by Dell Shannon
Brown Slacks, closest to him, was taken sufficiently by surprise to leave himself open, and Mendoza made a little room by a solid right to his mouth, staggering him back into a glass case. Bushy Hair came up in a hurry, knife straight out and low, but he came at such a convenient angle— possibly he had a higher-class background than Daggett Street and didn't expect it— that he walked smack into a nicely— timed kick in the groin, and went down flat on his back and dropped the knife. Mendoza dived after it and was helped on his way by Green Shirt falling on him from behind; he twisted away from the sap, heard it thud on the floor, missed the knife, rolled over and took the second blow of the sap glancingly on the temple. He heaved off Green Shirt desperately, staggered up on his feet again, and dodged as Gray Slacks swung at him. He had no illusions about taking all four; all he wanted was to clear them out of the way to the door. There was a saying very apropos— Más vale qué digan, Aqui corrió, y na, aqui murió— Better they say, he ran here, and not, he died here.
He took a nasty slash on the arm from Gray Slacks' knife; Brown Slacks was picking himself up from the shattered case, swearing, and Mendoza kicked him down again, simultaneously dodging Green Shirt's vicious swing of the sap. Bushy Hair, groaning steadily and clutching his stomach, sat up obligingly just in time to trip Green Shirt, who fell into Mendoza's left hard enough to make him think something was broken, and sprawled flat— but he was up again, and coming back for more. Mendoza heard the door rattle and Hackett's voice outside— the Marines had landed. He shouted, "In, Art!" and saw Gray Slacks' knife slashing up for his stomach with a practised wrist-motion. He lunged for the wrist and got the blade hrst; it sliced deep across the ball of his thumb and palm, but a second later he had the arm in both hands, brought his knee up for leverage, leaned on it and heard the arm-bone snap.
As the man yelled, the door-panel smashed open and Hackett came in like a big bull, head down. He took in the situation as he came, and fell on top of Green Shirt, who was coming up behind Mendoza, and put him out of commission with the butt of his gun. Rhodes followed in time to collide with a blind swing from Brown Slacks, just up again; he let out a bellow of surprise and knocked Brown Slacks into the third glass case and unconsciousness.
Mendoza sat down on the end fountain-stool and wrapped his handkerchief round his left hand. "Very nice timing, Art," he said rather breathlessly.
Hackett put his gun away, looked at the havoc, and asked, "Is that an artery?"
"No, but it might as well be, the damage it's— I couldn't get to it right away. ¡Válgame Dios! look at this suit! Three hundred bucks a month ago!"
"What the hell goes on here?" asked Rhodes, bewildered. "What— sit? Lieutenant— " But training held; he didn't wait for an answer, went back to the door to stand off the crowd collecting, while Hackett found the phone and put in a call for a patrol car and an ambulance. While they waited, he came and added his handkerchief to Mendoza's. "One of these days, my latter-day conquistador, you're goin' to do this just once too often— tackle a gang armed with switchblades and knuckle-dusters without so much as a cap pistol on you. And why I should do any worrying about it, the good God above knows, because it's probably the only way I'll ever get to be a lieutenant."
"¡Quid, imbécil! You don't think this was my idea, do you? You think I took on four at once so everybody can say, That Mendoza, ¡qué hombre!— a lion-eater! All I wanted was out, boy, but they were between me and the door, so it was por malas o por buenas— no choice." He struggled out of his jacket and cursed, feeling the slash in the sleeve. Most of that sleeve and a good deal of the front panel was generously bloodstained, and the other sleeve half out of the shoulder seam. "Three hundred bucks," he said bitterly, "and twelve for the tie!"
"My God in heaven," said Hackett, and went to meet the precinct men arriving.
TWELVE
The druggist sidled out of the back room and gazed mournfully at the wreckage, and Mendoza, who'd followed Hackett to the door, said in an urgent undertone, "Arrest me, Art— take me out all official-looking, nobody here must know who I am."
"Games, yet," said Hackett, grabbed him by one arm, and shoved him out. Mendoza sat in the ambulance while the interns bandaged him temporarily, refusing to go along to the General for stitches in his hand immediately; he'd have it seen to sometime today. He was publicly pushed into the back of Hackett's car.
"Tell the precinct sergeant somebody'll be down to give him details on this. Don't be a fool, I'm not much damaged, I'll see a doctor after lunch, and lunch I've earned." He looked at Rhodes, peering at him from the front seat still wearing a faintly astonished expression, and added, "And we've things to talk over. Let's be on our way, Arturo. Though how the hell I can go into a— oh, well, they know me at Federico's, and it's a hot day."
The head waiter, however, looked very surprised to see him with no jacket, no necktie, collar unbuttoned; and still more surprised when Mendoza demanded a drink before lunch. "I'm going to wash, I'm filthy— don't sit down, Art, go and call Pat Callaghan and brief him on this. Those four, I think, are more his business than mine, and he'll want to see them. He's the one sent me down there in the first place."
"That I want to hear about. I thought Callaghan was a friend of yours."
"He didn't know I'm getting senile," said Mendoza, "to walk into a thing like that— like a fool I had my mind on something else. And probably nothing to show for it but the wear and tear— And get me an aspirin somewhere, that sap connected once and I've got a headache."
"What were you doing down there without a gun, Lieutenant?" asked Rhodes. "I mean, I'd think— "
"Oh, his tailor won't let him pack a gun," explained Hackett. "It spoils that nice shoulder-line, you know."
"That little joke I'm tired of. ¡Zape! Go and call Pat!"
"I'm going, I'm going."
"You mean you never— why, that's asking for trouble, Lieutenant," said Rhodes earnestly. "Why, anyway?"
"Oh, I don't like loud bangs, they make me nervous," said Mendoza irritably, and vanished to seek soap and water.
Hackett joined Rhodes at a table before Mendoza reappeared. Rhodes, who was a big fair farmery-looking young man, still wore a bewildered expression. "I never heard that one," he said to Hackett.
"About his not packing a gun. I mean, Landers— "
"You know Landers'?"
"Yes, sure, and he— you know, talks about Lieutenant Mendoza sometimes, but he never mentioned that. Why doesn't he, anyway?"
"I'll tell you," said Hackett, and broke off to demand coffee and offer Rhodes a cigarette, "he's got this crazy idea, police exist to prevent violence and we ought to set an example. He says sure, out on patrol, anywhere you're apt to be in danger unarmed, 0.K., but anything you got handy you're going to use when maybe it isn't strictly necessary. And a lot of perfectly good honest cops are still a little too quick on the trigger, if they've got it there six inches from their hand. He liked Wes Rich, thought he was a smart boy, but he got him broke from sergeant last year after Rich shot that Prince kid— remember the one killed his uncle because the uncle used to get drunk and beat up his wife and the kid? Prince tried to run on the way to the station, and Rich shot him. Sure, he didn't aim to kill, but it isn't exactly like target-shooting for a score, is it? Luis said he needed another little spell as an errand boy to think it over."
"Well, my God," said Rhodes, "but it's not common sense to walk into the tiger cage without a whip and a kitchen chair."
"How right you are," said Hackett. "That Luis doesn't say. Just that it's a good idea to try other methods first, and if you never move a step without the whip, you never have to think of any other way of doing it."
"I see," said Rhodes thoughtfully.
Mendoza came up, looking slightly more presentable, looked at the rye the waiter had left for him and said, "I shouldn't have that, I've had two drinks already this morning— unprecedented, and you know what it does to me."
"I guess you've had enough of a workou
t already you won't be spoiling for another fight in the next half hour," said Hackett. "Live dangerously for once, drink it."
Mendoza did, said, "Ah, coffee, that's better. Did you get me some aspirin?"
Hackett gave him one and said Callaghan extended sympathy but was pleased to hear some of those boys from the Elite could be arrested for something, even common assault. He'd go right down to look them over, and their places of residence, and it might just be they could eventually be charged with something more, which would be very useful.
"They won't be charged with assaulting me, not by name anyway," said Mendoza. “I'm not appearing in this round. If there is any connection with this Domokous thing I don't want them to know I know it. Not that I know much, and God knows that."
"I want to hear about this little adventure. What took you down there?"
"Take too long to tell— it's very complicated: briefly, I got some names from Pat, I went to do some sniffing around myself, and while I had my mind on the names I inadvertently gave these boys the impression I was doing something else they didn't like . . . yes, suggestive in a way, and I want to hear what Pat thinks. But meantime— " He told the waiter to bring him anything edible and more coffee inmediatamente.
"Rhodes— this is Sergeant Rhodes? What with one thing and another we don't seem to have been introduced— "
"Yes, sir, I'm Rhodes."
"I must be losing my grip, come to think— you couldn't answer questions without your records, I don't suppose you remember much about it offhand. Car theft. Miss Alison Weir, a week ago last Sunday, and you found the car and returned it a week ago yesterday."
"Miss Weir— oh, yes, sir, I do remember. I mean, I'd better explain, I know Landers in your office, you see, and he— that is— Miss Weir's a friend of yours, isn't she, and I happened to notice the name— "
"I see," said Mendoza. "And they say women are the gossips. Well, I want to hear everything you know about that business. Pretend I don't know anything about it— I don't, much— and give me all you remember, we can check your records later."
"Well," said Rhodes blankly. "Well, it was kind of an ordinary thing, Lieutenant. Probably kids— you know how much of that sort of thing we get. The car was pinched from Exposition Park that Sunday afternoon, I heard later Miss Weir and a friend of hers'd been to some art show at the County Museum— "
"¡Quid! Now that I'd forgotten, if I ever heard it. The County Museum— what the hell has it got to do with this? A dignified, dreary spot like that— "
"Oh, I don't know, I kind of like museums," said Hackett. "But don't look at me for the answer. This much I'll contribute— Driscoll has gone there twice in the last two days. I don't know why, the tail was too far behind and lost him inside."
Mendoza laid down his fork and put a hand to his temple. "I'm in no condition to be given shocks, Arturo. And I'll never, by God, make any more jokes about implausibly complicated detective fiction. I wonder what kind of exhibitions they've got on at the moment. Anything in the nature of nymphs and dolphins?"
"You've let nymphs and dolphins seduce you away from any solid facts in this thing— the few we've got," said Hackett. "I don't think they've got a damn thing to do with it."
"I won't argue, I'm out of ammunition. Go on, Rhodes. What time and where from, exactly?"
Rhodes, who had stopped eating to follow this exchange with a furrowed brow, said, "What'? Oh, the car— why, it was early afternoon when Miss Weir left it, I seem to remember— and I think the call to the precinct went through about five o'clock. You know those little narrow winding streets all round the park buildings— it was somewhere along the one goes in front of the main museum building, a block or so down. I figured it afterward, Sunday, you know, a public park with no admission fee— it was probably some teenagers, just decided to take a joy ride. You get an awful lot of that. I don't know what you think, sir, but I put it down to people not being at home with their kids more, and maybe some of this progressive education. Because a lot of 'em we pick up, they're not what you'd call delinquents— it's just, my God, they don't seem to know any better, don't see any reason at all why they shouldn't take anything sitting around loose, if they've got a yen for it at the moment. You know? And what with the big areas public schools take in, there's bound to be a few real delinquents in a lot of them, and quite a few kids from ordinary respectable homes pick up little tricks, like how to do without an ignition key."
"Yes, all that I grant you. But most kids, this sort or that, go for something new and classy."
"Well, not always," said Rhodes. "Some of 'em who go in for dragracing— But most of what we get from kids is just picking up anything handy to ride around in a few hours. Another thing that comes into it is taking a dare. My God, these kids!— it makes you wonder. I mean, one of 'em says, Bet you haven't got the nerve to swipe a car, and the other one's ashamed to chicken out. And mind you, both of 'em might be from respectable homes, raised to know better."
"Also true," said Mendoza patiently, "but evidently whoever took Miss Weir's car kept it longer than a couple of hours. Where and when did it turn up?"
"I don't remember the exact address, sir, but it's in the records. It was that Thursday, about noon, around there— a fellow called the local precinct to report this car'd been sitting out in front of his house almost two days. So the boys went and checked, and of course it was on the hot list so they brought it into the headquarters garage. It was a new tract street somewhere out in Compton, I think, and the fellow said he'd first noticed it when he left for work on Wednesday morning, early."
"Mmh. Abandoned there late Tuesday night. Did your boys go over it?"
"Well, sure," said Rhodes. "The way we usually do, you know— I mean, we didn't tear it apart looking, it's run-of-the-mill, stuff like that. We looked for prints on the wheel and so on, in case we could match them up to somebody in Records. I seem to remember that everything a driver'd touch had been wiped clean."
"Which does not," said Mendoza, "look like a bunch of kids out for a joy ride."
"Well, I guess not," admitted Rhodes. "But a pro— I mean, there isn't anything in hopping shorts unless you keep them, fake up new plates and so on, and sell them. We get a certain amount of that, of course. But a thing like this— car used a little while and then abandoned— it's practically always kids."
"Unless it's a getaway of some kind," said Mendoza. "Somebody on the run in a hurry, maybe his own car stalled or— "
"Somehow," said Hackett, "I got the feeling that if there'd been a job pulled at the County Museum— one of their Rembrandts missing, or an Egyptian mummy maybe, or the dinosaur skeleton— — there'd have been a line or two about it in the papers. They might even have called in the police."
"All right, all right," said Mendoza. "I can do without the sarcasm. You didn't find anything in the car, nothing to point to who'd taken it. What about the mileage? Any way to check?"
"Well, it didn't seem very important, Lieutenant— I mean, why should we? I suppose there'd have been a check of some approximate kind, if there's a garage record on the doorpost as usual, for oil changes, and if Miss Weir could say what it was when the car was taken— "
"Which is very doubtful. Yes. And it's past praying for now, anyway. Damn. And what could it have told us? Nothing."
"Sir," Rhodes had been looking uneasy. "I don't know what this is all about, but if there's something more to that business than just— I mean, something important— maybe you ought to— or maybe you know— "
"That little thing she found, yes," nodded Mendoza. "I know. I don't know how it ties in, or what it means, but it seems to mean something, because somebody seems to be anxious to have it back. And to be pretty sure it was lost in the car."
Rhodes looked uneasier than ever. "My God, do you think it was something to do with that? Miss Weir called in— twice— and I thought— I told her— "
"Yes, and you were quite justified," Mendoza soothed him. "Don't look so worried. Exactly the ki
nd of thing a nervous, scatterbrained female might think up. Persecution— or wishful thinking, I suppose the head-doctors would say— big bad man pursuing her. But there are females and females, and as it happens Miss Weir is quite a level-headed one ordinarily, and not given to seeing ghosts."
"Well, my God, I'm sorry, sir, I never— "
"No, not your fault, don't apologize, you couldn't know that, and I don't say it's an absolutely sure thing even now. I may be seeing ghosts. Maybe it was just kids broke into the garage, random mischief. But, damn it, unless the car had something to do with it, how has Alison got into this thing? That mysterious female out at the Beverly-Hilton— and what has she got to do with Skyros? .... Wait a minute. Have I had an inspiration? I wonder . . . Well, one thing I must do first is see her— Alison, I mean— and get the key to her mailbox. Because it's fifty to one that French maid left a note in it."
"Now that never occurred to me," admitted Hackett. "But it's not the first thing you're going to do, chico, you're going to visit a doctor and get some stitches in that thing."
"Who's the lieutenant here? Listen, Rhodes, you copy down all your records about that business and send them up to my office, O.K.? Thanks very much. And Art, you keep after Driscoll— that boy I want to have a talk with, and some straight answers from! And I'll check up on the note. And all right, Auntie dear, I'll go and get stitched up first."
Mendoza grimaced as he got up. "Damn it, I kept telling myself I should have sent you or one of the boys instead, on that little jaunt this morning. I'm out of condition for that sort of thing."
"So the exercise was probably good for you," said Hackett. "Maybe I shouldn't have ambitions to be a lieutenant, it's a sedentary job. Come on, grandpa, you can lean on me."
* * *
Mendoza saw a doctor and had eleven stitches taken in his hand, went home and took a bath and changed into a whole suit and a clean shirt. He then discovered that it was impossible to knot his tie with one hand and the tips of two fingers on the other, did some cursing, investigated that floor of the apartment to see who else was home, and met Mrs. Bryson just going out. She laid down her purse and gloves on the bottom step, exclaimed over the bandage, and made a firm nautical square knot for him, explaining ingenuously that she had a nephew in the Navy, as he knew. Getting back into the car, Mendoza felt it uneasily and hoped he wouldn't have to get her to untie it for him when he came home.