William MacDonald - The Battle At Three-Cross

“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.”