The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon

by Dell Shannon

  She stared at him stupidly, across the desk there. "That's not so, that's a lie! I know— about a lot of money— there, that tells you I know! An' I'll tell everybody if you don't give me— "

  "Oh, my good God in heaven," exclaimed Mr. Skyros. "This is a comedy, like in the films— only maybe not so funny. Very good, young lady, you go to the police and say, this Andreas Skyros is a bad man, he's figuring to steal a lot of money— you tell everybody just how and where and when, isn't it? Only you can't tell, nothing you've got to tell, and this I know! Now be sensible, Miss Roslev, go away and put these crazy ideas out of your head."

  "No!" she said, and she leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk hard, fingers pressed bone-white. "It's all lies— I do too know-everything about it! And I'll tell— you got to give me five thousand dollars right now— then I won't— "

  "Oh, go away, young woman!" said Mr. Skyros crossly. "I'm a very patient man, and I don't want to make a big fuss about this little nonsense, call in the police and tell them you put these silly little threats on me— poor Stevan's girl, it wouldn't look nice at all!— but I don't put up with it all day either. A lot of craziness in your head is all. You stop bothering me, go away, forget it."

  "You just wouldn't dare— the cops— I do too! You got to. I'll tell— "

  "Now look," said Mr. Skyros, and stood up. He knew it was scarcely a chance at all he was taking; the girl knew nothing in any case, she was only bluffing, and how she had thought to get away with it was beyond his understanding. But she would not go to the police, and it would not be necessary that he carry out a threat to do so. Of course he could not do that— it was only that she must be made to understand her ridiculous position. "Now look, voung woman. I'm patient like I say, I explain to you how it happens, this little mistake. It's nothing, you know nothing, because there's nothing to know— and that's all to say about it. I don't like to do such a thing, but I can't be pestered like this, and you don't leave my office, then I call the police and tell them how you try to blackmail me— over nothing, just a silly idea— "

  "— Wouldn't dare— "

  "Now, who do they listen to, I ask you? Me, I'm a respectable businessman, an honest man, my own place, never in any kind of trouble, and no— no axe to grind I got, like they say— " He shrugged. “Why should I tell lies about this unimportant girl— some kind of cheap job, a cheap little couple of rooms somewhere, a girl nobody knows or cares about much, isn't it? Nobody pays any attention to you, Miss— "

  "You old devil!" she screamed at him suddenly. "You got to give me that money, you got to— you— " She sprang to her feet, still gripping the desk, leaning across it. "You got to, you know you got to," she panted. "I got to have— "

  Suddenly Mr. Skyros felt just a little nervous. It was absurd, of course, but her eyes were quite wild, she sounded— And nobody else in the building, so far as he knew: the office staff had all gone off, Saturday afternoon . . . "I don't got to do anything," he said. "You go away and calm down, or I call the police."

  “You— you— I got to have that money! I'll kill you— if you don't— "

  Her hand darted out like a snake, snatched up the letter-knife from the desk. It was a miniature Indian dagger of brass— Mr. Skyros had a fancy for such things— with a curved blade, and while it was not quite as razor-sharp as a real dagger would be, it could probably inflict some damage— its point was sharp enough. Mr. Skyros stepped backward involuntarily, tripped over his desk chair, and half fell sideways, clutching at the desk.

  "Now, young lady, don't you be foo1ish," he started to say.

  "Kill you— I just got to— " And she was on him like a cat, rushing around that side of the desk. Mr. Skyros felt the knife-point bite deep into his upper chest and let out a shrill yelp, staggering backward toward the window with some idea of calling for help. She flew at him again, sobbing with fury, and then the door opened and a nondescript man ran in, got her from behind by the arms, said, "What the hell's going on here?" and blew a whistle out the window.

  Mr. Skyros collapsed into his desk chair and squinted fearfully down at his chest. There was some blood; he tore his shirt open and was rather disappointed to find only a minute puncture in the pink soft flesh. "This— this fiend of a female," he gasped to the man, "she— "

  Running footsteps pounding up the stairs, a uniformed patrolman. "Darcy, headquarters," said the other man. "Attack of some sort, you better call the wagon. Listen, sister, you just calm down and stop trying to fight me, you're goin' nowhere right now."

  Mr. Skyros sank lower in his chair and moaned to himself. Police— having to hear all about it— and no telling what this terrible woman would say— These crazy females!

  "That's right, sister, you take it easy for a change," said the man. The girl subsided suddenly into a straight chair, and crouched there bent forward, hair falling over her face, silent and sullen.

  * * *

  Mendoza got there in time to follow the patrol car in to the precinct station. He took Mr. Skyros along, volubly protesting. Mr. Skyros' little wound was given first aid, and he was asked if he wanted to charge the young woman formally with assault.

  "Look," said Mr. Skyros earnestly, "let's not make the big thing out of this, isn't it? I'm sorry for the young lady, that's all. She's this poor Domokous' girl, going to marry him she was, and maybe she's a little lightheaded— a little crazy, you know— with the grieving for the poor boy. You see what I mean, gentlemen. She's got some crazy idea in her head— I don't know, don't ask me how females get ideas!— that it's, somehow, because he works for me he gets himself killed like that, you see? I don't know how she figures, gentlemen, she comes, says a lot of crazy things that don't make any sense at all, says it's all my fault poor Stevan dies— don't ask me why she thinks like that! It's a terrible thing all round, poor Stevan and now his girl acting like she's crazy— but I don't want any big trouble about it, bad for everybody, isn't it? I'm sorry for this poor girl, she don't know what she's saying, you know. She don't hurt me much," said Mr. Skyros bravely, "just a little scratch like, and I don't hold any grudge on the poor girl. You let her go home, get calmed down, maybe see a doctor— I don't charge her with anything, gentlemen."

  But it wasn't quite as simple as that. Mendoza let Skyros go; he had a pretty good idea of what was behind this, and there wouldn't be anything more to be got out of Skyros. The last couple of remarks the girl had made in his office that day— he could add two and two and figure she'd had a second thought; maybe the little Domokous had told her that time might be material for blackmail. It could just be that Domokous had told her more, though it didn't seem likely when what he'd told the priest added up to nothing, really. And what was it worth if he had— hearsay evidence? Still . . . So he let Skyros go, and saw the girl there in the precinct sergeant's office.

  "You went to Mr. Skyros' office to threaten him, Miss Roslev," he said. "What did you have to threaten him with? . . . You can tell me, you know, and I can see he's punished for it, if it's something very bad." Almost instinctively he spoke as one would to a child, for her blank stare. She had made no attempt to tidy herself, comb her hair, refasten her blouse where its buttons had pulled apart in the little struggle.

  She just stared at him vaguely. After a moment she said, "Five thousand dollars. He's got to pay me. I know— I do so know."

  "What do you know, Miss Roslev?"

  "He's got to," she said. "Just got to. Or I'll tell. A lie, say I don't know nothing. I do too. An awful lot o' money— Stevan said— about an awful lot o' money. Five thousand dollars, I thought."

  "Yes. What about it, Miss Roslev'?"

  She looked at him a long moment, and her eyes focused on him, and then she smiled a small, scornful smile and said, "That's not my name. I'm Katharine Ross. I'm Katharine Ross, I don't have nothing to do with these people, funny foreign-sounding names, nothing I got to do— my name's Katharine— Katharine— Katharine— I'm Katharine Ross and I— "

  Mendoza went o
ut and told the sergeant it might be a good idea to call in a doctor to look at her, also to notify the grandmother as next of kin. Maybe she was shamming, maybe she thought Skyros had charged her and she'd get out of it playing crazy, but he didn't much like her looks.

  And it didn't matter a damn, it wouldn't be legal evidence anyway; but he hung around to hear what the doctor said. And of course that didn't mean a damn thing either: a lot of double talk! Thus the doctor— shock, perhaps temporary amnesia, perhaps an unstable personality; one could not really say definitely without intensive psychiatric examination, and naturally one was not equipped— oh, well, as to competent, one would not like to say—

  Mendoza said a few things to himself about modern psychiatric theories, and went out to the charge room. The grandmother was there by then, and the priest had come with her. Any man in the force ran across both attitudes his first day in uniform, but Mendoza had never much liked meeting either one: the old woman saw Authority to be feared, always tyrannical; the priest, Authority to be ultimately relied on, always knowing all the answers.

  Mendoza didn't know all the answers any more than another man. He told them what he knew. And because one day it might be legally important (though he didn't think so) whether Katya Roslev really knew something or didn't, he went with the old woman and the priest back to the room where she sat slouched in a chair, silent, under the doctor's eye.

  "Katya, the gentleman, Mr. Skyros, he is kind and don't ask the police to shut you in jail,"— the old woman, timid— "you can come home with me now, I know you don't mean anything wrong, whatever it is you do. Katya— "

  The girl looked at her blankly. "Go home?" she said. "Home— with you? I don't know you. My name's Katharine Ross. Good American name. I don't know you— funny old foreign woman, can't even talk English good— I don't know anybody like you, I never did— "

  "Oh, Katya, you don't say such to me— me who raises you from a baby, tries to teach you all how to do right— how is it you say, you don't know me? It is your own great-mother speak to you, my dear— it's not to matter, what you've done, you know I don't stop loving you— it's all right, Katya— " She went off into her own tongue then, probably saying it all over.

  “I don't know you or your damned foreign talk, you old bitch!" screamed the girl at her, harsh and sudden. "Go away— go away— go away!"

  The priest exchanged a look with Mendoza and led the old woman out; she had fallen silent, looking stunned. "Perhaps it's foolish to ask what you think, Lieutenant? Such a distressing— "

  "Not for me to say. They'll take her into hospital, of course— the General."

  "But always I am kind with her," whispered the old woman. The priest shook his head and shepherded her away.

  And it was, that, very much a side issue; Mendoza switched his mind back to the main problem, driving back to headquarters.

  * * *

  Hackett had wandered through Records looking for O'Brien in vain; he didn't know him well. Finally he asked, and was told that O'Brien wouldn't be in until afternoon, off on some special job. Hackett swore mildly and took himself out to lunch. Coming back, he just missed Mendoza, heard about the undefined excitement at Skyros' office and wondered about that. He looked over the tails' reports on the Bouvardier woman, which contained nothing of interest at all.

  About two o'clock he went down to Records again and found O'Brien, who looked more like a school principal than a policeman, half-hidden behind a stack of file-size record cards. "Heard you were asking for me," said O'Brien.

  "Nothing official." Hackett pulled up a chair. "It's this little thing. I remembered you saying your hobby is coins. It's cropped up in something of Luis Mendoza's, and we wondered if you could give us any idea what it might be. If anything. For all I know, it's just a souvenir medal from a midway shooting gallery or something like that."

  "Let's have a look," said O'Brien. He took the thing in his palm, weighed it, whisked out his handkerchief to polish it and then stopped, looked at it again, made a little clicking sound with his tongue, and put the handkerchief away without using it. "He said, "But it can't possibly— it must be a replica— " He opened a drawer, brought out a magnifying lens, and bent over the coin laid fiat on his desk; presently he turned it over very delicately and examined the other side.

  “Well?" said Hackett.

  "Where'd you get this?" asked O'Brien.

  "Apparently somebody lost it in a hot car."

  "Jesus H. Christ," said O'Brien in an awed small voice. "And you or Lieutenant Mendoza have been carrying it around loose in your pocket— "

  "Why not? What is it, anyway? Is it worth anything?"

  "Worth anything," said O'Brien. "Worth— well, I wouldn't like to guess what, offhand, I'm not a real expert— and besides, you wouldn't often find a thing like this in such good condition. Not fine condition, but technically very good, and of course you could hardly expect anything better. I'll be damned. I will be damned. Carrying it around loose— "

  "What is it?" asked Hackett. "I thought it looked pretty well beaten up myself. I suppose you could polish it, if it's silver— "

  O'Brien clutched the magnifying glass like a bludgeon and asked if any vandal up in Homicide had tried to polish it.

  "No, of course not, and why the hell all the excitement about it?"

  "I'm not an expert," said O'Brien, "as I say. But my own interest has always been mostly in the older foreign stuff, and I can tell you just a little something about this, Sergeant. Though I've never seen anything like it outside a museum, which is where it ought to be. This is a Greek coin, I wouldn't say from which city but most likely Athens or Elis or just possibly Syracuse, and I'd place it as dating from somewhere around 400 B.C."

  "What? You don't mean— "

  "That's what I said. It's a silver stater, the common currency of the Greek city-states. Probably one of the oldest Greek coins extant, and in wonderful condition. It can't have circulated much— those early coins wore down very rapidly, you know, not being milled— and not so much alloy, either. All made by hand— you can see it never was a true circle— and stamped with handmade dies. The eagle with the hare in its talons, here on the obverse, that's a device you find rather often on Greek pieces of the period— never seen one before, just photographs— really marvelous detail, considering— and this thing on the reverse is Zeus's thunderbolt, stylized of course, but beautiful— beautiful work. I can't imagine where this came from, such condition— just dropped in a car?— but— " Suddenly O'Brien fell silent, mouth open, bounced straighter in his chair, stared excitedly from the coin to Hackett, and finally said again, "Jesus H. Christ. Listen, Sergeant— I wonder— listen, there was a big collection of Greek coins stolen just about a month ago, the most important collection, and the biggest, in existence— the Lexourion collection— and one of the things makes it so valuable, all the pieces are— were— in wonderful condition, not mint, you couldn't expect it, but very good. The County Museum was angling to buy it, I remember reading about it in the Times."

  "I'll be damned," said Hackett, and now he felt almost as excited as O'Brien looked, "I wonder— this could be a big piece of the story! Thanks, we'll check that— thanks very much, O'Brien," and he reached for the coin.

  "No, you don't, you Goth," said O'Brien. "Wait just a minute, now."

  He rummaged in the drawer. "Whether this is part of the Lexourion collection or not, it's worth the hell of a lot of money and a lot more than that in historical importance— you're not going to ruin its condition. Have the owner suing you for damages, you don't want that, do you? Here," and he stowed it away, carefully wrapped in Kleenex, in the little paper-clip box.

  EIGHTEEN

  When Hackett came into the office he found Mendoza there, standing at his desk, hat still on, which meant he was slightly excited about something, talking on the inside phone.

  “¡Válgame Dios! What use are your files to me? I want to talk to the man who worked the case, I want Goldberg! . . . Where? �
�Fuegos del infierno! What the hell is he doing in San Francisco? Isn't he working here any longer? . . . You send a full-fledged lieutenant to ride herd on a two-bit mugger? . . . Yes, Sergeant Gomez, I am annoyed.

  Doubtless Burglary knows its own business, but . . . Well, what time does the plane get in? Four-fifteen, muy bien. I'll be here to catch him— I presume he'll be bringing this desperate criminal to headquarters pronto— when he's delivered the goods. I might even buy him a drink if he can tell me some things I want to know. About four forty-five? . . .

  What? ¡Vaya por Dios! All right, all right, if it's midnight I'll be here, I want to see him. Gracias very much for nothing." He put down the phone, swept off his hat, and flung himself into his chair. "Fates conspiring! They must send Goldberg off to escort this mugger home for indictment, just when I want him. And of course some special Air Force maneuvers or something have routed the San Francisco flights to land at Municipal instead of Burbank— another hour's drive in traffic, he won't be here until after six at a guess .... You've missed some excitement, by the way," and he told Hackett about Katya Roslev.

  Hackett scarcely paid attention, full of his own news. "Listen, Luis, I've got something— it might be a lot— I got O'Brien to look at this coin, and he says— "

  "I can guess," said Mendoza. "Maybe part of the famous Lexourion collection. I've heard about it from Driscoll. Why do you think I want to talk to Goldberg?"

  "Oh, hell, and I thought I'd got ahead of you for once. So what did Driscoll part with?"

  "A lot of the story." Mendoza lit a cigarette and shouted to Sergeant Lake to bring in some coffee. "The Lexourion collection, it seems, is one of the largest and most valuable collections of ancient Greek coins in existence. It was amassed over a period of many years by one Alexander Lexourion, whom I somehow see as one of those amiable fuzzy-minded professors, but actually I believe he was a hard-headed businessman. About two months ago Lexourion came here, with his collection, to negotiate with the L.A. County Museum, which was thinking of buying it. And he'd no sooner got here than it was stolen, under funny circumstances too, which I trust Goldberg can tell me more about. And Lexourion gets such a shock hearing about it that he has a stroke and passes out. Now, the collection is insured for two hundred thousand bucks, and naturally the insurance company sits up and takes notice— "