Oh, Murderer Mine | Page 9

so just relax and lie down again. You're
staying here."
Carstairs stood up and turned his back and put his nose against the
door.
"All right, all right," Doan said. "Hurry up, Trent. The bars close up in
this cockeyed state at midnight."
He opened the door, and Carstairs preceded them down the long hall.
This apartment was on the third floor, and there was no elevator. There
were no elevators in any of the university buildings with the exception
of those frequented by T. Ballard Bestwyck. He did not believe in
pampering the lower classes. Doan and Trent, with Carstairs still ahead
of them, went down the stairs past Melissa's floor, and on down the
first flight and out through the lobby.
Trent's car--a small and shabby two-door sedan--was parked at the curb
fifty yards north of Pericles Pavilion. Doan opened the door on the

right side and hitched the seat forward.
"Get in back," he ordered. "Snap it up."
Carstairs climbed in distrustfully.
Doan popped the seat back into place and slid into it. "Hurry up. It's
half-past eleven."
Trent started the car, and they drove through the narrow, sharply curved
residential streets that bordered the university and then out on the
smooth, wide sweep of the boulevard that ran south of the campus.
"There's a place," said Doan. "Kerrigan's Klub Kar. Under the green
neon sign ahead."
"All right," said Trent absently. He drove the car into the empty
graveled lot beside the building and parked.
"Roll your window up about three-quarters of the way and get out and
shut your door," Doan said casually. He was lounging back in the seat
with his hands folded back of his neck.
Trent looked at him curiously. "Okay."
Doan waited until Trent's door was shut, and then he slipped the catch
on the door next to him with his knee. In one smooth motion, he darted
out of the car and slammed the door shut behind him. He was not a split
second too soon. Carstairs broad, moist muzzle slapped against the
inside of the glass an instant after the door thumped shut. His eyes
glared through at them, greenishly malignant.
"What's the idea?" Trent asked.
"He's a dry," Doan explained. "He hates liquor. I don't like to take him
in bars because he raises hell. He sneers at the customers and barks at
the bartender and tips over tables. Hurry up. It's twenty minutes to
twelve."

They went up three steps and into a long, dreary room with a bar
running along the length of one wall. The place was empty except for
the bartender and one chummy customer. The chummy customer hailed
them with a loud and lonesome cheer.
"Hiya! Hi there, fellas! Have a drink, huh?"
"Now, Bert," said the bartender.
"Well, I know that guy there," said Bert. "I sure do know that guy. I
sure seen his face before lots of times. Sure. Now wait a minute. Don't
rush me." He came weaving along the bar. "Hi, fella! I seen you before,
ain't I, huh? Huh?"
"Lay off, Bert," said the bartender.
"Yee-hoo!" Bert yelled joyously. "I got it! I know where I saw you! In
all them ads for all that face cream junk! Sure! How are you, little old
Handsome little old Lover little old Boy? Woo-woo-woo!"
Eric Trent hit him on the side of the neck with the edge of his palm.
Bert came apart at the seams. He hit the floor so hard he bounced. After
that he didn't move at all.
"Here!" the bartender said indignantly. "What's the idea? He's my best
customer. I recognize your face myself. If you want to marry some old
crow for her dough and advertise it in all the magazines, you've got no
right to get sore if people rib you about it. What did you do to Bert?"
"This," said Trent.
The bartender's jaw smacked against the edge of the bar, and then he
slid gently and slowly down out of sight behind it.
"Let's get out of here," Trent said.
"I think maybe that's a good idea," Doan agreed reluctantly, looking at
the electric clock behind the bar.

It was thirteen minutes of twelve.
They went back outside, and Doan opened the left door of the sedan.
"Oh, stop snorting at me," he ordered. "I didn't have anything to
drink--not even a beer. Get in the back."
Carstairs climbed over the seat, muttering to himself.
Doan got in. "We'll have to hurry," he said. "It's almost midnight."
Trent pushed the starter. "I've lost my thirst."
"Well, I haven't," said Doan. "Drive around fast and find a place where
I can pick up a pint."
Trent drove out on the boulevard. "I've got a bottle at home you can
have."
"Where?" Doan demanded. "I searched