by Dell Shannon
"I thought the name Shorter rang a bell," nodded Mendoza. "I remember."
"I figured out," Pickering broke in, "from a couple of things that bastard, Twelvetrees I mean, said, that he was responsible for that. D'you know whether that was a-so to speak-routine investigation, or if they had anonymous information? Do the police act on that kind of thing?"
"Not my department, but I can find out about the arrest from Vice. Yes, certainly, Vice and Narcotics especially, the anonymous tip often sets the ball rolling. Sometimes it turns out a dud, sometimes not."
"Well, what I think happened was this," she went on. "Twelvetrees knew Shorter, that came out when he approached me with these negs. He said-because naturally I asked how he got them-he said, in a jeering sort of way, not as if he expected to be believed, you know, that Shorter'd had a premonition about being arrested and had handed over had some stuff for safekeeping. But later on he started to say something else, about how he and Shorter had been together inside-and caught himself up. I think he might have been in prison, and met Shorter there. And it's just a guess, but I think Shorter showed him some of his-things-and Twelvetrees recognized me in those pictures, either then or later. He didn't do anything about it because I couldn't do anything for him then, you see? I mean, he wasn't interested in me any other way but-for money. It's a funny thing to say, but when it came to girls to-go around with, well, I gathered from what Netta said-she's in the crowd that knew him best-he was a little nervous of anything from the right side of the tracks. You know? He didn't feel at home with the kind who-oh, likes ballet and cocktails instead of the amusement arcade and beer.”
"Very much in character."
"That I believe," agreed Pickering. "You let me carry on, hon. The way I figure it, Lieutenant, when he heard on the grapevine that it was a serious thing with Marian and me, then he saw how he could do himself some good. Maybe you know he had-time out to laugh-movie ambitions. That-! Well, I think he stole those negs from Shorter and then ‘shopped' him, as our British friends say, before he could find out or retaliate."
“Quite possible."
"Anyway, he showed up at Marian's place-"
"On that Tuesday evening, maybe?" said Mendoza. "Evening, because you'd be at work all day, he couldn't have a private talk with I you. And it wasn't Wednesday because he was elsewhere that night. Or was it Thursday? On Wednesday night he was hinting joyously that some good fortune was coming his way."
"He told someone? My God, he-? Is that how you-?"
"No, he was too canny for that. And while we're clearing up details, how we got onto you was that he had a snapshot of you in his wallet. Why?"
"So that's what happened to it," she said slowly. She sat back, looking angry. "May I have another cigarette, Toby, please… Netta told me he'd asked her for one. She was looking through some she'd just had finished, and he was there and asked if he could have the one of me. She refused, but he must have taken it anyway when her back was turned, she said. I think-maybe he wanted it to check against-those others, to be sure. She said it wasn't a very good one, but it was full-length, and you know people photograph differently sometimes from the way they really-though with those-well, I don't know. And maybe he just stuck it away and forgot it-or more likely kept it as window dressing, he was the kind who liked to have you think he had a raft of girl friends… It was Tuesday he came, Tuesday the twenty-seventh. He had one of the negatives with him, and-and prints of the rest. He-" She broke off, trying to control her shaking voice.
"You take it easy, hon, I'll tell the rest." Pickering lit a fresh cigarette; he looked very angry. "The bastard. I'll tell you how the lyrics went, Lieutenant, if you haven't already guessed. He didn't know quite how it was with us, if you get me. He had it figured that Marian was the hell of a lot more interested in my bank account than in me, and that I could be scared off if I heard all this. As a matter of fact, I knew-she'd told me. He didn't want money-"
"He wanted the nice send-off with a big producer," said Mendoza. "That figures. A heaven-sent opportunity for him, our stage-struck glamour boy! No wonder he went to all the trouble-which, I agree, is likely-of stealing those negatives and getting Shorter put away. And he was thinking ahead too, probably. If you weren't impressed enough to whisk out a contract right away, after you were married he could always do it the hard way, bring pressure to bear on the grounds that you couldn't stand the publicity."
"Ah, that damned little-! Yes, I suppose. Well, anyway, Marian had sense enough to call me, after putting him off on a plea of making up her mind, and I took over from there. He thought he had her scared, had us just where he wanted us.” Pickering laughed, short and ugly. "Money isn't everything, but it sure as hell helps. I hired a couple of the best private detectives in town"-he named the agency-"and we wired Marian's place but good. We really set up the trap-me and two other witnesses in the bedroom, and the tape recorder. He came over swell." He grinned. "One qualification he had for the business, nice clear-cut voice and good diction. We'd coached Marian, of course, and she slipped him enough leading questions that we got the whole layout, his whole plan, in detail. Beautiful. And then she did a little acting and gave in, said she'd do whatever he wanted-only of course we didn't tape that. My God, I'm giving myself away-but you can see the spot we were in, only way to handle it-and besides he'd made me damn mad. I wanted to cuff him down good, so he'd stay that way."
"Very nice, very nice," purred Mendoza. "It's deplorable of me, Mr. Pickering, but I don't think I'll be vindictive enough-or honest enough-to turn you in for all these little legal misdemeanors. I'd probably have done much the same thing myself. I suppose you saw him on Friday, the next day. It was, I assume, on Thursday when you sprung the trap."
"That's right. I saw him Friday morning, as soon as we had legal statements drawn up by the witnesses and so on. We'd set it up-she'd told him to come by about eleven and she'd introduce us, give him a good send-off. And, brother, we did. Marian wasn't there. I told him what we had on him and just how I felt about it, and that, by God, I enjoyed. I told him first, as far as his damn fool ambition for the movies was concerned, he was dead before he started, right now, because in the inconceivable case that anybody ever hired him to sweep a stage I could and would see he got fired-I could blacklist him in this town, in that line, and he knew it. I told him I wouldn't lose one damn thing but a little of my upright reputation if he gave those negs to the Examiner tomorrow, and that sacrifice I wouldn't mind, it was just on Marian's account I'd prefer the whole thing kept private. I always had a kind of admiration for that old bird-was it the Duke of Wellington?-who said Publish and be damned. And I told him I'd take great pleasure in charging him publicly with attempted extortion, and putting in all this nice clear evidence to prove it. And, let's face it, money talks-even to the law. I could have arranged for a trial like that to be held in camera, and protected ourselves that way while he got it in the neck. At that point he began to back down fast, said he'd never dream of doing anything with those negs to embarrass Marian. O.K., fine, says I, and just to guarantee that, we're going with you right now to get them and if you get out of town within twenty-four hours, I'll keep still, I won't lay the charge. But I'll check, and if you're still here, brother, you get everything the law can hand you-and if some damn fool jury lets you off, I've got the money to put you behind a dozen eightballs, other ways. I don't need to tell you he didn't like it-that's an understatement, when he saw I wasn't going to back up a sixteenth of an inch from that stand, he called me every name in the book. But he had to go along, he couldn't do anything else-unless he wanted to get slapped in jail besides losing out everywhere else."
She gave a little half-tearful laugh. "He didn't know much about Toby, you see, or he'd never have started all this."
"That I believe," grinned Mendoza. "So you all took a ride out to 267th Street."
"We did. I went with him in his Porsche, and the detectives trailed us. And the hell of a squalid little hole it was, wasn't it? We didn't wa
ste any time-he got the negs and gave them to me, and I identified them as the ones we were after and the whole dozen of them, and burned them right there-"
"In a big glass ashtray. Mmh. He had them in a brown manila envelope in the bottom of his laundry bag, and he emptied the whole bag out on the bed to get them for you."
"He did," said Pickering. "What's more, there was-"
"Yes, I know, a second envelope. I know all about that one. But not a third?"
"Not that I saw, no."
Mendoza leaned back, looking thoughtful. "Motives. Yes, I wonder. Well, and so now we know why Mr. Twelvetrees was clearing out in a hurry.”
"That was bluff," admitted Pickering. "I'd got no way of checking to see if he really left town. But I would-and he knew it-have come back to see if he'd left that place, and I knew where he worked, this damn fool cult, that Temple-and I'd have gone there to check. Hounded him a little, anyway."
"Sure, sure. That he knew too, and I see how his mind worked on it. He had to cut his losses. What time was this?"
"We got out there about a quarter of one, and it couldn't have been much after one when we left, we didn't linger at it, as I say. No, I didn't give a damn where he went or what he did, once those negs were burned. Matter of fact, I didn't try to do any checking, but he might have thought I would-like all that kind he was a coward when you backed him against a wall. He was so mad at me he'd've liked to kill me, but he didn't have the guts, even with a gun there to his hand. And what the hell he wanted with that-I mean, that wasn't his line, the direct action. Maybe it made him feel big and dangerous… I couldn't tell you the make and model, a pistol of some kind, it was in one of the drawers of the bureau. I saw it when he yanked the drawer open to get a handkerchief-he had a sneezing-spell… Yes, I think I'd know it again." Pickering laughed contemptuously. "Oh, he'd've liked to see me drawn and quartered, and he had about fifteen years on me too, if I had a better reach-but he never lifted a hand. You know what he did? It was the damndest thing. He came out of that apartment with us when we left, and went over to the carport on the other side of the building. And just as we were pulling out of that court, he came out with a trowel or a fork or something and started to dig around that funny-looking shrub planted in a tub there. Going at it in a kind of blind fury-as if he had to dig at something, if it was only a shrub."
Mendoza laughed. "Yes-and so that answers another little question. I've heard it said that gardening's a very relaxing occupation in cases of nervous tension. Maybe his doctor recommended it."
SIXTEEN
"Answers," he went on to Hackett dreamily, after they had gone.
"We're getting them in, finally. Va aclarando -it's clearing up. And very nice too. So now we know almost all that happened to dear Brooke that Friday. His unlucky day, all right. He was finished here, after that business with Pickering… It looks as if Marian's got herself a man, absolutamente… He'd have no chance at all to get anywhere in show business, and he was also finished taking an easy living out of the Kingmans, because Pickering knew his connection with the Temple: he'd promised to hound him and he would. Everything had turned sour on Brooke Twelvetrees. First of all, he had to get away from 267th Street, in case Pickering did come back to check after the twenty-four hours' grace… There he is, hacking away at the Tree of Heaven in his blind fury at the way everything's turned out. I can see him, when that thought takes shape in his mind, stalking back into the apartment, throwing down that trowel anywhere-he's forgotten he had it-and starting to pack. He-yes. Yes." Mendoza was sitting on the end of his spine, eyes shut, looking peaceful, hands clasped across his lean middle. " Eso es, of course. He got here with just that old brown leather suitcase, he's had no occasion for luggage since, and he's accumulated too much to go into it. So he leaves his packing, he gets out the Porsche and goes off to buy a couple of new suitcases."
"I follow you," said Hackett. "That's nice deducing, but is it very important?"
"It might be. I think on the way he started thinking a little more clear and shrewd, and his first idea would be, What can I salvage out of this? He could try to go on blackmailing the Kingmans from a distance, but that's always a little more difficult. And I think he must have been very tired of the Kingmans and their Temple. Also, I think he needed some cash right then-he was the kind who spent everything as it came in, maybe he hadn't even enough for those suitcases on him. So he thought of the Kingmans' safe-and then he thought of the Temple bank accounts… Cut his losses, sure, and take everything along he could lay hands on. Now we don't know how long he worked at his gardening, how long he spent starting to pack. But we've got a kind of terminus ad quem, because the bank shuts at three. This just came in this morning. If it hadn't been that particular bank, this would be a different story, because a lot of banks now stay open later on Fridays and don't open on Saturday at all. But that one sticks to the old rule. So we deduce that by the time it came to him how he could salvage something out of the wreck, it'd be too late to get into the bank when he got there-it'd be quite a drive, you know. De paso, it's maybe a little confirmation of how our friend Kingman could get into the dither he did, you know, apparently he didn't know that, wasn't familiar with the banking hours. Because if he'd known the bank was open from nine to twelve on Saturdays, he'd have been down there to lay his warning then, and all this would have started two days before it did. Are you with me?"
" Yo seguir, right behind. Twelvetrees figured to take the cash and let the credit go, clear out the bank account and vanish into the wild blue yonder, probably under the name of Eustace J. Humperdink. O.K. He took a little chance clearing out the safe in the Temple-being too greedy. That he should have left alone."
"I think it was more economy than pure greed. He'd gone to a little trouble to get hold of the combination, silly not to use it now. And it wasn't a long chance at all. Not when it was a matter of hours. He knew Kingman probably wouldn't open that safe until Saturday night. And he fully expected to be at the bank when its doors opened Saturday morning, primed with a glib story for the manager of sudden unexpected expenses that had to be paid in cash-I wonder what he'd have said. I wouldn't put it past him to have intended forging some notes of instructions from the other officers. Yes. Clear out of 267th, he'd think, and get settled for the night in some quiet hotel, and maybe he meant to sit up over those forged notes, to have them ready. He wouldn't have closed out the bank accounts, that'd call for more red tape-just stripped them down to a hundred or so. No, it wasn't too much of a chance… Well, he went to the Temple and took the month's receipts. He went and got his prescriptions refilled, and he bought those suitcases somewhere-probably a big cheap department store where the clerks are always in a rush, don't notice individual customers usually. And he had an early dinner, and he drove back to 267th Street-he'd get there about six-thirty, a quarter of seven, if he left that restaurant at five-thirty. It had started to rain, you remember, it was coming down steadily, that would slow him on the drive. And he started to finish his packing."
"Yes. And?"
Mendoza's long nose twitched. "I'm doing all the work. Can't you fill in a bit? Come on, think hard."
"Well-I think he wrote that note to Mrs. Bragg, to have it ready. He didn't want any backchat, or delay in getting away either. And it's nice to know he had the gun-it was his… Can we say he had a visitor, then? Before he got away, when he was nearly finished packing
… " Hackett fingered his jaw, looking troubled. "I don't know-"
"There are a lot of little things I don't know, but I know who the visitor was. Thanks to you."
"Now look-she-"
" Eso basta, you stop right there. I'm tired of listening. I think, though there are jobs you could do, you'd better take the rest of the day off. I'm worried about you-you're going to pieces. I could take time and explain, but I think it'll be salutary for you not to be told-force you to do a little thinking of your own."
"Are you ordering me?-" began Hackett stiffly.
" Es ma
s listo de lo que parece," said Mendoza to himself with a sigh. "Smarter than he 1ooks-I hope. You go and have a nice quiet drink somewhere, Arturo, and maybe take in a movie. And don't worry, trust your uncle Luis, everything will be O.K. with a little luck."
"Oh," said Hackett, staring at him. "You don't think- And what are you going to be doing, if I'm allowed to ask?"
"I have dispatched minions-that's a nice word, no question but English has certain advantages-to discover, if possible, where the coat was purchased, by whom, and when. I think we'll get it, because it was only yesterday, you see, it'll be fresh in the salesclerk's mind. And for other reasons too. De veras, this love of melodrama
… I am presently going to call on a new witness, or at least one we haven't thought very important, and meanwhile I am going to sit here and do some serious thinking, along the same line the famous idiot boy took with the lost horse. Goodbye, Arturo. Shut the door when you leave."
Hackett looked at him, opened his mouth, thought better of that and shut it, and stalked out.
***
Oddly enough, he did more or less what Mendoza had told him to do, though without conscious plan. He went and had a drink, and then he walked up Main Street for a little way, thinking-not to much purpose-and dropped into a newsreel theater.
He didn't take in much of the news; when he came out he went back for his car and drove up to Fairfax Avenue in Hollywood. He located the doctor's office and the pharmacy, and drove slowly on from there, watching the right side of the street. He stopped and parked twice, to go into large shops where luggage was sold, and drew blank. It was at the third place he got somewhere, a big department store branch; one of the clerks thought he remembered a man who looked like Twelvetrees' picture coming in to buy some luggage: he couldn't say exactly when, a couple of weeks back he thought, and he couldn't remember exactly what the man had bought.