The Mouse in the Mountain | Page 2

a dog!" Bartolome exclaimed. "A dog of the most incredible monstrousness! A veritable nightmare of a dog!"
"Be careful," Doan warned. "He insults easily."
Bartolome looked at the tickets and then at Carstairs. "One of this is for him?"
"Yes."
"No," said Bartolome.
"Yes," said Doan.
"Of a positively not, senor."
Carstairs sprawled himself out on the warm tiles and closed his eyes sleepily. Arguments offended his sense of the fitness of things, so he ignored them.
Bartolome stared narrowly at Doan. "The ticket of the sight-seeing magnificence is not sold for dogs."
"This one was."
"Dogs do not ride in the luxury of the bus that precedes itself to Los Altos."
"This one does."
"No!" Bartolome shouted suddenly. "Not, not, not! It is the outrage most emphatic! Wait!" He darted through the glassed door into the lobby.
"I'm sorry," Janet told Doan.
"Why?" he asked, surprised.
"Because you can't take your dog to Los Altos"
"I can," said Doan. "And I'm going to. We always have little difficulties like this when we go places. It's a routine we go through."
A fat man wearing a magnificently tailored white suit and a painful smile came out on the terrace ahead of Bartolome. Bartolome pointed at Carstairs and said dramatically, "There is that which is not to go! Never!"
The fat man said: "I am so sorry. It is not permitted for dogs to ride on the bus."
Doan held up the two tickets and pointed eloquently first to himself and then to Carstairs.
The fat man shook his head. "I'm so sorry, sir, but that ticket does not cover a dog."
"It's made out in his name," said Doan.
The fat man shrugged. "But, you see, when your reservations at the hotel and your tickets for this trip were ordered we did not know that one was for a dog. The dog can stay at the hotel--yes. But he cannot ride on the bus."
Doan nodded casually. "All right. He stays here, then. But you'd better chain him up. He's going to get mad if I go away and leave him."
"Mad?" the fat man repeated doubtfully, looking at Carstairs.
Carstairs didn't open his eyes, but he lifted his upper lip and revealed glistening fangs that were as long as a man's little finger. He growled in a low, deep rumble.
The fat man backed up a step. "Is he dangerous?"
"Definitely," said Doan. "But delicate, too. He will attack anyone who tries to feed him, except me. And if he doesn't eat, he'll die. If he dies, I'll sue you for an enormous sum of money."
The fat man closed his eyes and sighed. "He rides in the bus," he said wearily to Bartolome.
"What?" Bartolome shouted, outraged.
"He rides!" the fat man snarled. "Do you hear me, or shall I repeat myself with a slap in the face?"
"I hear," said Bartolome glumly. He waited until the fat man had strutted back through the door into the lobby and then added: "You obese offspring of incredibly corrupt parents." He turned to Doan and made shooing motions. "Kindly persuade yourselves inside."
A woman opened the glass door and put her head out and shouted deafeningly: "Mortimer!" Instantly she pulled her head in again and slammed the door.
The echoes of her shout hung quivering in the still air, and Carstairs raised his head and waggled his pricked ears uncomfortably.
The door opened and a man put his head out and yelled: "Mortimer!" He waited while the echoes died, eyeing the people on the terrace accusingly. "You seen him?"
"I don't recall it," Doan told him.
The man said: "I'll kill that little devil one of these days. Mortimer! Come here, damn you!" He got no results, and he sighed drearily and came out on the terrace. He was squat and solid-looking, and he had a red, heavy-jowled face. His clothes were new, and his shoes squeaked. "My name is Henshaw--Wilbur M. Henshaw."
"Mine's Doan. This is Miss Janet Martin."
"Pleased," said Henshaw. "You sure you haven't seen Mortimer? He's my kid. He looks something like Charlie McCarthy."
"How will that do?" Doan asked, pointing at a feather duster that was poked up over the balcony railing.
"Mortimer, you little stinker!" Henshaw shouted. "Come out from behind that chicken!"
The feather duster waggled coyly, and a wizened, freckled, incredibly evil face slid up into sight and peered at them gimlet-eyed through a tangle of bright red hair.
"What's the beef, punchy?" Mortimer said to his father.
"Now, damn it, I'm going to wring your neck if you don't stick around," Henshaw promised grimly. "I mean it. We're going on a sightseeing trip to Los Altos, and I'm not going to spend the whole day chasing you."
"Go chase yourself, glue-brain," Mortimer advised, "and forget to come back." He swarmed up over the railing like a pint-sized pirate boarding a ship. He was wearing the feather duster for a hat, and he had on khaki scout shorts and a khaki blouse. "A dog!" he exclaimed