by Dell Shannon
"I know he was."
"-He always said, about a deal like that, where they aren't really slum people who just naturally distrust cops, that you don't have to go acting tough, and a lot of times they'll listen to a good stiff talk from a man in uniform where they'd just get mad with somebody like the landlady or the neighbors. That's what he meant, see. We could see they wouldn't make any more disturbance, and so like I say I went back to the car to report in, and Joe stayed to talk to 'em, so maybe they'd think twice the next time."
"Yes. And then?"
"Well-that's all," said Walsh blankly. "I sat in the car and waited for Joe, and pretty soon he came out-with the landlady-she'd stayed in the drunks' apartment with him-and she thanked us and we got back on our route again."
Mendoza made a few marks on paper, shoved the page across the desk. "Look, here's the set-up, let's get it clear. The apartments numbered Five and Six are in the building across the end of this court. The landlady lives in Number Six. Numbers Three and Four are in this second building from the street, at right angles to that. Show me where your squad car was in relation."
Walsh hesitated, finally pointed. "I'd say just about in front of this rear building. I mean not in front of either of the apartment doors there but sort of in between them.”
"Damn it, I don't want to force this," said Mendoza softly, "if there is anything… When you both got out of the car, you went straight across to Number Three? Bartlett was with you?"
"Why, sure, of course." Walsh stared.
"He was in Number Three how long?"
"I guess about fifteen, twenty minutes-no, say eighteen. Altogether."
"You'd gone back to the car and reported in what it had turned out to be. How long did you sit there waiting for him?"
"About ten minutes, I guess. I remember I smoked a cigarette, it was just about finished when Joe came. I don't get what this is about, Lieutenant, it was just a routine-"
"Yes. Now when Bartlett came out of Number Three, did he come straight across to the car?"
"Yes, sir-at least, I'd think so. Wouldn't have any reason to do anything else, would he? I guess if you pinned me down I couldn't say I know he did, because I had my back to that side of the court, you know-he just came up and got in and said, ‘O.K., Frank, let's go.' The landlady came up behind him, with that funny raincoat over her head, and hopped up on her front porch and yelled ‘Thanks' at us and-well, that was that."
Mendoza sighed. "And if Bartlett didn't come straight from Number Three to the squad car, the landlady would know… " He could ask, but he had the feeling this was a dead end. Call it what, a minute, two minutes, for Bartlett to have seen something, heard something? " Que va! " he muttered to himself vexedly. "Can you think of anything else at all, Walsh, no matter how trivial it struck you at the time, that happened during the whole twenty minutes you were at this place?"
Silence. Walsh was looking nervous and perplexed. "I don't know what you're after," he said. "I just can't think- Well, a couple of the neighbors on each side of the drunks' apartment came out-I think one couple was out when we drove up, I seem to get a picture of them standing there on their front porch under the porch light. That'd be, I guess, Number Four-end apartment… What, sir? I think that was the only porch light on except the landlady's. Then when I came back g to the car, I saw the people on the other side-that'd be Number Two, in the first building-had come out on their porch. Wanted to see if we were going to take the drunks in, I guess, but there wasn't any need for that… I don't remember seeing anybody else out. I guess if it hadn't been raining they would have been-you know, the drunks making such a racket-but the way it was, it was just the people from the closest apartments to them who were outside-though probably everybody else was looking out their windows… I don't know what else I can. .. Oh, and just before Joe came up, somebody did open the door of the apartment next to the landlady's. And that's all I-what, sir? No, I they didn't come out on the porch, maybe when they saw it was raining so hard-"
"They,” said Mendoza, excluding any excitement from his tone.
"Two people, three, or what?"
"Oh-well," said Walsh vaguely, "I don't know. I said ‘they' because I couldn't see whether it was a man or woman who opened the door. The porch light wasn't on there. I think there was a light inside but not in the living room, maybe, not right by the door or behind it-I seem to I get that impression. I couldn't see-I don't know if anybody else was there besides who opened the door. I just, you know, sort of registered it in my mind, the door opening… This what you want, Lieutenant, about that? Well, let's see… I remember thinking, they've finally tumbled something's going on, and're looking out to see what-but I didn't notice whoever it was-and it was just a minute before the door shut again. Tell you the truth," said Walsh a little shamefacedly, "I was looking at the lightning really, I just kind of saw that door open out of the tail of my eye. I get a kick out of electric storms, and we never used to get them out here much, you know, it's only the last ten or twelve years… I was waiting for the thunder… "
"Yes,” said Mendoza. "Now, think about this one carefully. Someone was standing in the open door of Number Five-by the way, wide open?"
Walsh thought, shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think so, but I can't say for sure."
"O.K. Someone's there, and there's lightning in a flash-big stroke?"
"Pretty close. Lit up the whole sky-it was fine."
"Yes. And about that time Bartlett was, maybe, on his way to the car from Number Three? Could it be that whoever was standing there saw Bartlett by that big flash, and thought Bartlett might have seen him-or her?" But that was really reaching for it, surely, he added to himself. A flash of lightning. One little moment-to fix in mind the nondescript features of an ordinary cop-and an hour and a bit later, catch up to him and kill him? And Bartlett would probably have had his head down against the rain; whoever was in that doorway would also see that he couldn't be noticing…
Walsh's expression took on the glazed look of one trying to recapture a past time in photographic reproduction. He said almost at once, "No, sir. I got that piece clear, just remembering it by the lightning, now. This is how it went, see: there's the lightning, just after the door opened there-and I looked up, and kind of automatically started to count seconds, the way you do, you know-and it was close, it wasn't quite three seconds until the thunder-and then that door closed. And right after that-yes, I've got it now, funny how little things come back to you-I heard the other apartment door close, and that was Joe and the landlady coming out of Number Three. And almost right away, Joe opened the car door and got in beside me and said, ‘O.K., let's go.' " Walsh looked at Mendoza triumphantly, anxiously. "Is that the kind of thing you want, sir? I don't see what it has to do with-"
" Oye, oiga, frene!-Que se yo? " Mendoza sat up abruptly. "Wait a minute now, you were driving? Bartlett got in beside you, you said-you being behind the wheel."
"Why, yes, sir," said Walsh. "We generally change round like that, you know, if there're two of you on patrol, one drives the first half of the tour, the other the second half. That night, we changed after the coffee break, and Joe took the wheel."
Mendoza looked at him, but he didn't see Frank Walsh's square, honest, amiable face at all. He saw that ugly courtyard, on that dark rainy night-and a murderer opening a door (all right, no evidence, nada absolutamente, to back that up, but it made a picture, it filled in an empty space)-and being confronted with that black-and-white squad car, unexpected and so close; and in that moment, one great flash of lightning lighting the whole scene-pinpointing it in time and space. What picture in a murderer's mind of that one moment? A uniformed cop at the wheel of that car, looking up alertly-apparently toward the open apartment door. And Mrs. Bragg's porch light shining full on the front of the squad car and its L.A. police number.
That was all. That was enough. Mendoza's patrol days being far behind, that one little fact hadn't occurred to him, that a pair of cops in a squad car
changed around at the wheel. The ordinary civilian wouldn't think of it.
So, there was the answer: and say it wasn't backed up by any kind of evidence the D.A. would look at-Mendoza knew surely it must be the right answer. All somebody had known, had been afraid of, was the driver of the squad car number such-and·such. It didn't matter then-the idea was that Twelvetrees should vanish, that he'd never be found in his makeshift grave down that kitchen trap-it didn't matter if the driver saw and remembered a face. Not if things went the way somebody planned. But just in case Twelvetrees was found, in case questions were asked, and the driver of that car was able to identify a face-Panic? Impulse? And a very damned lucky shot-or a very damned skillful one… into the wrong man.
And, after all, Frank Walsh hadn't seen whoever stood in that open door.
EIGHT
"Every other country in the world," said Alison, clutching Mendoza's arm, "puts decent lights in night clubs and bars. People go to such places to read newspapers and hold philosophical discussions over their drinks. Or at least so I'm given to understand. Why are Americans condemned to these caves of darkness, like moles?"
"It's the Puritan background," said Mendoza, stumbling over a pair of outstretched legs and apologizing. "We still suffer from the influence of all those high-minded, earnest people who had the idea that anything a little bit enjoyable, from a glass of wine to a hand of cards-anything that makes life a bit more amusing-is necessarily sinful. It's a holdover-ah, haven," as the waiter's dim figure stopped and hovered in the gloom ahead, indicating a table or booth, impossible to tell which. On cautious investigation it proved to be a booth, and he slid into it beside the vague slender figure that was Alison-at least, it smelled of the spiced-carnation and faintly aphrodisiac scent that said Alison. "-A holdover from the days when those righteous old colonists felt seven kinds of devil if they let the cider get hard, you know… Straight rye," he added to the waiter, "and I think a glass of sherry for the lady."
"Yes. It's a great pity, all I can say," said Alison. "I expect you're right, and how silly."
"On the contrary," said Mendoza, "very good business. You make people feel there's something a little devilish about a thing, they'll fall over themselves to buy it. Human nature. Prohibition created more drinkers than we'd ever had before. Same principle as banning a novel-everybody reads it to find out why."
"It's still silly. I can't find my cigarettes, have you got one?"
"Only," said Mendoza, groping in his pocket, offering her the pack and lighting one for her, "because you and I were born at par. I got this from Sergeant Farquhar-it's a Scottish proverb, haven't you heard it, and you half Scots? ‘Some people are born two drinks under. They need the drinks to get up to normal?"
"Certainly I've heard it, and my father used to say that redheads-oh, well, never mind, it wasn't very genteel now I come to think."
"If it was about redheads," said Mendoza as the waiter brought their drinks, "I might guess what it was."
"I wouldn't put it past you. Well, in polite language it was to the effect that they're born two drinks over. And he was, certainly. Did I ever tell you about the time he challenged the governor of Coahuila to a duel? It was over a dam up in the Sierra Mojadas-the governor kept saying if Providence had intended people to have the water, the dam would have been created in the first six days, you know, but as it was the whole thing was immoral and contrary to God's wishes-I've never seen Dad madder-but in the end the governor backed down and they never did get to the duel. I think myself somebody told the governor the pedazo rojo norteamericano was a crack shot."
"These effeminate Latins, all cowards," said Mendoza. “ Salud y pesetas! " He tasted the rye. "You and I are the unconventional ones, we don't need this to enjoy life… And another thing about these places," he added over a roll of snare drums, "if they can persuade you to drink enough they can save a lot of money on what they call entertainment-anything goes if you're sufficiently high."
A blue spotlight circled a painfully thin girl in silver lame, on the little low platform at one end of the room, above what was revealed as a five- or six-piece band. On the edges of the light, white blurs of faces, tables crowded close. A tenor sax spoke mournfully, and the girl clasped her hands at her breast and began to moo nasally about missing her naughty baby.
"Oh dear," said Alison. The spotlight, moving with the singer, dimly showed them the Voodoo Club: fake handdrums and shrunken heads for wall-decor, zebra-patterned plastic on chairs and banquettes, and the waiters all Negroes in loincloths. There was also a postage-stamp dance floor.
"Yes," said Mendoza. "Hardly combining business with pleasure. We'll get to the business as soon as the waiter shows up again." Which he did as the girl stopped mooing and the spotlight blinked out. The band went into a soft blues and a few couples groped their way onto the dance floor.
"Re-peat, suh?"
"No, thanks. Tell me,"-Mendoza flicked his lighter over the blown-up print of Twelvetrees-"have you ever seen this man in here?" The waiter bent closer and looked at the print. In the little circle of unsteady light, he was very black, very Negroid; out of the dark his hand came up to finger his jaw, a long, slender hand with oddly intellectual-looking narrow fingers. "Well, I jus' couldn't say offhand, suh. An' we ain' supposed to gossip about customahs, y' know."
"Just take another look, and be sure."
"Don' know nuthin' 'bout him, suh. Anythin' else I can do for you, suh?"
Mendoza shook his head. "So, we'll have to get at it official," he said when the man had gone, leaving the check behind as a gentle hint. "See the manager. I don't suppose there's anything in it, or not much, but you never know-he must have had acquaintances in other circles than the Temple. By the little we've got on him so far, I think he looked on that just the way the Kingmans do, as a soft racket, and he'd hardly find the sect members to his social taste. Except for Mona Ferne-and that was for other reasons. I could wish his landlady had been the prying, suspicious kind who took more notice of his callers. Oh, well. Are you finished with that? Let's go."
They groped their way out to the better-lighted foyer, and Mendoza reclaimed his hat and Alison's coat from the check girl, paid the cashier. As he held out the coat for her, the slab door in the opposite wall opened and there emerged a slender little man who looked exactly like a film gang-boss, from his navy shirt and white tie to his fancy gray punched-pigskin shoes. He had black hair slicked back into a drake's tail, cold black eyes, and a cigarette dangling out of one corner of his mouth. Behind him was a big black Negro wrapped in a white terry robe like a boxer between rounds.
"This them?" snapped the gang-boss.
"Yes, sir," said the Negro.
"O.K.," said the gang-boss, walking up to Mendoza, "what you asking questions for, buddy? Who are you? Got any identification on you? What's this all about?"
"I told you, Luis," said Alison, sliding behind him. "Every time I go out with you in new stockings-why you drag me to these dens of iniquity-"
"Hey," said the gang-boss angrily, "what you talking about, lady, den of iniquity? We don't pay a grand a year for a liquor license to go foolin' around with that kind of stuff! Just what the hell-"
"You're the manager-good, just the man I want to see," and Mendoza brought out his credentials.
"Oh, police," said the gang-boss, and his toughness fell away from him like a cloak. "Gee, I'm sure sorry, Lieutenant, but I didn't know! Anything at all I can do for you-"
"This man." Mendoza gave him the print. "Regular in here? Or a casual?"
"Yeah, well-" The manager rubbed his ear and exchanged a glance with the Negro. "It's him all right, isn't it?"
"I thought so," said the Negro tranquilly in an accentless, rather amused tone. "I didn't know you were police either, Lieutenant. Sorry, but one way and another I thought Mr. Stuart ought to hear about it."
"You better come into my office," said Stuart abruptly. "You too, Johnny." He led them into a little square room furnished in excellent mod
ern taste. "Sit down. Offer you anything to drink?"
"No, thanks." Mendoza glanced from him to the Negro quizzically.
"I'll apologize," said the latter, "for the-er-costume, sir. In the dark in there, it's one thing, but you feel a little naked out here, you know."
"Customers, they go for the damndest things," said Stuart. "Not that that was my idea-I only manage the place. Excuse me, this is Johnny Laidlaw, your waiter."
"You know how it is," said the big Negro apologetically, "we're sort of expected to stay in character on a job like this-"
"Matter of fact," said Stuart, "unless the bomb falls or something, this time next year it'll be Dr. Laidlaw. Right now he's got more schooling than I ever had, which don't necessarily say he's any smarter, but anyway I guess his evidence is as good as mine."
"A medical degree runs into money these days," said Laidlaw amiably, "and you'd be surprised at the size of some of the tips. But this isn't getting to what you want to know. Mr. Stuart, I guess your part of it ought to come first."
"There's your scientific-trained mind," said Stuart. "Well, it's like this, Lieutenant. I just took over here about six months ago, see. The guy who'd been managing the joint, Whalen his name was, Andy Whalen, well, Mr. Goldstein-he's the owner-he found he wasn't leveling, there was rebates to wholesalers and that kind of thing. So Whalen got the heave-ho and I came in. O.K. Well, I hadn't been here very long-some time in September, wasn't it, Johnny?"
"September the twelfth," said Laidlaw.
"Yeah, well, Johnny comes in one night and says a customer's kicking up a row-it was about midnight I remember-and so I go out front to settle it. And here's this guy here,” he tapped the print, "raising hell over his check. He's just leaving, see, he's got this blonde dame with him-Johnny says he'd seen them in here before-and when he gets the check he don't like it. I say, what's the beef, and he says can he talk to me private. Now that I don't like so good, because it usually means the guy's caught short on cash and wants to leave his watch or something-but what can you do, I say O.K. and bring him in here. And first thing he says is, ‘What's with Whalen?' When he hears Whalen's out, he gets mad all over again. He says Whalen's a pal of his, always made him a cut price, see. I says that's one of the reasons Whalen's out, and I pointed out to him that I'm no pal, and it's a shame he's stuck for more than he expected, but just one of those things, and what about the thirty-four something he owes? Same time, if you get me, I did think it was kind of funny. I didn't know Whalen, but what the boys here've said, he wasn't no good-time Charlie who'd let his friends in for free."