The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon

by Dell Shannon

  After he'd got out fresh liver for Bast, he paused to look at her crouched daintily over her dish. Surely she was just a trifle fatter around the middle? He seemed to remember reading somewhere that Abyssinians had large litters, and suffered a dismaying vision of the apartment overrun with a dozen kittens. "¿Y qué sigue despues?— what then?" he asked her severely. "A lot of people are so peculiar that they don't like cats, it's not the easiest thing in the world to find good homes for kittens— and, damn it, you know very well if I have them around long, impossible to give them away! And I suppose now that you've finally grown up, if a little late, you'd go on producing kittens every six months or so. Yes, well, it's a pity to spoil your girlish figure— which all those kittens would do anyway— but I think when you've raised these we'll just have the vet fix it so there won't be any more .... I 'wonder if the Carters would take one .... And it's no good looking at me like that," as she wound affectionately around his ankles. "Todo tiene sus limites— a limit to everything, ¿comprende? We will not keep more than one, and there'll be no more!"

  ' He had a bath and shaved. He looked up the number and called Miss Champion, the receptionist— bookkeeper at Alison's school, and told her to go round to the apartment in an hour or so; explained. Miss Champion twittered: she'd put up a notice and go right round, what a terrible thing, and— what?— oh, yes, she'd take some cigarettes with her. Mendoza looked in the book again and called a locksmith, told him to go and install a new lock, but not before eleven o'clock. Then he folded his tie to take with him and drove downtown.

  He found Hackett already there, reading a report. "You've got an excuse," said Hackett, taking the tie from him, "but I'll bet you've never checked in so late since you made rank. Hold your head up, I can't get at it with— No, I know it's not as pretty a job as you'd do, but I didn't join the force to learn how to be a valet. This is from Callaghan. I don't know how much it'll say to you— , it doesn't say much to me."

  Mendoza sat down and took the page. It was a copy of an official card from Records, and it sketched in the person and salient points of career of one Francis Joseph Donovan. Five-ten, one-seventy, hair black, eyes gray, complexion medium, Caucasian, male. One short stretch in reformatory as a minor, for car theft: one three-year term seven years later for burglary: picked up several times for questioning on various occasions thereafter, but no more charges or sentences after he'd got out from serving that one eight years ago. Suspected rather recently of having turned pusher, considering known associates. Callaghan had appended some notes to the terse concluding sentence of the record. A little over three months ago, Frank Donovan had been pointed out to a traffic patrolman, by a high school boy, as the man who had approached him and made some pitch the boy thought was leading up to offering marijuana or some other dope. There'd been lectures at school about these guys, he said, and a movie-and this one acted kind of like that. So the patrolman had gone up to ask some questions, and not being satisfied with the answers had searched Donovan and come across a handful of reefers; thereupon Donovan had tried to run, the patrolman had gone after him, shouted warning, fired once over his head and once at his legs— but it was hard to take careful aim when you were running, and he'd got him through the spine. Donovan had died that night in the General.

  "Mmh, yes," said Mendoza. "And I don't like that kind of careless business as a rule— it gets in the papers, the public talks about trigger-happy cops— but once in a while it saves everybody a lot of trouble. This kind, a year inside for unlawful possession, what is it? They can't be cured." He turned the page over and read a further notation in Callaghan's big scrawl. I think this is the Frank those two meant. He left a widow, Mrs. Amy Donovan, address you know on Daggett. She works at a joint on Main, the Golden Club, singing with a cheap combo. No record. "Well, well. Don't tell me we're beginning to straighten all this out. At least place some of the people, even the ones on the outside edge of the business. Like the house that Jack built. Prettyman who knows Skyros who knows Lydia."

  "I don't know Lydia. Suppose you bring me up to date."

  Mendoza obliged. "The only way I can figure it is that this part of it goes back to the theft of Alison's car. Somebody dropped this thing in it"— he brought it out, looked at it, passed it over— "and is anxious to have it back. So anxious he's made several elaborate attempts for it. Which reminds me," and he reached for the phone, called down to Prints, and asked if they had anything on that sap or the letter he'd sent in. Nothing but a confused mess on the sap; a variety of prints on the letter. As was only to be expected, damn it. He called the lab and asked if anything had turned up on that lock. Marks inside, little fresh scratches, where the thin arms of the stiff-wire tools from any complete burglar's kit had groped for the right combination of pressures. "There you are. An experienced man. Not, of course, Lydia— somebody else. Which fits in, in a way, you know, because Lydia apparently thought Alison was— mmh— somebody else than she is. Caray, what a series of little accidents! Yes, I think Lydia had a ride in that car while the thief had it, and noticed the registration slip, and leaped to the conclusion that the car belonged to the thief's girl-friend. I can see that happening, can't you? And she also tells us that the thief is an Irishman. Donovan is an Irish name."

  "You aren't supposing," said Hackett, "that Frank Donovan got up out of his grave, where he'd been peacefully decomposing for a couple of months, and stole Miss Weir's car out of the park?"

  "No hay tal. But the Irish are a prolific race," said Mendoza. "And just what has that got to do with Stevan Domokous? So, we can say for maybe ninety percent sure that Skyros is a middleman dope-runner, on Bratti's level, and a rival of Bratti's— that Domokous somehow found out about it, couldn't be bought off, and had to be killed. And on the principle of killing two birds with one stone, Skyros told us a nice little tale about Domokous mentioning Bratti, hoping to tie Bratti up to it. That I see. But who and what is Lydia? I thought I'd had an inspiration yesterday, I had a little vision of Skyros being more important than a middleman, importing the stuff himself, cunningly stashed away in the hollow insides of his foreign bric-a-brac— say inside this nymph and that dolphin, you know. But on second thoughts, I realized that the customs boys surely must know about that old dodge, it'd never do."

  Hackett agreed absently, still looking at the coin. "Funny-looking thing. Looks damned old, doesn't it? There's a fellow down in Records, O'Brien, I ran into him at lunch one day awhile back— — he's an amateur what-you-call-it— numismatist. I wonder if he'd know anything about what kind of thing this is."

  "No harm to go and ask. Take it if you like .... Yes, of course it looks like a straightforward pro business— whether it was murder or not, legally speaking. From the little we've got on it. And yet, Lydia— "

  Hackett was still turning the little coin over in his fingers. "I think," he said suddenly, "you've got hold of a couple of different picture puzzles, and're trying to fit pieces from both into one picture. It could be that Domokous is just exactly what he looks like— and Skyros didn't know one thing about it, but took the little opportunity it offered to mention Bratti's name in connection, hoping it'd take root, so to speak. And whatever business this is about Miss Weir's car, and whoever took it, and about this thing, and this Bouvardier woman, it hasn't anything to do with the dope-peddling."

  "Eso es lo peor," said Mendoza, "that's the worst of it. I have a feeling that's so, it's something different entirely. But both Skyros and Lydia are tied up to both ends of it."

  Hackett eyed him exasperatedly. "Sometimes I wonder why I don't put in for a transfer to some nice quiet routine place like Traffic or Records. Where I'd have a chance of getting a superior officer with just an ordinary-bright I.Q., who didn't go off at tangents after ghosts nobody else can see."

  "So why don't you?"

  "I'll tell you. Just one reason. It's always helpful toward promotion if you've got another language besides English, and I'm improvin' my Spanish quite a lot working under you .... Does t
hat blank stare mean you've had another idea?"

  “A brilliant one," said Mendoza truthfully. It had just occurred to him that by what Mr. Elgin said those kittens should be due about the middle of next month: which meant that they'd be ready to leave home and mother just around Christmas. Such an excellent excuse for the unsolicited gift. Of course one would want to be sure of choosing people who liked cats, would provide good homes— but so much easier to present the seasonal gift than chase all round first asking the hopeful question, Wouldn't you like— ?

  It was definitely an idea. "Well," and he stood up, "if I'm going to get anything done today at al1— my God, look at the time, nearly noon, the whole morning wasted. I want to see Driscoll and find out where the insurance comes in, if he's chastened enough to tell me."

  "I'l1 go hunt up O'Brien. I called Callaghan's office, by the way, just before you came in— he's over at the jail questioning your thugs. Maybe he'll get another little piece for you to fit in."

  "I'm not," said Mendoza, "nearly so interested in the thugs as I am in Lydia— "

  "¡Naturalmente!" said Hackett. "She's female!"

  * * *

  Mendoza met Callaghan just emerging from the inside block of the county jail. "Anything new?"

  "This and that," said Callaghan. "Come and have lunch with me, I'll brief you. I've earned it, God knows, been hammering at these boys most of the morning."

  "I haven't got time. Owing to various excitements I was up half the night and I've wasted half today already. I've got some hammering to do myself. Tell me here."

  They sat down on the bench along the wall and lit cigarettes. "Prettyman isn't coming out with anything. He's a smart boy. Also there's probably a deal set up— usually is— about his boss getting a lawyer for him, and in return he keeps his mouth shut. The lawyer— we see a lot of him and a couple of others the same kind— knows what the setup is, but so long as he gets his fee he figures what the hell. Somebody's got to represent the Prettymans in court, and he might as well get a piece of what's going. From the other three I've got a little useful talk about this Castro, but they don't know who his immediate boss is, of course— they're just punks. I did also hear a few things about this Angie."

  "Ah," said Mendoza.

  "It seems to tie up in a sort of way, but I don't see what it ties up to. What they dropped about Angie— I had to put two and two together on it, because they're trying to be awful damn cagy, you know— I gather he's another pusher like we figured, in this same string— "

  "Yes, Pretty's best boy."

  "And he's been sharing quarters— maybe still is, but it's on the cards when we hauled these four in and went through the Elite, the rest of 'em'd scatter quick in case we had 'em spotted— with one Denny. That is, if it's the same Denny that Prettyman knows. Seems likely. And from a couple of little things, I don't think Denny's on this lay at all."

  "That figures. Denny. For Dennis? Another Irish name."

  "Well, we come all sorts like other people," said Callaghan. "Does that say anything to you?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. That's about it? Well, I'll go and ask my questions and maybe this'll mean a little more." Mendoza went on in and requested admittance to Driscoll.

  Driscoll was a sorry sight after his hours in a cell; he was disheveled, he needed a shave, his eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and he was probably suffering from a headache and a bad case of indigestion— he looked it. He almost fell on Mendoza, babbling eagerly at him the minute he came in sight.

  "Lieutenant, say, I certainly owe you an apology, way I've been acting— don't know what got into me, I know better than to act that way— you've got to make allowances, I've been drinking kind of heavy, had some personal worries on my mind, you know how it is— "

  The jailer banged the cell door shut and Mendoza surveyed Driscoll leisurely. "So you're ready to co-operate now, Mr. Driscoll? Yes, I rather expected you'd take it like this. You have been a nuisance, Mr. Driscoll— I might say a damned nuisance. Ordinarily men in your job are quite co-operative and polite, we find— especially those associated with as large and well-known a firm as yours. Despite popular fiction, it usually does pay an investigator— public or private— to remember his manners, you know. At least I've always found it so. There's an old saying that one catches more flies with honey than with vinegar."

  "Listen, Lieutenant, my God, I know all that, I said I been worried, drinking a little heavy, and you know how it takes some— couple of drinks, they're spoiling for a fight, pick a fight with anybody looks at them— I'm kind of like that— "

  "So am I," said Mendoza conversationally, leaning on the door, "so I don't drink much. It saves a lot of trouble."

  "I want to apologize, I know I've made you mad, and no wonder. Don't know what got into me, I know better— listen, you'll give me a break, Lieutenant, you look like a regular guy, you won't complain to the company, will you?— swear I never acted like this before, and— "

  "I am not so constituted," said Mendoza, "that I enjoy being fawned on, Mr. Driscoll. I don't give one damn for your relations with your company, but I should doubt that you keep your job much longer whether or not I issue an official reprimand. All I'm interested in right now is some straight answers you should have given me three days ago."

  "Yes, sure, I know, Lieutenant, be glad to tell you whatever you want to know .... Skyros . . . Well, I'll tell you, maybe I better just let you have it from the start, see, tell you just how it was . . ." Driscoll went on talking for some time, going into elaborate details. And that built— in sense of order somewhere inside Mendoza, that thing that was rendered so acutely wretched by the wrinkle in the rug, the picture hanging crooked, the untidy scattered pieces of the jigsaw puzzle— it began to settle down into peace and cease to nag at him. It was satisfied. So that's how it is, that's the pattern, or a large part of it; just the background to fill in. Oh, very nice— pieces dovetailing into each other neat and meaningful. Yes. He felt better than he had all week, since this had been on his mind. He even began to feel slightly benevolent toward Driscoll.

  At the end of what Driscoll had to say, he saw to the necessary forms for his release and drove happily back to headquarters. His mind was busy filling in background details, and of course there were a few little things he still didn't know—

  Such as who had killed Stevan Domokous—

  But such a large part of it unraveled now, the rest ought to be untied easily ....

  * * *

  He stopped at First Aid and had his hand redressed, thinking that he'd probably be too busy the rest of the day to bother with it. And he was not wrong.

  Sergeant Lake greeted him with relief. "I was hoping you'd be in pretty soon, knowing how it's on your mind sort of, Lieutenant. One of Callaghan's office men just called down, said they had orders to relay any news about this Skyros. The tail they've got on him had just called in, said there was the hell of a ruction of some sort going on in his office, and a call out to the precinct— "

  "For God's sake, what about? All right, I'd better go and find out," and Mendoza snatched up his hat again and made back for the elevator.

  SEVENTEEN

  Mr. Skyros had had only one brief moment of alarm. Of all the little shocks and worries he had suffered lately, this was the easiest to handle, because he knew about Domokous. Earnest young Domokous saying, "A little it worried me, sir, I don't like to think bad things about you, and maybe I just misunderstood some meaning— "

  Domokous had known nothing definite, so obviously the girl knew nothing.

  Really a most unattractive girl: that long sallow face, tangled black hair— and she was staring at him with bright-eyed vindictive triumph, as if she actually thought she had said something meaningful.

  "My dear young lady," he said, smiling, sure of himself, "first I say I'm very sorry to see Stevan's girl with such thoughts in her head— it's not a nice thing. And you're all wrong, you know, this is a very silly little business altogether, you have got this funn
y idea from Stevan, I know, yes, but it was just a little mistake."

  "It wasn't no mistake!" she said. "He told me all about it— he'd found out just what you're up to— that's why you killed him, I know! I know about everything, Mr. Skyros— but you won't hurt me, you won't dare, see? I've got it all wrote down, just like I say, black 'n' white, an' I got it put away in a box at the bank, where nobody can't get at it but me. See? But you give me the five thousand dollars an' I won't tell— that's fair, isn't it? I'd promise never to tell— "

  Mr. Skyros laughed. "Miss Roslev— really, I don't know what I should say to you, this silly little thing, this nothing! I don't want to call the police, tell them this bad thing, how you have such crazy ideas— "

  "You wouldn't dare— I know!"

  "But that's just what I tell you, young lady, you don't know, isn't it? You don't know anything at all. Come now, what is this bad thing I'm supposed to do, eh? I steal from somebody, I break in a house to rob, maybe? And you say, my good God, me, I murder Stevan? Now this isn't funny, I don't like it."

  "I know what you done! And it's all wrote down— "

  "Then you let me in on the secret, eh? What is it all about?"

  "Stevan told me— he'd found out— "

  "But nobody tells me," said Mr. Skyros. "Now you listen to me, young lady. Yes, sure, poor Stevan, maybe he tells you how he hears a little something one night, makes him think bad things about me. This I don't doubt he says to you, because he comes to me and tells me, he's worried for it— such a nice honest young man he was, isn't it?— and I have set his mind at rest. It was a little mistake was all, he don't know some of the words we use in a business way, you see. And I straighten it out in his mind, so he knows everything's O.K., I'm no big public enemy like the papers call it! That's all it was, a little mistake, you see? This you didn't know, that we'd talked it over— poor fellow, he's dead before he sees you again, I suppose. And I'm patient to explain, tell you how it was, because I'm sorry for you, such bad ideas in your head."