The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon

by Dell Shannon

  Madame Bouvardier heaved a long sigh. "Well, at least that is something," she said practically. "Although I do not understand why the insurance company is not liable to pay also. The insurance is against theft, among other things, it is not?— very well— it is stolen, so they should pay! That is only logical. Whatever should occur later, it is nothing at all to do with that."

  "Very logical," agreed Mendoza gravely, "but the ways of law are like the ways of God, madame— mysterious."

  "You will have a little glass of wine with me. Berthel I see you are a gentleman, trés gentil, you are sympathetic, and also I think most accomplished at persuading the ladies! I will tell you about it— I tell you everything— it is to be seen there is nothing else I can do in this situation, and one must be practical. You are quite right," said Madame Bouvardier emphatically, rolling her eyes at him over her glass, “that I am entirely innocent in this affair— that it is against the law to do such, this I never knew! I will tell you how it came about, and beg that you believe me— "

  "But who could doubt the word of so charming a lady?"

  "Ah, you are so sympathique— I think I am much relieved after all it should end so. I tell you how it began, this Skyros . . ."

  * * *

  It was past eleven when he got home. And it was about all wound up, all but the tiresome routine, the collating of evidence, the further questioning, the formal taking of statements. He knew almost all about it now— though he still didn't know who had killed Domokous, but doubtless that would emerge— and he ought to be feeling pretty good about it. A little teaser of a business— some fairly complex details built up out of not much to start with. Interesting. Instead, he was feeling rather depressed.

  That old woman, still a little on his mind. Nothing you could do about that kind of thing: there it was. In his trade he saw a lot of it. The innocent bystanders, as he'd said to the priest.

  He sat up in bed smoking; at a little past midnight, on impulse and suffering a slight guilty conscience, he called his grandmother. The old lady was a night owl, up at all hours, but she told him instantly that he was extremely thoughtless to call at such a time, though it was something of a relief to know he was yet alive, not coming near her in all this long while. "Peace, peace," he soothed her, "I'm a public servant, my time's not my own."

  "And so have you yet got a birthday gift for me?"

  "You're too old for birthday gifts, my little pigeon."

  "Little pigeon indeed, you're disrespectful. And since I never had any whatever all my life to fifteen years ago, I am making up lost time."

  "I'll buy you a box of handkerchiefs .... I can't promise when I'll come, I'm just winding up this case. Day after tomorrow, maybe. And I know very well in any case what cunning plans are in your head— new neighbors I must meet! With a fair-to-middling pretty daughter or niece or cousin, confess it!— and you trying to play go-between."

  “Wicked one, it's past time you are decently married. Are you so foolish at your age to believe in this Anglo-Saxon notion, true love for a lifetime, to base a marriage upon?"

  "I was never so young or so foolish. I do quite well as I am. Have you visited the doctor about the stiffness in your knees?"

  "Why should I pay money to the doctor to tell me I am getting old? That I know. There is nothing else wrong with me at all, I've never had a sick day in my life— "

  "There is a great deal wrong with you, and you still running back and forth to the priests it's to be hoped you confess it now and then. You tell lies, for one thing— all these elegant forebears direct from a castle in Spain! I myself distinctly remember your telling me that your own mother was half-bred Indian from the backwoods and never wore a pair of shoes unti1— "

  "That is the lie, you remember quite falsely, and you're very rude to an old woman .... Now what is wrong, Luis? You're troubled for something .... Yes, you are, and wouldn't I know, that raised you from the nuisance of an infant you were?"

  "It's nothing, a little something in this case is all . . . now, you don't want to hear about such things . . . well, it's only . . ."

  She listened, and sighed in sympathy, and said, "You lie awake with the sore heart for this poor, poor woman, it is understood."

  "Don't talk nonsense, it's well known I have a heart of flint."

  "Oh, yes, indeed, like feathers it is hard, I know that very well— you begging the table scraps to feed every mangy stray cat and dog in the neighborhood! The poor soul, and one of these Russian heretics too, with only a false God to give comfort. Life, it bears hard, so it does. But God sends the burden according to the shoulder, boy. That, by what you say, she knows already— and her troubles have strengthened her. She will be all right, Luis, with time gone by."

  "Let us hope," he said. "That there is always plenty of." When he put down the phone he felt better; he would sleep; and tomorrow, things to do— see the case wound up, find out all the details.

  He drew his good hand down Bast's spine and she turned over on her back, four black paws in the air, and shamelessly showed him the very distinctly rounding pale brown stomach that began to say kittens. "You know something, chica," he said, "it's the old ones who are tough.

  They've had it before, they won't die of it over again." He switched off the light and slid down beside her, and went to sleep while she still purred in his ear.

  TWENTY

  Mr. Skyros did not often attend church, but his wife did; he saw her off that Sunday morning, and retired to his den to mull over these various little awkwardnesses which had arisen. It seemed to him that one very good way out of the difficulty about Prettyman and Angelo would be to patch up the quarrel with Bratti. Doubtless he would need to fawn a little, own the fault entirely his own, that kind of thing, but Bratti was a sensible fellow, he would understand the position. And while it might seem on the face of it that Bratti would be only too pleased to see Mr. Skyros forced out of business, actually that was not the case. It was like any other business— it cost the wholesaler a certain amount to import the stuff, and the more steady customers he had, the cheaper he could afford to sell and still see his profits rise. Volume— always a determining factor in business.

  It also seemed that the little trick Mr. Skyros had sought to play, planting Domokous' death at Bratti's door, had fallen flat: the police had not been intelligent enough to take the hint. And that was just as well: as it was, that little matter Bratti had never known anything about. If he could patch up the quarrel with Bratti, throw himself on Bratti's mercy, rent a few boys from him temporarily until business was started up again . . .

  Also, some time today he must see Donovan, see that tiresome woman, and once for all conclude that deal. It had turned out to be more trouble and worry than it was worth.

  At that point the doorbell chimed, and he went to answer it, putting on his usual genial smile for some neighbor or a Sunday peddler. The smile faded as he opened the door. "You fool, to come here— all open — go away! You cannot— it's madness— " Oh, God, that he'd ever become known to such a one! Trouble, always trouble from this kind—

  Angelo laid a hand on Mr. Skyros' chest, pushed him back gently, and walked in. He was smiling his soft smile. And behind him Denny Donovan babbled anxiously, coming in too.

  "Now you take it easy, Angie— look, Mr. Skyros, I just had to bring him, state he's in an' all— come round sayin' such things to me, me— like he'll take a knife to me don't I drive him— why, Angie, boy, you know I allus do anythin' for you, but you got to take it easy, don't do nothing to make trouble— listen, I'm sorry, Mr. Skyros, but he— "

  "You fools, you must both go away at once! I will not have— "

  "No trouble," said Angie. He walked Mr. Skyros backward another couple of steps; his little smile was fixed. "Only you got to give me some stuff right now, Mr. Skyros. Say last night, very sorry, you couldn't get none, wait awhile, Angelo. That don't do, Mr. Skyros. Now I got to have it. Right now."

  "I haven't got any," said Mr. Skyros irrit
ably. "Next week I get some, my man's around again then, Angelo. You be sensible now, go away and— buy yourself a fix from somebody— "

  "Retail prices," said Angelo, "why do I go 'n' do like that, Mr. Skyros? You're the supplier— you got the stuff, you always got the stuff,— I pay you for ten decks, right now, an' so that way I got some to sell an' buy more— next week, tomorrow, next month— only I buy it now, Mr. Skyros. Fifty a deck, Mr. Skyros. You go 'n' get it."

  "I haven't got any, fool!"

  "Now listen, Angie, you see it's no good, you better come away an' do like he says— you be sensible now, Angie— "

  Angelo slid a hand into his breast pocket and took out a knife. An ordinary bone-handled bread knife it was, with a blade about nine inches long. Mr. Skyros stepped smartly backward. "I don't want no trouble," said Angie softly. "Who else do I come to, who else'd have it? You're the supplier. Go 'n' get it. I need it right now, Mr. Skyros."

  "For God's sake," Mr. Skyros implored Denny, "do something, take the knife away from him— I can't, Angelo, I tell you there's none here, you understand plain English, isn't it?— you be good, sensible, now— "

  "Yeah, it's no good, Angie— you— you let me take you back downtown," chattered Denny nervously, "find somebody fix you up O.K.— "

  "No trouble," said Angie, and put the point of the knife against Mr. Skyros' stomach. Mr. Skyros uttered a small moan and took another step backward, and the doorbell chimed again. "Needn't pay no notice to that, Mr. Skyros. You just go 'n' get the stuff. Right now. Because it's right now I got to have it." His liquid dark eyes were fixed, staring, above the little soft smile.

  Mr. Skyros took another step. If he could get into the den, the dining room, slam the door between— Suddenly and irrelevantly he realized the lost benefit of being an upright citizen, who could (if possible to do so) take up the telephone and call for the police. But Angie paced with him step by step, holding the knife steady. The doorbell chimed again. "Now listen-" panted Mr. Skyros. He was across the threshold of the dining room now, and suddenly over Angie's shoulder he saw movement out there beyond the French window— someone on the porch— a man coming up to peer in. It was that Lieutenant Mendoza, that man from police headquarters: and Mr. Skyros had never imagined that he would feel so happy to lay eyes on a cop. He sidled toward the windows, drawing Angie with him, and so far as he was thinking at all he began to formulate a vague tale about this lunatic breaking in, threatening him—

  "Not that way," said Angie gently. "In, Mr. Skyros. Wherever you keep it. Go— "

  "Help!" yelled Mr. Skyros, and plunged sideways and took prudent cover under the dining table. The French windows crashed in, glass shattering, and Mendoza and Hackett were in by the shortest route. There was a little scuffle; Mr. Skyros peered out fearfully, saw Angie safe in the competent grasp of Hackett, and scrambled out on all fours. "Oh, Lieutenant, so happy I am to see you— such a thing— this crazy man breaks in, threatens me— "

  "Indeed?" said Mendoza, dexterously picking Hackett's pocket from behind of his police special and leveling it at Denny. "How very ungrateful of him, turning on his employer. I think this is Angie, Art. It's awkward— I've only got one hand— maybe it'd be expedient to tap him lightly once, just to keep him quiet while you call up reinforcements. Who this is I don't know, but we'll sort it out later. Andreas Skyros, I have a warrant for your arrest on a charge of conspiracy to defraud . . ."

  Mr. Skyros sat down in one of the dining room chairs and mopped his pink bald skull. "Oh, dear me, it's some mistake, gentlemen," he said mechanically. But if the truth were told, at the moment he was less alarmed at future danger than relieved to be rid of Angie.

  * * *

  Denny, as Goldberg had prophesied, talked. He tangled himself up in protestations of knowing nothing about any of it, ran out of lies, and then when they brought Jackie in-picked up in a Main Street bar without much trouble— he fell all over himself again to absolve Jackie from any connection. He was useful, filling in details for them.

  Especially as Mr. Skyros, once he knew how deep in Lydia Bouvardier and Denny had put him, very wisely shut his mouth and requested a lawyer.

  Jackie Donovan was unexpectedly amenable. Indeed, it almost seemed, as Goldberg said, that he was eager to tie himself into it, even before the museum director identified him. He drew the line, however, at taking the responsibility for Domokous— all he'd done to Domokous, he said, was knock him out. And got called a fool for it by Skyros. Domokous, walking in on them in Skyros' office that Monday night, after Donovan's first and only meeting with this Bouvardier dame—

  "In," said Mendoza, "a hot car you'd picked up out in Exposition Park."

  Donovan shrugged and said sure, if he knew so much about it ....He hadn't had anything to do with taking off Domokous. Thought Domokous'd found out about the deal, what he'd said then to Skyros— wanted to be bought off. Skyros acting soft with him, starting to make up some tale, but Domokous had picked up that list oil the desk, and well, my God, you could see— sto1y'd been in all the papers, that stuff pinched, and if he didn't know he'd find out, seeing those papers— So Donovan had batted him one, that's all, and got the list away from him— and he'd sort of staggered back, and let go, and the second time Donovan belted him he passed out—

  "A list," said Mendoza. "Of the collection?" That was stacked up neatly on his desk, twelve big boxes. He looked, and found the manila folder, and opened it and took out the list. A number of pages, a thick wad, once stapled at both top corners— now the right-hand staple missing, torn away with a sizable corner of the top page. "Always so satisfying to see deductions proved," he murmured, and took out of its envelope the little torn scrap of paper found in Domokous' pocket, and laid it on the top page, matching the corners delicately. "Oh very pretty."

  The edges blended exactly; and the first two top lines now read sensibly,

  No. 1-A cl. F:

  Messana, silver tetradrachm, approximately 400 B.C. Obverse, nymph driving cart drawn by pair of mules. Reverse, hare with small dolphin.

  "Oh, yes, I see. How nice. You didn't notice that Domokous had torn this away when you grabbed the list from him, and put it in his pocket— probably quite automatically."

  "I didn't have nothing else to do with him, I didn't— Skyros says, fool, he didn't know nothing, but— "

  And Skyros, of course, wasn't talking; and Denny hadn't been there, nor had Lydia Bouvardier. However, Denny had heard about it later, and— anxious to get Jackie clear, almost crying at the necessity to involve his old pal Angie in order to do that— he told them all about it. Which was nothing but heresay evidence, but there were things to do about that too . . .

  Because after a fix, Angelo felt just fine, and amiably answered all their questions. Sure, he'd done this little favor for Skyros, so long as Skyros gave him a rebate on the stuff he used. Skyros' idea it was, make it look like the guy was a user, just took too big a jolt one time,'s all . . . it happens, and nobody pays much attention. Jackie, he had the guy in this car he'd hopped— Skyros, no, sir, he wasn't there— left it to Jackie— no, sir, why'd they go through his pockets? Skyros hadn't said to— no need— Skyros, he wanted him found, as who he was, and pretty soon. Planted an old hypo on him, sure, stuck him up a little, make it look good— open and shut ....

  "Terminar," said Mendoza. "And don't tell me that any middling smart lawyer is going to claim self-condemnation, the confession for the fix. That I know. We'll just have to hope the judge has a little common sense and realizes it's a time and place to forget about the letter of the law. And what's the odds? If he gets off on the long count, he won't get off all the way— they'll send him for a cure— waste of the taxpayers' money— and I'll give you odds, if he does get off clear after that, in six months he'll have killed himself the way he killed Domokous. What is it they say about the mills of the gods?"

  And Callaghan said philosophically, "Well, you can have Skyros. He's out of my hair, and when you've got enough on him to mak
e it accessory to homicide, that'll put him away longer than a dope charge could. If the judge has got any sense at all— which I sometimes doubt any of 'em have."

  And Goldberg said, "Well, I guess you've got the Donovans, a heavier charge than I could make, but I'd lay a bet that Denny anyway won't get as much of the book thrown at him as Jackie, and some day he'll be loose to make a little more trouble for me. All in the day's work . . ."

  And Alison said thoughtfully, "I really think I'll have to get a new car. The idea of them transporting that poor man's body in it— What a funny complicated business it's been."

  "Until we found out about it," said Mendoza. "Then, very ordinary. Just the way it came to light that made it look unusual at first." He sighed. "Now and then I wish something a little different would come along— one of those really interesting, bizarre, complicated cases out of a detective novel .... But not in this weather. Say along in December or January. Which reminds me— "

  Alison got up, tugged the curtains farther aside in the hope of slightly better air. "It should begin to cool off a little now the sun's down. Would you like a drink?"

  "Not that kind— rather have some iced coffee."

  "So would I, I'll get it." . . . He followed her out to the kitchen, and there was a slight delay in filling the glasses. "Here," said Alison at last, "the ice is melting, idiot, let me go. Very bad timing— between getting it out and putting in the glasses— if you'd just think a little about these things— "

  Mendoza swore as he hit his hand on the drainboard. "Damn this thing. They're taking the stitches out tomorrow, did I tell you?"

  "I don't know that I should leap for joy to hear it, you're bad enough with one hand." She was struggling with the ice cubes, which hadn't melted enough to slide out easily.