. Lance glanced along the bar. Some half-dozen men were engaged in desultory conversation. The bar keep was polishing glasses. A couple of the men at the bar glanced at Lance when he entered, then turned back to their drinks.

Lance approached Jones's table. “Howdy, Professor.”

Jones lifted his thin face. His vague eyes settled on Lance with a sort of irritated expression. They cleared suddenly, sharpened; a smile crossed his lips. “Ah, it's Mr Tolliver—right? Glad to see you. Sit down. Drinking beer myself. Suit you? Right!” He raised his voice. “Pat, two more of the same.”

“Be right with you, Professor.” The bartender nodded.

“… thought I'd drop in and get acquainted,” Lance was saying. “How'd the cactus digging go today?”

“Little digging,” Jones jerked out. “I only take the rarer specimens—y'know, the unusual—that sort of
thing. Mostly study soil—growing conditions—whether in full sun or shade—surrounding brush—so on.”

“The hotel clerk was telling me you already had three boxes packed in his storeroom.”

Jones nodded. “Not full, y'know—not entirely. Packed in wood shavings. Nice specimens—not rare, all of them. Certain plants—necessary to complete my—our—Jonesian Institute collection….”

The bartender arrived with the beer and glasses and removed Jones's empty bottle. Jones drank deeply of the foamy amber liquid, set down his glass and resumed: “You say—clerk—told you of my boxes?” Lance nodded. Jones smiled. “Fortunate I'm not trying—smuggle anything. Done, you know. Great Christopher, yes! Rare plants—smuggled one country—to another. Clerks—great source—information.”

“I wasn't particularly looking for information,” Lance said, “at least along those lines.” He chuckled. “Fellow named Fletcher who said he was a friend of yours had an idea I was looking for Bowman's job. He told me it wasn't any use.”

“Aren't, are you?”

Lance shook his head. “I saw him in the lobby when I came in to night. He said the same thing again.”

Jones frowned. “Fletcher takes a great deal on himself,” he said more slowly than usual, running long fingers through his dark, gray-streaked hair. “He has no right to make decisions for me just because he doesn't favor my trip down into Mexico. Was Katherine with him?”

“Who?” Lance asked.

“Katherine Gregory—my niece—secretary.”

“I saw him talking to a girl——”

“Fletcher didn't introduce you?”

Lance smiled. “Maybe he didn't think of it.”

Jones laughed shortly. “More likely—wanted Katherine—to himself. Selfish brute!” His eyes twinkled. “Think Fletcher's—badly smitten. Do, for a fact.”

Lance changed the subject. “So you're still planning the trip into Mexico?”

Jones nodded. “Some extent—Sonora—Chihuahua. Certain specimens—wish to study firsthand. Incident'ly”—he picked from the table the small cactus plant at his elbow and placed it before Lance—“found this today. Beautiful specimen—what?”

Lance glanced at the spines and decided not to pick it up. It was somewhat globular in shape, not more than two inches across, with eight deeply indented ribs, each rib bearing several brownish-black curved spines, its bright green surface thickly covered with tiny white dots.

Lance raised his eyes to meet Jones's. “I've seen these plants before,” he said. “Not in these parts though. Let me see… seems like I remember seeing some over in New Mexico.”

“Right, right, quite right.” Jones beamed. His gaze sharpened suddenly on Lance. “Very observant, Tolliver. The
Astrophytum capricorne
is native to New Mexico. Of course—high percentage—New Mexican cacti—found in Arizona. This particular plant, however—beautiful—not found in native habitat—spines—unusual development—so young a specimen.”

“Is this cactus,” Lance asked innocently, “any relation to that peyote I gave you this morning?”

“The
Lophophora williamsii?
” Jones looked indignant. “Different genus entirely. As a member of the cacti family, yes. Otherwise—certainly not——” He paused. “Incident'ly—reminds me—you say you didn't find that specimen growing here? Mind—saying where—did you find it?”

Lance decided to hurl a bombshell. He said quietly, “I took it from Frank Bowman's hand when I found him dead.”

Jones blinked rapidly. Then his eyes sharpened. “You mean to say you found the dead man holding that plant?”

“What's this?” a new voice broke in. Lance glanced around to see Malcolm Fletcher standing behind him. Fletcher said, “What plant was found in what dead man's hand?”

Lance wondered how long Fletcher had been standing there.

Jones was explaining, “Why, bless me, Fletcher! Tolliver says he found Bowman holding a
Lophophora williamsii
——”

“You mean that peyote thing you showed me this morning?” Fletcher asked sharply. “I thought you'd dug that up someplace.” He turned suddenly to Lance. “How'd Bowman happen to be holding that thing? Where'd he get it? What was he doing with it?”

“You tell me, and I'll tell you,” Lance said calmly. “I'm just telling you where I found it. Further than that I can't say. Why?—does it mean anything to you, Fletcher?”

Fletcher laughed shortly. “Not a thing. Seemed odd, that's all.” He turned and started away.

Jones called after him, “Where's Katherine?”

“Gone up to her room,” Fletcher answered,
scarcely waiting to reply. “If she comes down again tell her I've gone for a walk. I'll be back later.” He hurried out the street entrance of the hotel bar.

Lance turned back to find Jones frowning in the direction Fletcher had taken. “Certainly seemed in a hurry to go someplace,” Jones said.

Lance considered. Fletcher had heard part of their conversation. It had seemed to affect him queerly. Why not give Jones some more of the story and see if it brought any results?

“I'll tell you, Professor,” Lance went on, “maybe I can give you a few more details about Bowman's death, provided you'll treat the matter confidentially.” Now he really didn't care whether the man did or not as a matter of fact.

Jones looked interested. “Of course,” he promised.

“Somebody,” Lance commenced, “had a shipment of those mezcal buttons shipped to Pozo Verde. Now I can't tell you why Bowman was interested in that shipment, but he was shot after he'd opened the box and taken one of those plants. As he fell he knocked over a bucket of creosote on the station platform. Later, before he died, he was carried out to that dry wash where I found him….” Lance went on and supplied certain other details.

When he had finished Jones's eyes were glowing admiringly. “If you're not a detective you should be,” he stated emphatically. “Nice work, Tolliver. Imagine!—discovering all that from a hand painted black.”

“And a pine sliver,” Lance reminded. “If I could discover what the woolly threads were on Bowman's spur I might find the murderer.”

Jones looked thoughtful. “The murderer sounds like a rather careless man,” he put forth. “The matter
of those woolly threads, for instance.” He considered for several moments while Lance watched him narrowly. If Jones knew who the murderer was, Lance decided, there was nothing in Jones's face or manner to reveal it. “A very careless man,” Jones repeated. “A man like that would be a menace to any gang with which he operated. A careless man might overlook other clues——”

“What, for instance?” Lance asked.

“Tolliver,” Jones asked abruptly, “what's your interest in this matter?”

“Well,” Lance said cautiously, “I found the body. The murderer should be found and punished. I'm interested, that's all.”

“Quite so, quite, quite.” Jones nodded impatiently. He appeared to consider the matter for more moments. Finally he said, “A careless man might overlook something. Undoubtedly there was an opportunity for Bowman's hand, freshly plunged in creosote, to brush against the murder's clothing when the body was lifted to the horse——”

“By cripes!” Lance exclaimed, “I've been a fool! I should have thought of that.” He smiled suddenly. “If you're not a detective you should be,” he said, repeating Jones's words of a few minutes before.

Jones laughed disparagingly. “Not at all, not at all. Bit of a hobby of mine—criminology—detection of crime. Only slight interest—y'understand. I merely mentioned—possibility. Something—think about. Cacti—more interesting. Incident'ly—dry talking. Drink up…. Pat, two more of the same.”

“Coming up, Professor,” the barkeep replied.

Jones had again taken up the cactus plant on the table. “This specimen—related to
Astrophytum
myriostigma
—somewhat similar in form—usually
only five ribs—rarely spined—sometimes called ‘Bishop's Hood Cactus'—looks for all the world like a bishop's miter….”

Lance only heard half of what he was saying, so concentrated were his thoughts in other directions. For the next two hours Professor Jones advocated the merits of collecting cacti. He explained various forms to Lance, told him where they were to be found, pointed out different habits of growth. Twice Lance made excuses for leaving, but each time Jones talked so fast Lance found it impossible to withdraw from the conversation—if such a one-sided monologue could be termed a conversation. Whatever Jones was, or appeared to be, Lance decided, the man certainly knew his cactus.

Lance finally made himself heard. “That's all mighty interesting, Professor. I got a good notion to pull out for Washington and take a look at your institute.”

“What? What's that?” Jones appeared startled. He went on rather lamely, “Fine idea, of course. However—suggest you—postpone trip—until my return. Collection—not complete, y'understand.”

At that moment the hotel clerk came into the bar with word that the professor's niece was awaiting him in the lobby. Somewhat reluctantly Jones stuffed the cactus plant into one of the roomy pockets of his tweed jacket after first wrapping it in a handkerchief, gathered up his papers and rose from the table. Lance started to leave, but Jones detained him with a “One minute. You must meet my niece. You'll like Katherine.”