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Chapter 1
WHEN DOAN AND CARSTAIRS CAME down the wide stairway and walked across the pink-tiled floor that was the pride and joy of the Hotel Azteca, the guests in the lobby stopped whatever they were doing to pass the time away and stared open-mouthed. Doan was not such-a-much, but Carstairs usually had this effect on people, and he left a whispering, wondering wake behind him as he stalked across to the glassed side doors and waited with haughty dignity while Doan opened one of the doors. He ambled through it ahead of Doan into the incredibly bright sunlight on the terrace.
Doan halted and drew in a deep breath of air that felt clean and dry and thinly exhilarating. He stared all around him with frank appreciation. He was short and a little on the plump side, and he had a chubby, pink face and a smile as innocent and appealing as a baby's. He looked like a very nice, pleasant sort of person, and on rare occasions he was.
He was wearing a white suit and a wide-brimmed Panama hat and white crepe-soled shoes.
"Breathe some of this air, Carstairs," he ordered. "It's wonderful. This is ideal Mexican weather."
Carstairs yawned in an elaborately bored way. Carstairs was a fawn-colored Great Dane. Standing on four legs, his back came up to Doan's chest. He never did tricks. He considered them beneath him. But had he ever done one that involved standing on his hind feet, his head would have hit a level far above Doan's. Carstairs was so big he could hardly be called a dog. He was a sort of new species.
A girl came very quickly out of the door behind Doan and said Uh! in a startled gasp when she saw Carstairs looming in front of her.
Carstairs didn't move out of her way. He turned lazily to stare at her. So did Doan.
She was a small girl, and she looked slightly underfed. She had very wide, very clear blue eyes. They were nice eyes. Nothing startling, but adequate. Her hair was brown and smooth under a white turban, and she wore a white sports dress and a white jacket and white openwork sandals. She had a clear, smooth skin, and she blushed easily. She was doing it now.
"I'm sorry," she said breathlessly. "He--he frightened me."
"He frightens me, too, sometimes." said Doan.
"What's your name?"
The girl looked at him uncertainly. "My name? It's Janet Martin."
"Mine's Doan," said Doan. "I'm a detective."
"A--a detective?" Janet Martin repeated, fumbling a little over the word. "You don't look like one."
"Of course not," Doan told her. "I'm in disguise. I'm pretending I'm a tourist."
"Oh," said Janet, still uncertain. "But--do you go around telling everybody about it?"
"Certainly," said Doan. "My disguise is so perfect no one would know I was a detective if I didn't tell them, so naturally I do."
"Oh," said Janet. "I see." She looked at Carstairs. "He's beautiful. I mean, not beautiful but--but magnificent. Does he bite?"
"Quite often," Doan admitted.
"May I pet him?"
Doan looked at Carstairs inquiringly. "May she?"
Carstairs studied Janet for a moment and then came one step closer to her and lowered his head regally. Janet patted his broad brow.
"Don't scratch his ears," Doan warned. "He detests that."
