Case Pending

by Dell Shannon

  He said to himself, I’m seeing ghosts—or catching at straws. What the hell, if the thing did look like her, or the other way around? Dolls. The whole thing was a mare’s nest. Overnight he had begun to suspect uneasily that he was wrong, dead wrong about this thing; he hadn’t taken a good long look at all the dissimilarities—he’d wanted to think this was the Brooks killer again, without any real solid evidence for it. Wasting time. Look at the rest of the facts!

  Brooks: the handbag not touched. Ramirez: bag found several blocks away. True, apparently nothing taken, for Teresa said she wouldn’t have been carrying more than a little silver, to the rink where she’d leave her bag and coat on a chair at the side.

  Brooks: colored, not pretty, not noticeable. Ramirez: very much the opposite.

  Brooks: attacked on a fairly well-frequented street, in a fairly good neighborhood—just luck that there hadn’t been a number of people within earshot. Ramirez: attacked in that lot away from houses and in a street and neighborhood where a scream wouldn’t necessarily bring help.

  The chances were, just on the facts, that there were two different killers: say irrational ones, all right, because there didn’t seem to be any good logical reason for anyone in either of the private lives wanting those girls dead. But two: and the first could be in Timbuctoo by now.

  He was annoyed at himself. He said, “May I have this? Thank you.” Let Hackett laugh at him for an imaginative fool! “Now, about this woman, the one who came in and wanted to buy the doll—”

  “Shorely, Lieutenant, I had a good rummage firs’ thing this mornin’ when Mis’ Demarest call me ’bout it, and I found that bitty piece o’ paper with the name and address—”

  Nine

  Because afterward, thought Morgan (both Morgans), there would be a time when Sue would look at him, that steady look of hers, and want the truth. And he had better know what he was going to say.

  He wondered if he could tell her half the truth convincingly (my God, no, I never meant—but when he got mad and pulled a gun, I—and afterward, I knew I couldn’t tell the police the whole story, you know—) and go on forever after keeping the rest a secret. He’d never been very good at keeping secrets from Sue. But a big thing like this—and there was also the consideration, wouldn’t it be kinder, fairer, not to put this on her conscience as it would be on his? Let her go on thinking it was—accident. Because he guessed it would be on his conscience to some extent. You couldn’t be brought up and live half your life by certain basic ethics and forget about them overnight.

  All the while he was thinking round and about that, at the back of his mind, he was talking to this woman, this Mrs. Cotter, quite normally—must have been, or she’d have been eying him oddly by this time. He saw that he had also been taking notes in his casebook of a few things she’d told him, and his writing looked quite normal too.

  As usual now, he was having some trouble getting away: people liked to talk about these things. You had to be polite and sometimes they remembered something useful. He managed it at last, backing down the steps while he thanked her for the third time.

  His car was around the corner, the only parking space there’d been half an hour ago; now, of course, there were two or three empty spaces almost in front of the building. As he came by, a long low black car was sliding quiet and neat into the curb there. The car registered dimly with him, because you didn’t see many like it, but he was past when the driver got out. It was the car, a vague memory of it, pulled Morgan’s head round six steps farther on. The driver was standing at the curb lighting a cigarette, in profile to him.

  Morgan stopped. Absurdly, his mouth went dry and his heart missed a few beats, hurried to catch up. You damn fool, he said to himself. They’re not mind readers, for God’s sake!

  But, he thought confusedly, but—An omen? Today of all days, just run into one—like this. Casual.

  That was a man from Homicide, a headquarters man from Kenneth Gunn’s old department. Lieutenant Luis Mendoza of Homicide. Morgan had met him, twice—three times—at the Gunns’, and again when their jobs had coincided, that Hurst business, when one of the deserted wives had shot herself and two kids.

  Luis Mendoza. Besides the childish panic, resentment he had felt before rose hot in Morgan’s throat: unreasonable resentment at the blind fate which handed one man rewards he hadn’t earned, didn’t particularly deserve—and also more personal resentment for the man.

  Mendoza, with all that money, and not a soul in the world but himself to spend it on: no responsibilities, no obligations! Gunn had talked about Mendoza: ordinary back-street family, probably not much different from some of these in neighborhoods like this—nothing of what you’d call background…and the wily grandfather, and all the money. What the hell right had he to pretend such to-the-manner-born—if indefinable—insolence? Just the money; all that money. Do anything, have anything he damned pleased, or almost. And by all accounts, didn’t he! Clothes—and it wasn’t that Morgan wanted to look like a damned fop, the way Mendoza did, but once in a while it would be nice to get a new suit more than once in five years, and not off the rack at a cheap store when there was a sale on. That silver-gray herringbone Mendoza was wearing hadn’t cost a dime less than two hundred dollars. An apartment somewhere, not in one of the new smart buildings out west where you paid three hundred a month for the street name and three closet-sized rooms, but the real thing—a big quiet place, spacious, and all for himself, everything just so, custom furniture probably, air-conditioning in summer, maid service, the works. It was the kind of ostentation that was like an iceberg, most of it invisible: that was Mendoza, everything about him. Nothing remotely flashy, all underplayed, the ultraconservative clothes, that damned custom-built car you had to look at twice to know it for what it was, even the manner, the man himself—that precise hairline mustache, the way he lit a cigarette, the—

  A womanizer, too: he would be. And easy to think they were only after the money: not, for some reason, altogether true. God knew what women found so fascinating in such men. But he remembered Gunn saying that, a little rueful as became a solid family man, a little indulgent because he liked Mendoza, a little envious the way any man would be—Poker and women, after hours, that’s Luis, his two hobbies you might say, and I understand he’s damn good at both… A lot of women would be fools for such a man, not that he was so handsome, but he—knew the script, like an actor playing a polished scene. And all for casual amusement, all for Mendoza, and when he was bored, the equally polished exit, and forget it.

  Gunn had said other things about Mendoza. That he was a brilliant man—that he never let go once he had his teeth into something.

  All that, while the lighter-flame touched the cigarette, and was flicked out, the lighter thrust back into the pocket. Mendoza raised his head, took the cigarette out of his mouth, and saw Morgan there looking at him. And so Morgan had to smile, say his name, the conventional things you did say, meeting an acquaintance.

  “How’s Gunn these days? He’s missed downtown, you know—a good man. I understand that’s quite an organization he’s set up.”

  Morgan agreed; he said you ran into some interesting cases sometimes, he had one now, but one thing for sure, you certainly had a chance to see how the other half lived—but that’d be an old story to Mendoza.

  “That you do,” said the man from Homicide, and smoke trickled thin through his nostrils; if he took in the double-entendre he gave no sign of it.

  “Well, nice to run into you—I’ll give Gunn your regards.” Morgan seemed to be under a compulsion to sound hearty, make inane little jokes: “I hope, by the way, we’re not concerned with the same clients again, like that Hurst business—nasty.”

  “I want 2416.”

  It was the building Morgan had just left; he said, “That’s it. Be careful of the third step—it’s loose. I nearly broke my neck.”

  “Thanks very much.” And more
conventionalities of leave-taking, and he was free. He started again for his car. The gun was suddenly very heavy there against his chest. When he got out his keys, he saw his hand shaking a little. Damn fool, he thought angrily.

  It’s going to be all right. Just the way I want it to go. No matter who, no matter what. And, by God, if it isn’t, if the very worst happens—whatever that might be—this was one time anyway he wouldn’t stand still to be knocked out of the ring. He’d have tried, anyway.

  * * *

  Mrs. Irene Cotter was rather thrilled and wildly curious. Two men, detectives of all things, calling in one morning, and both about those Lindstroms. If you’d asked her, she’d have said—in fact, she was saying it now to Mendoza—that most any other tenants she’d ever had while she was manageress here, and that’d been eleven years, were more likely to bring detectives around. That blonde hussy in 307, for instance, or Mr. Jessup who was, not to beat round the bush, just a nasty old man—and there’d been that couple in 419 that got drunk most nights and threw things.

  She told him about them all, at some length and, when she remembered, taking pains with her grammar, because this one was a lot more interesting-looking, and seemed more interested in her, than the first one. She always thought there was something about a man with a mustache. This one looked a little bit like that fellow in the movies, the one that was usually the villain but personally she thought about a lot of the movies she’d seen with him in that the girl was an awful fool to prefer some sheep-eyed collar-ad instead, but there was no accounting for tastes. And a real gentleman too, beautiful manners; of course that was one thing about these Mexes, people said things about them, but of course there was classes of them just like anywhere, only when they were high-class like this one, you said Spanish.

  “—And I tell you, when he up and left, and everybody knew it, nobody couldn’t hardly believe it! You’d never have thought they was that kind at all, fly-by-nights I mean that don’t go on steady, you know what I mean, all their lives. But I tell you, Lieutenant, I like to sort of study people, and G—goodness knows I get the chance in my job, and I said to myself at the time, There’s something behind it.”

  “There usually is. The man left in August, you said, early.”

  “I couldn’t swear to the date, but it was after the rent was due—and paid. They was never a day late. Good tenants. Maybe the first week.”

  “And how long did the woman and boy stay on?”

  “Oh, I can tell you that to the day. It was the twenty-second of September they left, she told me in the morning, late, round noon maybe, and they went that night. I remember because she was paid to the end of the month, but they went before, and I did think that was funny, because it must’ve meant she’d paid extra wherever they were moving, you know, to move in before the first. And already bein’ paid up to the first here, you’d think—Of course, all I know, she didn’t say, they might’ve been going back east or somewheres. I did ask, account of mail, not that they ever had much of that, mostly ads—but she never said, just looked at me as if I was being nosy. And I’ll tell you something else, Lieutenant, you can believe it or not, but that was just exactly the fourth time I’d spoke to Mis’ Lindstrom, all two years they’d been here. That was the kind they was—her, anyways. Why, they’d moved in a week or more before I ever laid eyes on her—it was him rented the place, and paid, and like people mostly do they moved in at night, after work, you know—not that they had much to bring, a few sticks o’ furniture. But I was telling you about when he went. It was Mis’ Spinner in 319 told me, right next to them, they had 320, you can see that I wouldn’t notice right off, especially with them, sometimes I’d see him going off in the morning or coming home, but not every day. And Mis’ Spinner thought I ought to know he’d left, at least hadn’t been there she didn’t think four-five days, time she told me. Well, they was paid up to the end of August, I didn’t go asking questions till then, none o’ my business, but when September first come round, it was her come down to pay the rent and then I did figure, better know where we stood, if you see what I mean. Without wanting to be nosy,” added Mrs. Cotter virtuously. “She wouldn’t admit he’d gone and left her, froze right up and said I needn’t worry about the rent, and some rigmarole about he was called back east sudden. But alla same, it wasn’t a week before she had to get herself a job, so I knew all right. And if you ask me—”

  “Where did she work, do you know?”

  “Sure, it was a night job cleaning offices downtown—the Curtis Building. And that’s what I was goin’ to say, Lieutenant—that kind of job, it shows you what she was like, and you ask me, it all ties in, it was prob’ly all her fault, whole thing. She was one of them old maids married like they say, for sure. Went around with a sour look alla time, never a smile or a friendly word in passing—and as for looks! Well, I don’t s’pose she was more than forty, and I tell you, she looked like her own gran’mother! Hair screwed up in a little bun behind, and skin like a piece o’ sandpaper, you could tell she never took any care of herself, prob’ly used laundry soap and that’s that—never a scrap of make-up, and cheap old cotton house dresses was all I ever seen her in. You know’s well as me there’s no call for a woman to let herself go like that, these days! And if she acted to him the way she did to everybody else, even the youngster, well, between you ’n’ me ’n’ the gatepost, I don’t blame him for walkin’ out. A man can take just so much. She’d’ve been the kind wouldn’t let him sleep with her either, a regular prunes-an’-prison old maid like they say, if you know what I mean. Why, if she’d taken a little trouble, fix herself up and act nice, she coulda got a better job, waiting in a store or something, you know, daytimes. There’s just no call for a woman to look like that, if she’s got any self-respect! But she wasn’t one you could talk to friendly, you know, give any advice, like—she was downright rude to everybody tried to make friends, so after a while nobody tried no more, just left them be. And I do think he’d have been different. Times he came by to pay the rent, or if you met him goin’ out or like that, he always acted friendly and polite. I figure he just got good and fed up with the whole way she was—it musta been like livin’ with a set bear trap.”

  The detective grinned at that and she permitted herself a ladylike titter, smoothing her defiantly brown pompadour. “I gather you didn’t exchange much casual talk with the woman at any time.”

  “Nobody did, she wouldn’t let ’em… Ever hear her mention goin’ to buy a doll? That I did not. It wasn’t a girl she had, it was a boy, I thought I said. Marty, his name was. He favored his dad, I must say he was a nice-raised boy. Always took off his cap to you, and he was real quiet—for a boy, you know. He’d be about eleven or a bit past when they come, and that last year they was here, he all of a sudden’d started to shoot up, early like some do—going to be as big as his dad, you could see. A real nice boy, he was, not like his Ma at all… Well, I’m sure I don’t know why she’d be buying a doll, unless it was for some of their fambly back east, might be she had a niece or something. But for goodness’ sake, Lieutenant, won’t you tell me what this is all about—what’s she done?—or is it him? I mean—”

  “I don’t know that either of them’s done anything. It’s a matter of getting evidence, that’s all, not very important.” He was standing up.

  “Oh. I must say, I can’t help being curious—two of you coming, same day, ask about them! You can’t blame me for that, couldn’t you just—”

  “So Mr. Morgan was asking about the Lindstroms too?” He looked thoughtful, and then smiled and began to thank her. She saw she wouldn’t get any more out of him, but that didn’t stop her from speculating. The Lindstroms, of all people!

  Mrs. Cotter watched him down the walk to his car, heaved an excited sigh after him, and hurried upstairs to tell Mrs. Spinner all about it.

  * * *

  The clock over the row of phone booths, in the first drugstore he came to, said te
n past twelve. Mendoza spent an annoying five minutes looking up the number in a tattered book, finally got the office, and just caught Gunn on his way out to lunch.

  “Oh, Luis—how’s the boy?—good to hear from you. Say, I’m afraid Andrews’ idea didn’t pay off, you know, about that hood New York wants for jumping parole. It was a long chance, find him through the wife, and of course it may be she’s collecting from some other county agency. If he wants—What’s that? Sure thing, anything I can tell you… Morgan, well, he’s probably having lunch somewhere right now.”

  “It’s one of his cases, that’s all. And all I want from you is the present address. The name is Mrs. Marion Lindstrom. Apparently she’s only recently applied for relief.”

  “If we’re working on it, that’s so, within a few months anyway—it’ll be right here in the current file, hang on and I’ll look.”

  Mendoza opened the door for air while he waited. He was rapidly developing a guilty conscience: wasting time over this meaningless thing. He didn’t get paid—or shouldn’t—for listening to inconsequential gossip. A dozen things he should have been doing this morning besides—

  “—Graham Court,” said Gunn’s voice in his ear.

  “Oh? Any idea approximately where that is?”

  “Somewhere down the wrong side of Main, that area—below First or Second. We’ve got—”

  “¡No puede ser!”50 said Mendoza very softly to himself. “It can’t be, not so easy, I don’t believe it… When Morgan comes in, tell him to wait, I want to see him. Call me at my office inmediatamente—or even quicker! I want everything you’ve got on these people. Let me have that address again.”