Puzzle of the Pepper Tree by Stuart Palmer Page B

villa a voice called from the doorway. The fat youth stood there, with a bag in either hand.
    “These the right ones?”
    “Those are mine,” said Phyllis.
    At the sound of her voice one of the bags emitted a doleful whine. “What in heaven’s name have you got in there?” Miss Withers wanted to know.
    Phyllis snapped her fingers. “If I didn’t forget about Mister Jones!”
    “Who?”
    “Mister Jones—he’s a dog.” Phyllis crossed swiftly to the container and opened a snap. From the box bounded a small black-and-white terrier, which evidenced delight at seeing the light of day again by a series of shrill yelps.
    “Did ums get tired all by himself so long?” asked Phyllis coyly.
    Mister Jones’s only answer was to cavort wildly about the formal gardens of the airport, pausing to sniff at every shrub and cactus, and finally disappear in the bushes.
    “Come to me, you bad boy!” called Phyllis hopefully. Mister Jones stayed.
    Phyllis snagged a well-chewed leash from the interior of the container. “Come here, sir!”
    Miss Withers coughed and lowered her voice. “I think he’s—er—”
    “You mean gone to see a dog about a man?” Phyllis grinned.
    “Come here, sir,” she called again.
    Mister Jones trotted out of the bushes, once more a docile and well-behaved citizen. With head and ears cocked to one side, whiskers waving in the breeze, white forepaws wide and sturdy, the little dog approached its mistress with the utmost confidence.
    “What kind of a dog is it?” Miss Withers wanted to know. She had always preferred cats, but there was something definitely appealing—something a little hungry and searching—in the roguish eyes that met her own.
    “He’s a pedigreed wire,” Phyllis announced. “Wirehaired terrier to you. Supposed to be worth a lot of money. But you can’t prove it by me—I’ve only had him three days, and I’m no expert.” She snapped the leash on the little dog’s collar. “I suppose I ought to exercise you, useless,” she remarked, as she bent over the wriggling animal. “Mind if he comes along?”
    “Of course not.” Miss Withers rubbed her fingers across the tight twisted wool. “You’re a fine fellow, aren’t you, boy? A little fat, I should say. But a fine fellow.”
    “I named him Mister Jones after the man who gave him to me,” confided Phyllis amiably. “He went broke, and the pup was all he could give me when he moved out.”
    “Miss Withers raised her eyebrows and then nodded. “Sort of a diamond-bracelet dog, eh?”
    “Sort of. Only I’d trade him for one, any day.” Phyllis laughed and tugged at the leash. The terrier, who had discovered an interesting crackerjack box, trotted obediently after them, dragging the prize. Now and then, Mister Jones was confident, it would be possible to swallow a succulent morsel or two of cardboard on the way.
    They approached the red-and-gilt Dragonfly, hesitating a moment before the narrow door. But they found it unlocked. Phyllis swung it open, and Mister Jones leaped gayly up the steps.
    Hildegarde Withers had often read of the psychic sensitiveness of dogs and cats. If she had expected any reaction from the terrier in this narrow cubicle which she was confident still reeked of murder, she was sadly disappointed. The fat little dog strained on the leash, sniffing delightedly at the myriad new odors of the cabin, even discarding the treasured crackerjack box in favor of new findings.
    Phyllis patiently explained the situation of the seats and their various occupants on that morning’s plane trip. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “You’ve got an idea that somebody killed that fellow Forrest, or whatever his name was. But I don’t see how it could have happened.”
    “Nor do I,” said Miss Withers. “That’s no proof at all that it didn’t happen.” She was busily making a diagram of the interior of the cabin. “And you say the dead man sat here?”
    Mister Jones, entering into the