The Puzzles of Peter Duluth: The Lost Classics Series by Patrick Quentin

Author:Patrick Quentin [Quentin, Patrick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crippen & Landru Publishers
Published: 2016-04-26T22:00:00+00:00

Puzzle for Poppy

“Yes, Miss Crump,” snapped Iris into the phone. “No, Miss Crump. Oh, nuts, Miss Crump.” My wife flung down the receiver.

“Well?” I asked.

“She won’t let us use the patio. It’s that dog, that great fat St. Bernard. It mustn’t be disturbed.”

“Why?”

“It has to be alone with its beautiful thoughts. It’s going to become a mother. Peter, it’s revolting. There must be something in the lease.”

“There isn’t,” I said. When I’d rented our half of this La Jolla hacienda for my shore leave, the lease specified that all rights to the enclosed patio belonged to our eccentric co-tenant. It oughtn’t to have mattered, but it did because Iris had recently sky-rocketed to fame as a movie star and it was impossible for us to appear on the streets without being mobbed. For the last couple of days we had been virtually beleaguered in our apartment. We were crazy about being beleaguered together, but even Héloise and Abelard needed a little fresh air once in a while.

That’s why the patio was so important. Iris was staring through the locked French windows at the forbidden delights of the patio. Suddenly she turned. “Peter, I’ll die if I don’t get things into my lungs — ozone and things. We’ll just have to go to the beach.”

“And be torn limb from limb by your public again?”

“I’m sorry, darling. I’m terribly sorry.” Iris unzippered herself from her housecoat and scrambled into slacks and a shirt-waist. She tossed me my naval hat. “Come, Lieutenant — to the slaughter.”

When we emerged on the street, we collided head on with a man carrying groceries into the house. As we disentangled ourselves from celery stalks, there was a click and a squeal of delight followed by a powerful whistle. I turned to see a small girl who had been lying in wait with a camera. She was an unsightly little girl with sandy pigtails and a brace on her teeth.

“Geeth,” she announced. “I can get two buckth for thith thnap from Barney Thtone. He’th thappy about you, Mith Duluth.”

Other children, materializing in response to her whistle, were galloping toward us. The grocery man came out of the house. Passers-by stopped, stared and closed in — a woman in scarlet slacks, two sailors, a flurry of bobby-soxers, a policeman.

“This,” said Iris grimly, “is the end.” She escaped from her fans and marched back to the two front doors of our hacienda. She rang the buzzer on the door that wasn’t ours. She rang persistently. At length there was the clatter of a chain sliding into place and the door opened wide enough to reveal the face of Miss Crump. It was a small, faded face with a most uncordial expression.

“Yes?” asked Miss Crump.

“We’re the Duluths,” said Iris. “I just called you. I know about your dog, but …”

“Not my dog,” corrected Miss Crump. “Mrs. Wilberframe’s dog. The late Mrs. Wilberframe of Glendale who has a nephew and a niece-in-law of whom I know a great deal in Ogden Bluffs, Utah.

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