Free The Zebra-Striped Hearse by Ross MacDonald Page A

Gomez?”
    “Yessir, what can I do for you?” she said in a pleasantly accented voice.
    “I’m looking for a little information. A week ago yesterday, a man and woman I know took your flight from Guadalajara to Los Angeles. That was Monday, July the tenth. You may remember them, or one of them. The woman is quite tall, about your age, blonde. She often wears dark glasses, and she probably had on expensive clothes. Her name is Harriet Blackwell.”
    She nodded her head emphatically. “I remember Miss Blackwell, yes—a very nice lady. The lady across from her was sick—we had some rough air out of Mazatlán—and she took care of the sick lady’s baby for her.” She said to the steward beside her: “You remember the tall lady who was so nice with the baby?”
    “Sí.”
    “Is Miss Blackwell all right?” she asked me solicitously.
    “I think so. Why do you ask?”
    “I thought of her afterward, after we landed. And now you are inquiring about her.”
    “What did you think about her after you landed?”
    “I thought—do you speak Spanish? I express myself better in Spanish.”
    “Your English is ten times better than my Spanish will ever be.”
    “Gracias, señor
.” She gave me a full dazzling smile. “Well, I saw her after we landed, going through Customs. She looked very—excited. I thought she was going to faint. I approached her and inquired if she was all right. The man with her said that she was all right. He didn’t like—he didn’t want me asking questions, so I went away.”
    “Can you describe the man?”
    “Yes.” She described Burke Damis. “A very beautiful young man,” she added with a trace of satire in her voice.
    “What was his name?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    She turned to her companion and spoke in rapid Spanish. He shrugged. He didn’t remember either.
    “Who would know?”
    “You, perhaps,” she said pertly, “You said they were your friends.”
    “I said I knew them.”
    “I see. Are they in trouble?”
    “That’s an interesting question. What brings it up?”
    “You,” she said. “You look like trouble for them.”
    “For him, not for her. Did they sit together on the plane?”
    “Yes. They embarked together at Guadalajara. I noticed them, I thought they were
recién casados
—honeymooners. But they had different names.”
    “What was his name?”
    “I said I don’t remember. If I can find the passenger list—”
    “Try and do that, will you?”
    “You are a policeman?”
    “An investigator.”
    “I see. Where will I see you?”
    “On the plane, if they have a seat for me.” I looked at my watch. I had half an hour till flight time.
    “We are never crowded in the middle of the week.”
    She turned out to be right. I bought a return ticket to Guadalajara from my courteous friend, leaving the date of myreturn open. At another desk in the same building I applied for a Mexican tourist card. The hurried clerk who took my application barely glanced at my birth certificate.
    “I’ll type up your card
pronto
. Your plane will take off soon.”
    In the time I had left, I made the necessary call to Colonel Blackwell. He picked up the phone on the first ring, as if he had been waiting there beside it.
    “Mark Blackwell speaking.”
    “This is Archer. Have you heard anything from Harriet?”
    “No. I don’t expect to.” His voice rose shakily from the depths of depression. “You haven’t either, I take it.”
    “No. I have been busy on the case. It took me to the Bay area last night.”
    “Is that where they’ve gone?”
    “It’s possible, but it’s not why I went up there. To make a long story short, I stumbled on a murder which Damis may be involved in.”
    “A murder?” His voice sank almost out of hearing. He said in a rustling whisper: “You’re not trying to tell me that Harriet has been murdered?”
    “No. It’s a man named Simpson, icepicked in Citrus Junction two months ago. I’m trying to trace his connection with Damis, and