The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon

by Dell Shannon

  Mendoza said conventionally that of course it was always a little shock to friends and relatives. It was charitable of Domokous' employer to assume the cost of the funeral.

  "Er— I daresay," said the priest. He unwound the thin wire bows of his glasses from around his ears slowly and began to polish the lenses with his handkerchief. "I daresay. But— perhaps it's uncharitable of me," he said earnestly, and his myopic naked eyes swam blindly in Mendoza's general direction, "but much experience with human nature leads me to wonder about it."

  "The Greek, in fact, bearing gifts?"

  "Dear me, yes, very appropriate, Lieutenant. Indeed. I— dear me, it is difficult— I debated long with myself about coming. You know, one doesn't like to encourage slander, and yet, perhaps, it would be just as well for you to hear about it. I can only trust"— he began to wind the wires back around his ears, and his eyes swam into focus again, looking anxious— "that you will not place more importance on it than is actually warranted."

  "Well, we're used to evaluating statements. What is it?"

  The priest sighed. "It may mean nothing at all, you see. It seems that Stevan's death was only an unfortunate accident, that he was the victim of one of these drug peddlers— by what appeared in the newspapers, at least. I'd have said that it was quite incredible that he would be persuaded into such a thing, but I know these dreadful things happen. And it seems even more incredible that what he told me could have led toto a deliberate accomplishing of his death— no, no, I cannot accept that. However, the more I thought about it— especially after Mr. Skyros called me— that is, one doesn't like to feel suspicious of the motives for charity, does one, but all the same— Well, I thought perhaps the police should hear. Just in the event that it is important. And I trust I am not spreading slander to tell you! Here is the matter, Lieutenant. Stevan came to me— now let me get the date right, I must be accurate— yes, a week ago last Sunday it was, the Sunday evening. He wanted advice. Perhaps you've heard that he was not quite as familiar with English as he might have been. Well, now, it seems that on the previous evening he had worked later than usual, and had had occasion to ask his employer some question, and so gone to his office. He said it was not usual for Mr. Skyros to be there after hours, but perhaps it was something to do with this shipment of goods just arrived; at any rate, there he was. And there was someone with Mr. Skyros— another man. Stevan heard them speaking together before he knocked on the door— you must not think he eavesdropped deliberately, but he hesitated to intrude, you see, when he heard that Mr. Skyros had a visitor, and possibly there was a transom open or something like that, I could not say. He was most disturbed over what he had overheard. He said it sounded to be something to do with a crime, and yet he wasn't sure— you see they were speaking English. And he asked me what I thought he should do. He was such a very honest young man." The priest sighed again.

  "I'll tell you," said Mendoza slowly, "this isn't the first I've heard of that. His fiancée and her grandmother— the Roslevs— have been in. He mentioned it to them too."

  "Ah, yes— I see— of course. Poor girl, poor girl. Not that I will say I feel quite the sympathy for Katya that I do for the old woman .... But then you know— "

  "They couldn't tell me much. Possibly he told you more in any case. Did he tell you exactly what he overheard?"

  "Well, frankly, Lieutenant, I must admit that I couldn't make much of it myself. He did try to repeat it to me. He heard Mr. Skyros say, 'It will be necessary to make up some story for the insurance people, madness to keep that money of course, they'll be keeping an eye on her afterward and there's all the trouble of taking the stuff out of the country— but that's for later, her business, and nothing to do with you, I'll fix up something.' And the other man, who sounded, Stevan said, very uneducated, uncouth, he said it was— er— 'a hell of a lot of dough for that stuff? And Mr. Skyros said something about it being all how you looked at it, and money made money, so the proverb said. He seemed, Stevan said, to be— how shall I put it— falsely genial with this other. And the other man said then, if that was so, how did he know it wasn't worth more than Skyros said; and Skyros replied that a thing one had to sell under the counter was worth only what a buyer was willing to pay, and ten thousand was a good profit. And then the second man said something about the County Museum."

  "The County Museum?"

  "Well, the actual words Stevan quoted to me were, I think, 'that museum place out Exposition,' which I took to be— "

  "Yes. Odd."

  "It was, you see, the phrase 'under the counter' which worried Stevan. He asked me what he ought to do, he said Mr. Skyros had been kind to him, giving him a job when he was still slow at writing the English and so on, and he did not like to seem ungrateful, but that on the other hand he wanted to become a good citizen, and anything bad, perhaps criminal, the police should know. I advised him— rightly or wrongly— to do nothing unless he was sure of some wrongdoing. I said he had really nothing to take to the police."

  "Quite right," said Mendoza. "Nothing there at all, actually. That's all he heard? . . . Yes. Well, I'm glad to hear a little more about it than the Roslevs could tell me, but— "

  "It doesn't seem to mean much? I am relieved to hear you say so, Lieutenant. I only wondered— as I say, uncharitable of me. But I thought it my duty to come and tell you, in case it should mean more to you than to myself."

  "Yes, very good of you to come in," said Mendoza absently.

  "Er— businessmen— doubtless merely a little something to do with his business— and Stevan misunderstood— I feel I may have been leaping to melodramatic conclusions— "

  "Well, one never knows." And was there any reason to ask for a formal statement? Hearsay evidence. Not yet: perhaps never. He thanked the priest again, listened to a few more mild ramblings about Domokous, and saw him out politely.

  Nada absolutamente, damn it. He refused to believe that Skyros or anybody else had committed murder— and a fairly elaborate murder, at that— to prevent that amiable, honest young man from repeating that vague little story. It didn't mean enough. The obvious conclusion, if you were determined to make it murder, was that if Domokous had been killed over that business, he'd found out more about it, enough to be dangerous. The priest had told him, do nothing unless you are sure of wrongdoing. Had Domokous, perhaps, gone looking for something more to say yes or no? And, to his misfortune, found it?"

  TEN

  Mendoza let all that simmer gently in his mind overnight— not much else he could do. It looked very much as if this was going to be one of those cases where there'd never be the evidence to bring anyone to book, even if he found the answer to the problem. The kind of thing where you were pretty sure there'd been funny business of some sort, but couldn't prove it. Of course, there was some gain: if Domokous had died because he was a little too honest, he had managed to call attention to Skyros and (if she had anything to do with it at all) Madame Bouvardier, and Callaghan at least would be taking a look at Skyros. Once in a while you got something like that— the kind of thing Pat ran into more— no legal evidence available. And sometimes, a while later something else happened and you could say, Ah, so that's what was behind it— but ten to one no evidence forthcoming then— just the satisfaction of knowing for sure.

  Insurance, he reflected. Mixed up in it somehow?— by the bits and pieces he had. A nymph and a dolphin— ¡0ye, qué va!— some precious shipment of imports? And what had the County Museum to do with it? However, something useful might be got out of that fellow Driscoll. Citizens' duty to aid the police when requested.

  He had no chance the next morning to do anything about that; he'd only get to his office when his inside phone rang.

  "Returning favors," said Callaghan. “Fair exchange?

  "What, have you got something already?"

  "A kind of interesting little bit that might be more for you than me. My man took over Skyros from yours about four o'clock yesterday. De La Torres— very good man, nose lik
e a bloodhound. Well, Skyros stayed late at his office, and along about seven o'clock he had a visitor. At the back door, and as it happened De La Torres was halfway down the delivery-entrance alley and it wasn't dark yet, daylight saving still being with us, and he had a look at him as the fellow went in. Door left unlocked for him, all very hospitable. And De La Torres recognized him, so he slipped up to the corner drugstore— taking a chance on losin' 'em both, but sometimes you've got to take chances— and put in a call for somebody to take on the guy when he left, if possible."

  "And who was he and why did De La Torres know him?"

  “Believe it or not his name's Prettyman. He isn't, very. We picked him up about three years ago for unlawful possession, that was before they put in the stiffer sentences, and he only got sixty days. No other record on him. But as it happened, De La Torres was the man picked him up, you see. And to anticipate you, there's no more evidence on him now, for all I know he's reformed and maybe Skyros is an innocent personal friend he's met since and he goes to see him privately at his oilice to chat about chess problems or the weather. Off the record, thanks very much for Skyros— I really think you got something there. We'll continue to look into it. Well, the office sent out Farr to join De La Torres, and when Prettyman came out— which was about half an hour later— Farr took him on. He drove down to Main and went into a bar there— Anselmo's— not a very hot reputation, been closed down a couple of times for serving juveniles and and getting caught with unlicensed stuff. In Farr goes after him, having his teeth in it by then, and Prettyman had teamed up with another fellow at a table. They stayed there awhile, and Prettyman was calling the other guy Denny. Farr got as close as he could, but there was a lot of noise in the place, as usual, and he just got snatches of what they said. Until in about half an hour they started out together. Neither of 'em was drunk, he says, just high, at the backslapping all— buddies— together stage."

  "Has this story got a tag-line?"

  "Wait for it, I'm getting there. Farr ambles out after 'em, and when they get to Prettyman's car round the corner— darker side street— he gets close enough to listen. And they're talking about Keats— "

  "Now look," said Mendoza, "I've got no time to listen to interminable accounts of the funny dream you had last night. Tell your wife, she has to put up with being bored."

  "Will you wait for it, damn it! I don't mean Keats who wrote poetry, I mean— or I think they meant— one Walter William Keats who's a burglar. At least, most of the time he is, he did a three-to-five stretch for it awhile ago, but he's also been picked up for armed robbery and assault. This I got from Burglary and Theft, I'd never heard of him myself, but what they call the context kind of led both Farr and me to guess what his lay is. Prettyman and Denny, whoever he is, were talking about Keats' bad luck, getting in bad with the best fence in town, and— "I'm coming to it now, you can start 1istening— Denny said, maybe he oughta try Frank's old boss, the Greek, he was kinda getting into that business himself. And Prettyman said, Yeah, was that so? And then— "

  "The Greek. Same one Prettyman had just been visiting?"

  "For what it's worth, Farr— who didn't know any of this background— said he sort of got the impression Prettyman was surprised and wanted to ask questions, but this Denny started in talking about something else and he didn't have a chance then."

  "Mmh. Every time I acquire a little more suggestive information about this thing," said Mendoza, "it just makes it more complicated. Do I unravel this hearsay evidence right, that Denny was implying the Greek was turning fence? Skyros?"

  "Maybe. And I haven't finished. Then Denny— who was a little higher than Prettyman— said, let's go see Amy, nice girl, Amy, and maybe take a bottle along. And Prettyman said Amy didn't go much for guys in his line of work, and Denny said, sure, she wouldn't mind, look at Angie, she liked him all right, didn't she? It was just, you know, Frank had been in it when he got his and it kinda reminded her, but Amy was O.K."

  "Wait a minute, let me get this down .... Yes?"

  "You've almost got it. Finally they spotted Farr and he had to go on past to his own car. In a minute they both climbed into Prettyman's, and went on down Main to Daggett Street. Ended up at 341. Farr put all this down in his notes while he sat outside. After awhile Prettyman came out alone and took himself down to a joint called the Elite at Daggett and San Pedro. I may add that this joint we're looking at lately, because a user we picked up last week let out that he'd been told you could get a fix there. And a while after that Prettyman went home, which is a cheap room in a Main Street hotel."

  "Well, well," said Mendoza. "This is a little something to think about, isn't it? But what a funny combination— burglary and dope— and what lay do you suppose this Denny's on, fraud or something? Unless it's one of those masterminded crime rings, as per the detective stories of thirty years back, all this rigmarole doesn't make any sense at all."

  "I can't help that, I'm just giving it to you as it came in. On account of your corpse. You said maybe the corpse knew something about Skyros, and likelier something about some crooked work in his regular business than any outside deal— but this seems to indicate that there might be some kind of outside business. Something funny, anyway. If he is the Greek."

  "I don't deny it. What about 341 Daggett— pro house?"

  "If it is, Vice doesn't know it. Aside from that I know nothing about Amy. How much do you want? I only had this thrown at me half an hour ago."

  "I appreciate your good intentions," said Mendoza. "All you've succeeded in doing is arousing my curiosity to fever pitch. I really think I'll have to look into this myself— I couldn't explain to anybody just what to investigate. Thanks very much, I'll let you know if anything comes of it."

  "Always happy to co-operate," said Callaghan.

  Mendoza looked at his scribbled notes while he finished his cigarette, and then got up and reached for his hat. He had, he supposed, no business wasting time over such vague clues, on such a nebulous affair; but if he'd admit it to himself, he always hated to delegate authority. Now and then it made a little change, a little interest, to get out on the street again, at the core of a case, doing the work a sergeant or his underlings usually did, while the lieutenant waited to have all the loose ends handed him for tying up into neat knots. He might just begin the cast here, anyway.

  Daggett Street, he thought. Twenty-three years ago he had lived on Daggett Street, down there the wrong side of Main ....

  * * *

  Hackett came in late because yesterday had been his sister's birthday; he'd had to go out there for dinner and it was quite a little drive back and forth, clear out to Arcadia; he hadn't got in until after midnight, and had overslept.

  Sergeant Lake told him Mendoza had been in and gone out again, leaving a note for him. The note said, "Inmediatamente, contact Driscoll and find out what his interest is in Skyros." Hackett felt unreasonably exasperated; that was Luis for you, go on worrying at some insignificant little thing like this, like a dog with a meatless bone. There wasn't anything in this Domokous business.

  But he dutifully called Driscoll's hotel, which he knew from the tail on him. Driscoll was out. Hackett left a request for him to call when he came in, and looked over the tail's report on him in desultory interest. Mendoza had sized Driscoll up all right: the saga of his wanderings in the last thirty-six hours sounded remarkably like one of those pieces of fiction in which the emphasis was on pace rather than plausibility.

  He had visited the local office of his company on Wednesday morning, when his tail was first attached; had, as the tail reported laconically, drunk lunch at a nearby bar, and then driven out to the County Museum in Exposition Park. He hadn't stayed there long, but gone on out Wilshire to the Beverly-Hilton. Stayed there about half an hour, come out, driven back to Hollywood and gone to another bar, where he made a phone call which, the tail deduced by the fact that he'd got a ten-dollar bill changed into quarters first, was a long-distance one. He had then had dinner and taken
himself to what the tail reported was a damned stale burlesque show down on Main. Came out about nine-thirty ("thank God," the tail appended, "enough to put a man off women for life") and sought out another bar. Subsequently the tail had had to load him into a taxi— perfectly safe, as he had already passed out— and send him back to his hotel. On Thursday, not unexpectedly, he had stayed in all morning: emerged about one o'clock, looking about as you'd expect, and had again driven out to the County Museum. This time he stayed a couple of hours, and from there went to the Times-Mirror Building and stayed another couple of hours. The tail had been unable to track close enough to find out where he'd gone inside. He came out about six o'clock and had a sandwich and several drinks at still another bar. And then he went back to Hollywood to a much-vaunted live-revue theater.

  Bound to enjoy himself if it kills him, deduced Hackett. The night tail reported in just as he finished reading, and said Driscoll hadn't shown before the day man came on, but he'd been middling high when he came in last night and maybe was nursing another little hangover.

  Yesterday afternoon Mendoza had decided to put a tail on the exotic brunette, and since Callaghan had taken over Skyros, Hackett had transferred Dwyer, Reade, and Higgins to her. Higgins' report, up to midnight, was here. Madame Bouvardier had dined at her hotel, and had then been driven up to Hollywood by her hired chauffeur to an address near Silver Lake. She hadn't stayed there long, only half an hour or so, then returned to the hotel.

  [ And what was there in all that? Exactly nothing. If Driscoll's movements said anything, they said he didn't seem inordinately interested in Mr. Skyros. And as for the woman— well! Jewelers, hairdressers, the hotel dining room, and probably some acquaintance in a good residential district— kind of thing you'd expect.

  ' Nymphs and dolphins, thought Hackett. Once in a while one of Mendoza's hunches paid off, but a lot of them were duds too, and this looked like one of those all right.