Read Puzzle of the Red Stallion for Free Online Page B

face peered through. Highpockets pointed at the other door across the driveway. “Office over there, mister man—just ring the bell—”
    “I’ll wring your neck if you shut that door,” Piper promised. “Who’s in charge here?”
    “Mister Latigo Wells, he’s the manager—only he’s out to breakfast,” Highpockets explained tremulously. “If you want to wait he ought to be back pretty soon, he’s been gone a long time already!”
    “Well!” said Miss Withers. “How long a time, young man—would you say forty-five minutes?”
    Highpockets frowned in deepest concentration. Then he shook his head. “Not as long as that, ma’am—I wouldn’t say he’s been gone much longer’n an hour or two.”
    Miss Withers turned to the inspector. “Your witness,” she said sadly.
    Piper nodded. “What we want to know is—”
    Intent upon questioning the colored boy, both Miss Withers and the inspector had quite forgotten the big red horse. They were now reminded of his presence as Siwash thrust a long russet-colored nose between them, over the top of the door. He nickered softly.
    They jumped aside and Highpockets opened the lower part of the door.
    “Look out—he’s dangerous,” warned the inspector quickly.
    “Him?” Highpockets laughed gleefully. “I been taking care of this horse fo’ a long time, boss, and I never see him dangerous to anything but a pan of oats!” And the colored boy grasped Siwash firmly by one ear and led him in through the door. Deftly he slipped off the bridle and loosened the cinch.
    “Go on, git to your stall!” And Siwash obediently went back along the runway, meek as a kitten.
    Highpockets turned toward the two who now ventured inside the stable. “How come you bring back Miss Feverel’s horse all lathered up this way?”
    “Feverel, eh?” Piper nodded. “Sounds like a phony—a stage name. But go on—where does—I mean where did she live?”
    “Why—” Highpockets’ face turned a sickly green.
    “Where did she live? You mean—she ain’t living anywheres now?”
    “Answer the question,” pressed Piper. “Good heavens, if the woman stabled her horse here you must know her address.”
    But Highpockets backed away shaking his head. “I doan know nothing and I never had nothing to do with—”
    “Anything!” Miss Withers finished for him. “Oscar, we’re just wasting time. This place must have an office and the office must have records of some kind.”
    Piper nodded. To the boy—“You all alone here?”
    Highpockets nodded. “Yes, sir…. I sleep on a cot in the back, so I’m always here. Mister Latigo, he comes in daytimes, and Mrs. Thwaite and her husband, they live in a flat upstairs. She owns the stables, but I doan like to disturb her unless we got to….”
    “Heaven forbid,” Miss Withers cut in. “This is only a murder case, that’s all. But which way to the office?”
    Highpockets pointed with wavering finger toward a side door. “Down the h-hall,” he offered.
    It was a long hall with a sharp turn in the middle. Then they saw a pane of lighted glass in a doorway. As they came closer they heard sounds of distant, mournful song….
    “Hillbillies!” gasped Miss Withers. “But this isn’t the hour for them to be on the air. Listen!”
    The voice was untrained, but low and mellow. Its only accompaniment was the soft plucking of a guitar.
    “Now I’ve got no use for the wimmen,
    They’re greedy and graspin’ for gold….
    They’ll love a man for his money,
    When it’s gone they’ll leave him co-o-o-o-old.
    My pal was an honest young puncher,
    Honest and upright and true….
    Till he fell in love with a woman,
    With a woman known as Lou….”
    The inspector’s head was nodding in time with the wailing ballad of the plains, but such music was not to Miss Withers’s taste. She flung open the door of the office.
    Seated at a roll-top desk, with his booted feet high above his head, sprawled a tall, thin young man with a long sad