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Show ma black m$m ' I'lb SOMBREROff U&Ai -ttij C L I FFORD KNIGHT- X Li Elsa Chatfield, Hollywood artist, Is cut oft from the will of her Aunt Kitty, who died from an overdose of morphine. Barry Bar-ry Madison, an amateur detective, and Hunt Rogers, professional sleuth, go to Mazatlan, Mexico, on a cruise with Margaret Mar-garet and Dwight Nichols. On arriving they find that Elsa and her party have preceded them by plane. Sam Chatfleld, Elsa's father, who Is a rancher, puts on a big fiesta for the ranch workers. While the fiesta Is In progress be asks Rogers to conduct an Investigation among his guests concerning the death of his sister. Everyone present seems to have a motive. mo-tive. After the cross questioning the guests repair to the courtyard to watcb the dancing. CHAPTER IX Elsa suddenly was vibrant with excitement She directed my attention at-tention to the platform. "Look, Barry; Bar-ry; listen!" she exclaimed. Two youthful figures were mounting mount-ing the stage, followed by a third, a larger more mature figure. The first two were our pair of wandering musicians, Pancho and Felipe, with battered guitar and ukulele. The third man carried a small harplike instrument. They began to play .before they had turned to face the audience; and Felipe, the older, lifted his soft tenor voice in the Spanish words of a song: "Let us unite our hearts, Charro and China dancing!" There was a China Poblana lurking lurk-ing in the shadows ready to step onto the platform; a short nervous Charro stood behind her. Of a sudden sud-den Elsa left me. At the edge of the crowd I saw Reed Barton move swiftly toward the platform, and before be-fore I realized what was happening, happen-ing, the two were standing before us under the bright light, and the musicians mu-sicians were backing off to the side still playing, enticingly, seductively. I'm sure it was one of those spontaneous, spon-taneous, impulsive acts to which Elsa was so prone. I was reminded of that February evening now weeks in the past and far away In California Cali-fornia at the beach club, when Reed Barton had appeared and claimed Elsa for their first dance together. And now they stood before us Elsa in the costume said to have been named for a Chinese woman who brought it to the town of Puebla many years ago, and which is to be seen on festive occasions throughout through-out Mexico; Reed Barton in the costume of the cowboy. "Senor! Valgame Dios! Senor!" "Aqui, Maria," commanded Sam Chatfield from his place a few seats beyond us. "Que deseas tu?" "Oh, senor!" cried the woman breathlessly, her words smothered somewhat by the applause. "Valgame "Val-game Dios! El caballero esta muer-to!" muer-to!" Rogers' strong hand fell upon my leg and his fingers gripped it powerfully. pow-erfully. "Did you hear what she said?" he asked, getting to his feet. "Yes. I heard. Chesebro's dead." A little group of frightened women wom-en servants was outside the entrance to Chesebro's room. Sam Chatfield drove them away, admonishing them to go back to the kitchen, then threw open the door, and stood back for Rogers and me to enter. James Chesebro lay as if a great and welcome peace had descended upon him. His fat body made a huge mound under the light covering. cover-ing. "The heart failed to rally, I suppose. sup-pose. The attack must have been more severe than Doctor Cruz thought." "Do you think so, Mr. Madison?" "I don't know, of course, Mr. Chatfleld, but" I was halted in mid-sentence by Rogers' action. He stooped, grasped the edge of the bed covers and stripped them back. "His heart failed for quite a different dif-ferent reason, Barry," he said grimly, grim-ly, pointing tff a widening stain of blood over the front of the pajamas. There was a small hole through the cloth over the heart, and when the cloth itself was pulled aside there was disclosed a small hole in the skin which still oozed blood. "With your permission, Mr. Chatfleld," Chat-fleld," Hunt said slowly, "I should like to have Dwight and Margaret stay, and George Rumble, and Reed Barton too. The police, of course," he looked closely at Sam Chatfield, "will investigate." "I am required to sena for the juez local and the medico legista:" There was a suggestion of stiffness in his words, as if Rogers had anticipated an-ticipated his next move and he resented re-sented it. "The body must not be touched until one or both of them have examined it. Doctor Cruz happens hap-pens to be the medico legista at Mazatlan. The police, of course, will come." The door closed behind Chatfield's short figure, and instantly Rogers became active. He glanced at his watch. It was nine-thirty. "I ant your help, Barry," he said. "The capacity of the Mexican police is an unknown quantity to me. It may be excellent. I've had no experience with it We should have half an hour before they arrive. If we're to solve the murder of Kitty Chatfield, Chat-field, it may be necessary to know just what's happened here in Mazatlan." Ma-zatlan." He glanced about the shadowy room, neglectful now of the body that lay in its huge mound on the bed. "The cause of death is obvious," ob-vious," he remarked, as if in an-wer an-wer to my thoughts. "A small. thin blade of some sort stopped our friend's weakened heart" He looked at the little tile table beside the bed, where Chesebro's watch lay and a glass of water stood. He walked over to a huge clothespress that reached toward the shadowy- ceiling. "Would you mind holding the candle for me, Barry?" he requested. I took it and he opened the door to the clothespress. "I am looking for Chesebro's clothing. Here it is." He brought out the suit of clothes Chesebro had worn that morning, and ran his hand swiftly into the various pockets. "There's hardly a chance that it's robbery," he remarked. re-marked. "Gold pencil," he enumerated enumer-ated the various objects as he came across them. "Loose change in the trousers pocket. A billfold, obviously obvi-ously containing money. Letters and papers. That's all." He put the suit back into the clothespress again and shut the door. "Robbery is not the motive," he said. "Not robbery," said Rogers as we finished our round, "and entrance could have been had only by "Maybe the murderer Is hiding there." means of the door." He stood a moment mo-ment uncertainly. "A dozen murderers murder-ers could be lurking in the shadows shad-ows of this enormous room. ' Let's make sure they are not doing so now." Rogers led the way to the farther end of the room. Massive furniture, dark with age, of a period reminiscent reminis-cent of Maximilian, blocked our pathway. "There's nothing back this way," said Rogers, holding high the candle and throwing its feeble beams about the end of the room. "Let's go back to the other end. . Maybe the murderer is hiding there." He led the way, holding the candle high above the level of his eyes. His foot kicked something as we walked, and it shot like a dark and ominous shadow before us and fell to the floor. "What is it?" I asked, feeling that my voice shook slightly. "Something soft, and light," he said, advancing again. A few steps farther on he halted, stooped and picked up the object. "A sombrero," he said. Rogers held the large sombrero in his hand as if to examine it in the light of the candle. I took it from his hands and walked over to the light near the bed. It was a black felt sombrero, comparatively new, for it showed almost no signs of wear; across the front of the crown was an ornamental orna-mental pattern in hand-wrought silver. sil-ver. "George Rumble's sombrero, isn't it?" asked Rogers over my shoulder. shoul-der. "He has one like this," I replied. "It was on the rack near the front door earlier this evening. How would it get in here, though?" "Perhaps George can tell us." He took the sombrero from me and dropped it on the foot of the bed, where it remained a dark and sinister sin-ister shadow, and turned to the bedside bed-side as if to check again some point about the murder victim which had occurred to him. A light tap came at the door, and Rogers halted abruptly. "Come," he called. The door was pushed resolutely open. Vague figures in the dim light crowded the doorway. Sam Chatfield Chat-field entered, followed by Doctor Cruz, and behind him two men in uniform. They advanced into the room and the door closed behind them. Doctor Cruz nodded to us, and went at once to the figure on the bed. Sam Chatfield presented the other two men. "Senor Otilio Lom-bardo, Lom-bardo, jefe del policia," he said, "and Senor Alvarez of the policia; Senor Madison and Senor Rogers." They bowed to us, but their interest in-terest was centered on the bed where Doctor Cruz already was examining ex-amining the dead man. They pushed on to join him and stood respectfully re-spectfully back until at last the doctor doc-tor looked up and gave in Spanish his opinion that James Chesebro had died of a knife thrust not so long a time before. Lombardo and his satellite looked Intently for some moments at the wound, then turned away without word and sat down. "I am very sorry, Senor Chatfield," Chat-field," Lombardo said, looking up at our host and speaking in Spanish, Span-ish, "that this has happened in your house. I know that your hospitality is above reproach. You cannot help this sad thing, of course; it is very sad. Who is the gentleman?" "Senor James Chesebro." Lombardo's eyebrows shot upward. up-ward. "He of the mine back in the mountains?" he inquired. "Yes." "That is bad. Can you tell me who killed him?" "I cannot, Senor Lombardo." "Senor Rogers here," said Sam Chatfield, laying his hand upon Rogers' Rog-ers' arm, "is quite famous for solving solv-ing the mystery of murder north of the border." "Ah, so!" exclaimed Lombardo. "Welcome my friend. Perhaps we have a mystery here. If so I shall lean upon you. But, I think it is easily explained, no?" "I hope so, Senor Lombardo," Rogers replied in Spanish. "So far Senor Madison and I have found nothing of importance. It was not suicide, because there is no weapon. It was not murder for the purpose of robbery." "And the weapon, Serior Rogers; you say you have not found it?" "I've been unable to discover it anywhere in the room; it is, of course, a knife of some sort." "Yes. Thank you, senor, you have saved me much work." . "Did the gentleman have any enemies, ene-mies, Senor Rogers, either here in Mazatlan or at home?" inquired Alvarez, Al-varez, the gendarme. The man had not spoken until now. Rogers shook his head. "I know of none, senor." "I think,". Lombardo said, stirring stir-ring to his feet, "it is time we talk with someone about this crime. Who made the discovery, Senor Chatfield?" Chat-field?" Sam Chatfield got to his feet, taking tak-ing a step toward the door, as if to lead the way. "I think it was Maria. Ma-ria. It was she who came to tell me of it." "We shall talk to Maria, then," said Lombardo. The kitchen was large; gloomy shadows filled all the vast region above two unfrosted electric light bulbs which hung down from the high rafters on long cords. v. "Stop!" shouted Lombardo. "Do not run away, anyone." Two or three dimly flying flgurei made good their escape, while some four or five less fortunate obeyed the command and remained behind, standing with fidgeting hands and shuffling feet in the presence of the law. "Maria," called Lombardo, sitting down in a small chair whose creaking, creak-ing, polished seat long years before had been cut from the hide of a cow. "Yes, sir," the woman who had brought word, of Chesebro's death, as we sat looking on at the dances in the courtyard, came to a fluttery attention near the middle oven. "Come here, senorita," directed the chief. Alvarez drew up a chair before us fcT the woman, who sat down timidly, her dark eyes fastened fas-tened apprehensively upon her questioner. ques-tioner. "You made the discovery of the dead man, did you not, Maria?" inquired in-quired Lombardo. "Yes, sir." "Tell me about it." "I," she began timidly, "I go to the gentleman's room to inquire, Senor Jefe del Policia, if he desires food. I push open the door gently and speak to him. He does not answer. an-swer. I open the door and go in, and still he does not reply to my question. I go all the way to the bed, and senor God help me! he is dead." "Did you see the man who killed him, Maria?" inquired Lombardo. "Oh, no, sir; I do not. I do not know who killed him. I swear, senor, se-nor, I do not know. Outside is the fiesta. I cannot hear. I cannot see. So I do not know." "Come here, you," commanded Lombardo. A man, dressed in white cotton trousers, a ragged shirt and carrying carry-ing in his hand a battered straw sombrero, shuffled forward on gua-raches gua-raches which were little more than leather soles for his bare feet. "Who are you?" demanded Lombardo. Lom-bardo. "I am Pedro, sir," the man replied re-plied nervously. "Who are you? What do you do?" "I am Pedro, the pulque man, sir." "Pulque man," grunted Lombardo. Lombar-do. "Why are you here?" "I bring the pulque for the fiesta, sir." "Yes, of course. But what do you know about the death of the gentleman gentle-man in the big room?" "Nothing, sir. I do not know ther is a gentleman murdered." (TO BE CONTINUED) |