The Knave of Hearts

by Dell Shannon

  Hackett sat down opposite and gave her his big, warm, reassuring smile. She looked like a nice woman, and a fairly sensible one: he thought the best way to get at her was direct. He had a straightforward mind, compared to Mendoza’s more devious one. On the rare occasions when they were annoyed with each other, Mendoza was inclined to call Hackett’s a simple mind, and Hackett to believe that Mendoza really preferred to go the long way round (like a cat stalking a bird).

  "Yes?" she said again a trifle impatiently.

  So he told her why they were asking questions, what they were working on up here and why. This fellow, who might be anybody—so little evidence on him—and such a dangerous one. She’d have been reading about it in the papers? (She nodded, eyes down.) She’d understand they had to grasp at any straws in this hunt. And the odds seemed to be that he was a single man, fairly young, of good address: a man probably living in a rented room or a small apartment.

  "Yes. I told the other man—I don’t know why I should be expected—"

  “Well, Mrs. Andrews, you didn’t tell the other man quite all the truth, did you?" asked Hackett gently. The random chance: this was it. You couldn't blame whatever man had covered this street. They couldn’t—either from the standpoint of legality or manpower—search every house: no reason—impossible. They hadn’t the time or the men. They asked questions and wrote down the answers they got, that was all.

  "What do you mean?" she exclaimed sharply. "Of course I—"

  "You don’t live here alone, do you? You have several young men renting rooms. Now don’t start to protest and evade, please—I’m not from the assessors’ office or the zoning commission, and I couldn’t care less. I’m not goin’ to run down and turn you right in for it. But you look like a sensible woman to me, and I don’t think I need to point out to you that you might be hindering us a lot in this investigation. You wouldn’t want this fellow to keep on killing innocent women and getting away with it, would you? I’m sorry, but I’ve got to ask you questions and I’ve got to have the right answers."

  She looked at him in silence for a moment and then, unexpectedly, she begun to cry. In the midst of her tears she was embarrassed and angry at herself, it was obvious; and Hackett was embarrassed too. He said vague soothing things; he found the kitchen and brought her a glass of water. It was a big house, just as he’d thought; and he supposed—guessing at the situation—that there had to be laws about these things, but it did seem a little unfair that you shouldn’t be allowed to do what you wanted with your own property.

  He never did tell her how he’d found it out: and it turned out to be—when she was finally prodded to tell him the story—about how he’d figured. She and her husband had retired, come to California, and bought the house in 1946, just after the war, when prices were way up; they’d paid thirty thousand for it, and even then it was too big a house, of course, but she used to entertain a lot, and it didn’t seem extravagance by what they had. A substantial private pension from his old firm, and savings. But when he died a few years later the pension stopped, and prices kept going up, and the income from savings investments didn’t go up, of course, and she was at her wits’ end. There were no children, no relatives. She tried to sell the house, but they told her she couldn’t ask more than eighteen thousand, nobody wanted old houses now, and she probably wouldn’t get that if she sold it. She found out why when it had been on the market for a year. The people who wanted that big a house and in this kind of neighborhood wanted something new, more convenient, in a more newly fashionable area: the young people wouldn’t look at it, they wanted a modern ranch-style in the suburbs. The taxes were higher than in most newer districts because it was so close in to town, but of course it would never be potentially valuable business property. And by now a lot needed to be done to it—paint, the roof, electrical connections, a new faucet in the main bath—It was property, it was value, but it wasn’t paying any dividend; it was eating up the pittance she had, and she couldn’t get rid of it, turn it into cash. It might seem to the casual glance that she was well enough off: widow of a white-collar man, with a little capital invested in stock: certainly not indigent, all that implied. People didn’t stop to think. There’d been times she’d really gone hungry, until . . .

  But this was all residential-zoned up here, it was illegal to rent out rooms; if it hadn’t been for a few old neighbors being sympathetic, she’d never have managed it as long as this. She usually had four or five young men, and Minnie Markstein next door rented her garage to two of them; so a garage went with those rooms, you could say. She’d never dared advertise, but one told another, and they were nice big clean quiet rooms in a good neighborhood-better than average. And besides—

  "I’ve been far more careful, I’ve had to be, than most—" She didn’t like the word landladies: her mouth was wry, saying it. The sense of this belated thought calmed her agitation, and she blew her nose, sat up straighter. "Really, if you’re thinking that this criminal you’re looking for could ever have— Why, it would be quite impossible! I’m very careful to have only the most respectable, quiet, irreproachable men—no drinking on the premises at any time, and I—"

  "Mrs. Andrews," said Hackett patiently, "a man like this may be all of that and more. Men like this don’t go roistering around the way a lot of people seem to think, and they can just as easily be well-educated and—er—gentlemanly as not." Her eyes disbelieved him; he sighed. Even people who weren’t—as Mrs. Andrews was—elderly, nice-minded (as they’d call it), and conventional, had difficulty grasping the fact that a rapist-murderer didn’t necessarily have to be a lunatic, and if he was, it wouldn’t necessarily show and he might not be a lunatic all the time, in every area of life.

  "Do you ask references?"

  Her mouth worked a little; she dabbed at it with her handkerchief. "I—sometimes, sometimes not. I’ve had several young men—at various times—who’d just come to California, and besides—well, people don’t expect to be asked for references these days, before renting a room. D-do they? I do go a great deal by personal impressions. Only twice in ten years have I been forced to ask someone to—find other accommodation .... Well, most of them have stayed quite a little time, seldom less than six months—I have two young men with me now who have lived here for almost two years. One way I do judge is by what sort of work they do, you see. I don’t ever take ordinary workmen, tradesmen—if a man works in an office, or a bank, or somewhere like that, I know he’s of better class, and—”

  Very convenient, thought Hackett, the little general-type slots. "Yes. Do you keep any records, Mrs. Andrews?"

  "I’ve had two medical students, and a young lawyer just getting started— Records? Well, I—" She dabbed at her mouth again. "They—I always have them pay me—in cash," she muttered unwillingly.

  Yes, of course: no records for the tax people. Like Prohibition, he thought fleetingly: inviting normally honest people to subterfuge. And probably the late Andrews had taken all the business responsibility, and she’d be rather vague about that kind of thing. He went on asking questions .... Well, no, she didn’t keep any books, it wasn’t necessary, the money came in and she paid the bills in cash. She gave the roomers receipts, and she kept the kind of receipts that were for legitimate deductions, personal medical expenses, and so on, but . . . The names. She didn’t know (miserably, defiantly, she didn’t know) that she could recall to mind the whole list—every young man she’d had in her rooms in ten years. There had been some who stayed only a few months, and there were usually five of them all the time.

  God, thought Hackett. Call it thirty, forty men altogether. More? Try to pry the names out of her; try to chase them down and have a look. (On top of those they were still looking for and at.) And if she couldn’t remember all the names, and if this was the place Romeo had been, she might so easily not remember just the one vital name. Also, he guessed shrewdly, the whole business had always been so distasteful to her that she’d stayed as clear as possible of her roomers (she di
d not, for instance, assume any cleaning duties—that was strictly their responsibility), and who could say, if she was now confronted with a man, whether she could say for certain that he’d once rented one of her rooms—and when?

  God, he thought. Another teaser. A little gossamer thread-end leading into the skein, that might so easily break oil, or just lead nowhere at all.

  He got out his notebook. He said, "Now, Mrs. Andrews, I’d like you to try hard to remember the names of the men living here twenty months ago. And if possible, what they looked like .... "

  TWELVE

  When he got home, he found his mind was still busy on it, refused to be switched off. And that was bad, that was the way to get to that exhausted state where you couldn’t think straight about anything. He had to make a deliberate effort to shove it aside; and then over dinner Angel reminded him of it, indirectly.

  "Art—does he seem any, oh, different, or anything, since? . . . The great Mendoza, of course .... Oh, well, I just wondered. If he has any conscience at all, if he thought enough of her—as a person—to miss her a little. You know .... Well, we went shopping together today and she’s still taking it awfully hard, I think—you know how she is, she’d die before she let anyone— I don’t know what she sees in— But that’s a silly thing to say, of course. You can’t pick and choose about who you love."

  "I suppose a lot of people have said the same thing about you," agreed Hackett, and she laughed.

  "Don’t fish for compliments—I’m not ready to give you any testimonials yet! Only spoil you .... I don’t know. I had rather thought of having a little party, and inviting them both—he’s really quite nice, you know, there’s no reason she shouldn’t— But she didn’t seem to think much of him."

  "Who’s this, what are you talking about?"

  "Oh, goodness, Art, don’t be so slow! Somebody else for Alison, of course—somebody really nice and dependable .... Well, it isn’t so easy to find a single man, I’ll admit to you he isn’t exactly the average maiden’s dream, but he’s presentable, and not at all bad-looking, and—and he means so well, and I should think he’d be awfully kind—"

  "To dogs and children and his old mother? You ever know one that kind that stirred a single heartbeat? Who is this Romeo?" And, damn, there it was in his mind again.

  "Bruce Norwood, you must have met him—that thing at Janet’s, wasn’t it? He’s a wholesale candy salesman—"

  Hackett reflected, vaguely remembered Norwood, and let out a sudden bellow of laughter. "My Angel! If he’s the one I remember, good God, you expect her to take any interest in him? A damp coddsh. With," he added, remembering more, "such ladylike manners."

  "I suppose you couldn’t be expected to appreciate really cultivated people, associating with all these low types—" But her mouth trembled a little and she began to giggle. "Oh, dear, I guess he is a bit like that, but—but if she could find someone . . ."

  "Darling, maybe she doesn’t want to. You can’t manage people’s lives for them."

  "I know, I suppose not," she sighed. "But I am so sorry for her."

  "What I know of Alison Weir, she’d feel awful annoyed at you if you said so right out.”

  "I know that too," said Angel, brooding with her chin in her hands. And Hackett, thoughtfully stirring sugar into his coffee, reflected that there was a little something different about Mendoza these days. He was more irritable, more nervous. Put it down to all the worry and work on this case, the needling from the press—but they’d had as troublesome cases before, they’d withstood other press onslaughts, and come through, and Mendoza hadn’t . . .

  "Well, none of our business," he said. "You women. Of course I understand what it is—you’ve got such a paragon of a husband yourself you want every other woman to get married too, just to compare and envy you."

  "You’re getting as egotistical as your boss," said Angel, making a very attractive grimace at him. "The worst of it is, this Norwood man seems to have been quite impressed with Alison—the once he’s met her—and wouldn’t need much encouragement. Oh, well, I suppose it isn’t any good. Just one of those things .... Did you like the salad dressing? You didn’t say, and it’s something different—"

  "Very nice," he said, a little somnolently, sliding a couple of fingers under his belt. And Mendoza was sometimes wrong, but he hadn’t been about that extra five pounds. Hackett ruminated on them somewhat uneasily, and wondered if he could learn to do without sugar in his coffee . . .

  * * *

  When he came into the office, a little late because it was Sunday morning, Mendoza was sitting at his desk studying yesterday’s reports. He had shaved, but his collar looked slightly wilted and his suit was the same one he’d had on yesterday. For the average citizen he looked well dressed; for Mendoza, rather raffish.

  "¿Well, amigo, qué hay de nuevo, what’s new?” asked Hackett.

  "The odds are down—about even—that we can count in Anderson. I think." Mendoza handed over Madge Parrott’s statement, and Hackett I read it.

  "Isn’t that nice," he commented thoughtfully. "Just like all the others, nothing to say he’s the one killed her, nothing to say who he is, and nothing to point which direction to look for him. I’ve got a little more of the same," and he told Mendoza about Mrs. Andrews’ roomers.

  Mendoza cast his eyes to heaven and said, "¡Por mi vida! People. Dear me, Sergeant, nobody here could be your killer—they’ve all been to college and wear neckties at work. And yes, of course, another batch of maybes to locate and look over .... Yes, indeed .... On second thought, I rather like your Mrs. Andrews."

  "You have any bright ideas about short cuts?"

  "I’m full of bright ideas," said Mendoza. He leaned back and shut his eyes. "I’ll take half an hour to tell you about them, and then I’m going home to have a bath and a couple of hours’ sleep. I didn’t get any last night—"

  "These motels, sometimes pretty bad."

  "I believe there were some motels roundabout—I didn’t investigate. I sat up until three this morning playing draw with the sheriff and some of his boys, and then headed for home. I did stop for a cat nap in the car somewhere around Riverside, but—"

  "Look, friend," said Hackett. "Peace officers are supposed to be all buddies together, and cooperate, and so on. You want Riverside County startin’ a feud with us? How much did you take those innocent country boys for? Of all the dirty tricks—and on a legitimate errand you’ll claim mileage for, too!"

  Mendoza opened his eyes and smiled. "But they were so contemptuous of the city fop, Arturo—and so transparently hopeful of taking him for a ride! Not to be resisted, I swear. The stakes were the hell of a lot lower than I usually stoop to. And none of them were smart gamblers, to quit when losing high—they would go on, to get the best of me in the next deal, you know. Disastrous logic. Only ninety-three dollars. . . And I said I left at once and didn’t stop until I got to Riverside. And I don’t suppose I’ll ever have occasion to visit Murrietta again."

  "Let’s hope to God you don’t," said Hackett piously, “or you might get lynched. Let’s hear the bright ideas."

  "I would like to know," said Mendoza, "what day of the week Jane Piper was killed. Also Pauline McCandless. I’m offering modest odds that Piper was killed on a weekend and McCandless in the middle of the week."

  "Why?"

  "You see what Madge Parrott says, they had this fellow figured for a weekender. It just suddenly occurred to me that a few facts do point vaguely to the beach. Jane Piper was found in Topanga Canyon. Celestine Teitel—who was last seen on a Sunday, remember—was both killed and found on the beach. Julie Anderson lived at the beach, was probably killed there, and was buried there."

  "So what?” Hackett shrugged. "I see what you mean, but the latest of those in time is Piper, and that’s nine months, ten now, back. If he ever lived or week-ended there, he might not have for most of that time."

  "De veras. But I don’t know, a number of little things occur to me—just nothing over wh
at Madge said, and also—yes—the dates. The dates. Let’s think about them consecutively a minute. We’ve just found Julie Anderson, but she’s the earliest to be killed we know of. Yet. Nearly twenty-eight months ago, now. Then we get Mary Ellen, nine and a half months later—and, de paso, inland, while a later one was again at the coast. Just keep that in mind. Then a gap of only two and a half months, and Celestine Teitel. Six months later, Piper. And another nine months later, McCandless. Think about those women, and think about what Madge said. You know what I come up with, Art? He’s changed a 1ittle."

  Mendoza lit a cigarette and smoked it dreamily,eyes shut. "Bear with my romantic imagination for a few minutes—let’s build him up from the few scattered bones we have .... You know, a lot of people who come here from somewhere inland, they like the beach—one of the first places they go to look at, and quite often they settle down there, or go back as often as possible. ¿De veras?"

  "This is woolgathering," said Hackett. "Sure, but that’s a very general observation."

  "So it is. Anyway, somewhere around thirty months ago, here’s this fellow hanging around that particular beach—a few times, at least, whether his normal beach spot was Malibu or Zuma or anywhere down to Playa del Rey. This fellow who was so smitten with the pseudo-blonde Julie. Gawking at her, as Madge says, like a yokel getting his first eyeful of burleycue. Expressive phrase. Not dry behind the ears.

  No—mmh—address with a girl, not knowing what to say to one. Awkward. And he didn’t need to have known other men around there to have known Julie’s reputation, what kind of girl she was—any man with any sophistication at all, he’d know or guess that pretty accurately after meeting and talking with her."