was inside, the girl asked, "What do you figure on doing first?"
"I'm going to hit the All-American Cantina down on the Calle Pitanza," he said. "See what I can find out by watching and waiting."
"You want me to stay here?"
The Phantom nodded as he moved toward the doorway. "It's unlikely Laura will recognize me, since she shot at me from a distance," he said. "You she'll recognize if she happens to drop into the cantina. Besides, from what I've been able to find out, the All-American is not a place much frequented by the sort of bright-eyed homespun tourist you're pretending to be this trip."
The girl gave a resigned shrug. "Okay, Kit," she said. "Be careful."
He grinned at her and walked out into the rain.
The Calle Pitanza was a narrow, twisting street which zigzagged down toward a scrubby section of the beach. It was paved with lumpy cobblestones. A large shaggy yellow dog was investigating something in the gutter in front of the All-Ameri- can Cantina as the Phantom approached the place on foot.
The rain was hitting against the adobe front of the narrow cantina building. The red-white-and- blue lettering of the name painted on the wall above the doors was running, sending streaks of paint down toward the buckled sidewalk. The one window was filled with tiny pasted-up paper American flags.
Heavy iron grillwork, long rusted, guarded the door. A relatively new padlock held the grill gates securely together.
The Phantom stepped back, surveying the facade of the cantina. He could see no sign indicating when the All-American would open.
"No es abierto, senor," said a small wrinkled old man who was looking out of the doorway next door.
"When do they open?"
"Quien sabe?" The old man backed into his little grocery store.
The Phantom stepped into the shop. "Will they be open tonight?" he asked in Spanish.
"It is possible," said the old man as he moved behind a wooden counter. "Who can say?"
"Are they no longer in business?"
There was a hundred-pound white sack of corn meal on the counter. Leaning one sharp brown elbow on it, the old man replied, "To the best of my knowledge, sir, that rogue Peter Torres is still operating his eyesore. However, the past few days,
his cantina has been, somewhat mysteriously, closed up tight."
"You don't know why?"
"Perhaps Torres has had another run-in with the law; perhaps he is somewhere recuperating from another of his frequent debauches. Who can tell?"
"Where can I find Torres?"
"Ah," said the old man, "where indeed? As I hear it, sir, he has not been seen at the pigsty he calls home on the Calle Ababa for two or three days."
"Ill ask there anyway."
Shrugging, the old man gave him the address.
From the second floor of the beachfront restaurant, there was a view of the water. It was still raining. "I understand," said Diana, "the sunsets in these parts are quite magnificent."
The Phantom grinned at the girl and the gray early evening sky behind her. "One more thing we're missing this time around."
"You couldn't find out anything about the All- American Cantina or the man who runs it?"
"A lot of dead ends so far," he answered. "The neighbors of this fellow Torres, who operates the place, say they haven't seen him for the past three days."
"What next?"
The Phantom said, "There's another man one of the neighbors mentioned, a sort of silent partner of Torres'. Somebody's supposed to find out where he is and contact me. I'm also going to ask some questions around the harbor tomorrow to see if I can get anything on the Sea Horse. If none of that pays off, then we'll go back to Santa Barbara."
"Well," said the girl, reaching across the table to place her hand on his, "at least we're having a vacation together. I've seen so little . . ." She had glanced toward the entrance and her voice trailed off. "Kit," she resumed in a lower tone, "that man coming in with the blonde."
A tan graying man of about fifty was entering the room with a very tall blonde young girl on his arm. He sensed Diana's glance, turned,
"I'm going to hit the All-American Cantina down on the Calle Pitanza," he said. "See what I can find out by watching and waiting."
"You want me to stay here?"
The Phantom nodded as he moved toward the doorway. "It's unlikely Laura will recognize me, since she shot at me from a distance," he said. "You she'll recognize if she happens to drop into the cantina. Besides, from what I've been able to find out, the All-American is not a place much frequented by the sort of bright-eyed homespun tourist you're pretending to be this trip."
The girl gave a resigned shrug. "Okay, Kit," she said. "Be careful."
He grinned at her and walked out into the rain.
The Calle Pitanza was a narrow, twisting street which zigzagged down toward a scrubby section of the beach. It was paved with lumpy cobblestones. A large shaggy yellow dog was investigating something in the gutter in front of the All-Ameri- can Cantina as the Phantom approached the place on foot.
The rain was hitting against the adobe front of the narrow cantina building. The red-white-and- blue lettering of the name painted on the wall above the doors was running, sending streaks of paint down toward the buckled sidewalk. The one window was filled with tiny pasted-up paper American flags.
Heavy iron grillwork, long rusted, guarded the door. A relatively new padlock held the grill gates securely together.
The Phantom stepped back, surveying the facade of the cantina. He could see no sign indicating when the All-American would open.
"No es abierto, senor," said a small wrinkled old man who was looking out of the doorway next door.
"When do they open?"
"Quien sabe?" The old man backed into his little grocery store.
The Phantom stepped into the shop. "Will they be open tonight?" he asked in Spanish.
"It is possible," said the old man as he moved behind a wooden counter. "Who can say?"
"Are they no longer in business?"
There was a hundred-pound white sack of corn meal on the counter. Leaning one sharp brown elbow on it, the old man replied, "To the best of my knowledge, sir, that rogue Peter Torres is still operating his eyesore. However, the past few days,
his cantina has been, somewhat mysteriously, closed up tight."
"You don't know why?"
"Perhaps Torres has had another run-in with the law; perhaps he is somewhere recuperating from another of his frequent debauches. Who can tell?"
"Where can I find Torres?"
"Ah," said the old man, "where indeed? As I hear it, sir, he has not been seen at the pigsty he calls home on the Calle Ababa for two or three days."
"Ill ask there anyway."
Shrugging, the old man gave him the address.
From the second floor of the beachfront restaurant, there was a view of the water. It was still raining. "I understand," said Diana, "the sunsets in these parts are quite magnificent."
The Phantom grinned at the girl and the gray early evening sky behind her. "One more thing we're missing this time around."
"You couldn't find out anything about the All- American Cantina or the man who runs it?"
"A lot of dead ends so far," he answered. "The neighbors of this fellow Torres, who operates the place, say they haven't seen him for the past three days."
"What next?"
The Phantom said, "There's another man one of the neighbors mentioned, a sort of silent partner of Torres'. Somebody's supposed to find out where he is and contact me. I'm also going to ask some questions around the harbor tomorrow to see if I can get anything on the Sea Horse. If none of that pays off, then we'll go back to Santa Barbara."
"Well," said the girl, reaching across the table to place her hand on his, "at least we're having a vacation together. I've seen so little . . ." She had glanced toward the entrance and her voice trailed off. "Kit," she resumed in a lower tone, "that man coming in with the blonde."
A tan graying man of about fifty was entering the room with a very tall blonde young girl on his arm. He sensed Diana's glance, turned,
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