The Zebra-Striped Hearse by Ross MacDonald Page A

womanhood, you know.” He refreshed his alcoholic insight from his glass. “Whenas she ever does, she could be quite a thing. Beauty isn’t in the features so much as in the spirit, in the eyes. That’s why it’s so hard to paint.”
    “You’re quite an observer,” I encouraged him.
    “I’m a people watcher, my friend. If you’re a detective, as you say, you must be something of a people watcher yourself.”
    “I’m a walking field guide,” I said. “You seem to have paid pretty close attention to the blonde girl.”
    “Oh, I did. What was her name? Miss Blackstone, I believe. Her mother introduced us some time ago. I haven’t seen her lately. I tend to take special notice of the tall ones, being rather outsize myself. Gladys is nearly six feet,
mirabile dictu
. She was once a burlesque queen on the Bowery, whence I rescued her and made a model of her, foolish man. With the consequence that I am here on my personal Bowery.” His eyes strayed around the empty rooms.
    I got up. “Thanks for all the information. Can you tell me how to get to The Place?”
    “I can, but look here, man, I’m enjoying this. Drink up your beer, and I’ll have José make you a proper drink. Where is José? José!”
    “Don’t bother. I have to see Bill Wilkinson.”
    He rose cumbrously. “Whatever you say. Do you feel like telling me what this is all about?”
    “I could make up a story for you. But that would be a waste of time.” I got out my wallet. “How much do I owe you for the beer?”
    “Nothing.” He fanned his arm in a lordly gesture which threatened to overbalance him. “You’re a stranger within my gates, I couldn’t possibly accept your money. Besides, I have a feeling you’re going to bring me luck.”
    “I never have yet, Mr. Reynolds.”
    He told me how to get to The Place and I set out through the midnight streets. The children had been swallowed up by the doorways. Some men and a very few women were still out. Wrapped in blankets, with faces shadowed by volcano-shaped hats, the men had a conspiratorial look. But when I said “
Buenas noches
” to one small group, a chorus of
“Buenas noches”
followed me.

chapter
11
    T HE P LACE was closed for the night. Steering a course by dead reckoning and the sound of the town clock chiming the quarter, I made my way back to the central square. It was abandoned except for one lone man locked behind the grille of the unicellular jail.
    Followed by his Indian gaze, I took myself for a walkaround the perimeter of the square. Seven eighths of the way around, I was stopped by a sign in English hand-lettered on wood: “Anne’s Native Crafts.” The shutters were up but there was light behind them, and the thump and clack of some rhythmic movement.
    The noise stopped when I knocked on the door beside the shutters. Heels clicked on stone, and the heavy door creaked open. A smallish woman peered out at me.
    “What do you want? It’s very late.”
    “I realize that, Miss Castle. But I’m hoping to fly out of here in the morning, and I thought since you were up—”
    “I know who you are,” she said accusingly.
    “News travels fast in Ajijic.”
    “Does it not? I can also tell you that you’re here to no purpose. Burke Damis left Ajijic some time ago. It’s true I sublet a studio to him for a brief period. But I can tell you nothing whatever about him.”
    “That’s funny. You know all about me, and you never even saw me before.”
    “There’s nothing funny about it The waiter at the
Cantina
is a friend of mine. I taught his sister to weave.”
    “That was nice of you.”
    “It was part of the normal course of my life and work. You are distinctly not. Now if you’ll take your big foot out of my doorway, I can get back to my weaving.”
    I didn’t move. “You work very late.”
    “I work all the time.”
    “So do I when I’m on a case. That gives us something in common. I think we have something else in common.”
    “I can’t imagine what it