by Dell Shannon
"I’ll get the car, meet you downstairs," and Mendoza was gone.
Hackett went into the sergeants’ office, picked Landers at random, gave him his orders to meet Dwyer, and went downstairs. The Facel-Vega was idling at the curb; he got in.
"Where are we going?"
Hackett looked straight ahead through the windshield and repeated the address. There was silence beside him for a second and then the Facel-Vega took off with unaccustomed violence into traffic, and when Mendoza swore it might have been just at the traffic.
It was a big apartment house. A lot of people lived there.
A bad hour to go anywhere in a hurry, and Mendoza seemed to be in a little more of a hurry than usual. He drove in silence, except for the automatic curse when he caught a light, and Hackett didn’t speak because he was still having that rather funny feeling about the address.
About two addresses.
Gates Avenue. She knew someone who lived in that place. Or had. People moved around; that had been five or six months ago.
And Mendoza had them on the Hollywood freeway, at a steady fifty in the fast lane.
There had been only two and a half months between Mary Ellen Wood and Celestine Teitel.
But, thought Hackett, this is as bad as Lockhart—no reason, getting the jitters. It’s only about seventy-five percent sure; circumstances—look at Allan Haines— No evidence that is evidence at all, and we can’t— Besides—
"Christ!" said Mendoza, and jammed on the brakes. They skidded and screeched to a stop. A line of cars—traffic piled up a mile ahead, it looked like—
"Accident." Hackett put his head out the window, peering ahead. "Nothing moving. Ambulance up there, couple of squad cars—not a hope, Luis. You know what one little pile-up does on a freeway."
Mendoza cursed steadily and fluently in both English and Spanish for three minutes; and then he sat back and lit a cigarette. "I’ll give myself ulcers. Damn fool. Like kicking the chair you fall over. Can’t be helped." But when a motorcycle patrolman came by five minutes later he beckoned him over, produced his I. D. card, and asked, "Can you get me out of this, one direction or another? I’m in a hurry."
"Sorry, sir, it’s piled up both ways for three miles. Big produce truck turned over, and two killed. They’re cleaning it up as fast as they can, I think there’ll be a westbound lane open inside thirty minutes."
"0.K., thanks. Can’t be helped." Mendoza leaned back and smoked calmly, waiting. "Fifty-fifty, he’s gone to a party there or he’ll take a girl on somewhere else. Not such a good chance Dwyer’1l be able to get any idea where, and leave word."
"Lockhart seems to be jittery for some reason."
"Mmh. Not surprising. Yes, I’m remembering the gap between Mary Ellen and Celestine too. Don’t blame the dealer for a bad hand—way the shuffle came out. Be thankful we know who he is."
"Sure, that’s right," said Hackett. He wondered if he ought to tell Mendoza about this other thing—how she’d known someone at that other address—he thought of Dwyer saying, woman across the hall, who thought he was a very nice young man. Maybe someone who had introduced— This was jitters with a vengeance. Irrelevant.
There had been long intervals between the others. A lot of people lived at that address.
It was thirty-five minutes before there was a lane clear. Mendoza got them off the freeway at the first turnoff and went on up into Hollywood by side streets, choosing direction automatically, making rolling stops at stationary signals. When they came to the apartment house, on its tree-bordered narrow street, the curb was packed solid with cars, not a space left; Mendoza double-parked and was out and around the car before Hackett had his door open.
Small lobby, dimly lighted: public phone booth to the left—elevator—stairs. No sign of Lockhart or Dwyer.
"He said they thought they’d spotted the apartment, but didn’t say which floor—"
"¡No tiene importancia!" said Mendoza, and started up the stairs fast. Second floor, nothing: all quiet. Third floor, nothing. Hackett was breathless, pounding up the stairs without a break: out of condition; he thought, that extra Eve pounds, damn it—he must— And there were only four floors, and he heard the woman’s excited, alarmed voice up there and thought, No—
Narrow, dim, dark apartment corridor. Dwyer was there, sprawled up against the wall, blood on his shirt, blood on his face and hands— people in an open apartment door there, exclaiming—a man kneeling beside Dwyer, saying something about calling the police—
"Bert—" Hackett shoved the man away, going on his knees too, reaching, ripping the shirt open. A knife slash, not too deep but damn bloody—bruise on his face too—
"Art—" Dwyer tried to pull himself up, urgent, straining—"Lockhart’s after him—it was Lockhart—here when he came out with the girl—saw him—he—"
Footsteps up the stairs behind, and it was Landers, gasping from the climb. "What the hell,” he said, "I got tied up in that freeway jam, I just—Bert, what’s—"
And the apartment people exclaiming, asking questions. "Shut up!" said Hackett savagely, pressing his handkerchief on the knife slash.
"When and what, boy? Quick—"
"Came out with this woman," gasped Dwyer, "God, I been out—he hit me against the wall, my head—don’t know how long—just looked at my watch before, it was ten past seven, I’d just come up after calling you—Lockhart—the guy saw him, Lockhart said Gideon—and he went wild all of a sudden—the guy I mean, he said—crazy—he said, Rhoda, you knew about Rhoda, and then he said, But this is Rhoda, still alive, still alive, she won’t die, I keep having to kill her—and he hit the woman—and we— He had a knife, Art, he come at me with the knife—and ran—Lockhart grabbed my car keys, he’s after him—"
"Oh, my God, must have sent him right off—" Hackett shot an automatic glance at his watch: God, three minutes past eight, that had been fifty-three minutes ago! "Take it easy, Bert, you’re not bad, just lost some blood. Luis—"
But Mendoza was turning, listening with head cocked: again, footsteps on the stairs, and here came Lockhart. He looked very unlike the neat, elderly, paunchy grandfather they knew: he was hatless, wild-eyed, almost crying.
"Sergeant, thank God—I lost him, damn it to hell, I don’t know the damn town, the streets—I was on him a couple blocks, but I lost him—"
"All right, take it easy," drawled Mendoza, quite calm himself in the midst of this uproar. "Tell us what happened."
"My fault, shouldn’t’ve spoke to him—didn’t know how it’d set him off. My God, my God, right over the edge—this woman with him, they come out and— He kept saying, But why aren’t you dead, Rhoda, I killed you so many times, have to kill you again— He hit her and I went after him, but he knocked me down—got Dwyer too—I—the woman, he hadn’t knocked her right out, she was still on her feet but dazed like, you know, and he dragged her after—good—looking woman, red hair— Damn it to hell, if I’d known the damn town! I—"
Hackett stood up. He thought, God, God. Where? How could they-?
And Mendoza said, "No. No. The apartment—which apartment?"
Dwyer made two tries before he got it out: "It was apartment 406, Lieutenant—I think—"
"No," said Mendoza. He said it very calmly. Hackett looked at him, turning; it seemed that time had suddenly, just this one moment, slowed down, and he had all the leisure in eternity to turn his head and look at Mendoza.
"No," said Mendoza. Quite suddenly every vestige of color drained from his face; he looked gray. He dropped the elegant gray Homburg in his hand. He said, "No." And then he said on a great gasping breath,
“Alison—Alison—Alison—" and he turned and plunged down the stairs.
Hackett snapped to Landers, "Get an ambulance," and ran after. "Luis, wait—" He didn’t catch up to Mendoza until they were in the lobby. He only just flung himself into the car before Mendoza revved the engine.
The manufacturers claimed that a Facel-Vega could be gunned from a stand to a hu
ndred m.p.h. in eighteen seconds. Hackett had never believed it before. He couldn’t hear Mendoza over the engine, but he saw his lips moving, Alison, Alison—and a kaleidoscope of light and dark flashing past, and then the long screech of brakes, the long skid, and the violent stop, and Mendoza left him—he was out of the car, the car slewed around in the street. He was fling himself at the black-and-white squad car in the opposite lane.
Hackett got out and went after him, pounding across this anonymous dark street. "What the hell—here, you get off—"
The patrolman was trying to manhandle Mendoza, and Mendoza, sprawled half into the squad car, was reaching desperately for the hand radio. Hackett hauled the patrolman off him.
"All right, we’re headquarters, let him go—here’s identification—"
He clawed for his wallet.
"Code nine! Code nine! Request assistance!—Mendoza, headquarters! I’m taking this car out of action—what’s your number for God’s sake?—car nine-four—three, out of action—I want another car immediatamente, pronto—along Sunset, heading west from Edgemont—repeat, heading west from Edgemont—a car to join me—Code three, full siren—repeat, Code nine, Mendoza, Homicide, request—immediate priority—a car to join me—"
"What the hell!" said the driver of the squad car. "Sergeant—well, 0.K., but I don’t—" And Mendoza had him by the shoulders, a big fellow six inches over Mendoza, shaking him ruthless and hard.
"Clear the way for me, clear the way—full siren— Christ damn you, if you lose me I’ll cut your heart out—"
Hackett just made the righthand bucket seat as the Facel-Vega took off like a rocket. The siren started behind them. Dark flashing past, and then the tortured screech of brakes, the skid around a turn, and Sunset Boulevard-kaleidoscope of neon lights, the siren howling behind, and the lines of traffic ahead skittering over to the curb, out of the way. And Mendoza said over the snarl of the engine, quite calm and certain, "The beach place. The beach place. Nice and lonely. Maria madre, Maria madre, the beach place. Please God. Yes. Alison. Dios te salve, Maria, llena eres—"
Sunset Boulevard, but he’d never seen it like this before, a long joined line of pink-green-scarlet-green-blue light, sliding past. Speed of light. Speed of— Look out! Desperate screeching swerve, no crash, safe—time being—
"For God’s sake, Luis," he said numbly. "For God’s sake."
The faithful siren screaming behind. Two sirens. The second squad car. Thank God—for what? Pick up the pieces afterward. They said a Facel-Vega could do—
"Alison," said Mendoza, "Alison.”
Hackett didn’t know where they were now, lost track. Sunset, wherever. Lights and no lights and lights again, the sirens behind—Luis, for God’s sake—
He saw there ahead (time slowed down again, they seemed to approach it with infinite leisure) a lighted side street and a yellow-and-black taxi nosing out into the intersection. Nosing out too far, not hearing the sirens in time. Too far—going to hit it, going to—
Hackett shut his eyes and thought, Angel darling. He felt a slight blow in his right side, heard a rending crash. They were still traveling, and apparently in one piece. He opened his eyes. There was peculiar noise: it was, he saw (taking it in slowly) the fender of the taxi, part of the bumper too, suspended on the right fender of the Facel-Vega, crashing and banging there, a great extraneous length of metal, incongruous— His hand explored, found a deep dent in the door at his side where the swerve hadn’t quite saved them a collision, at this speed. This car was built like a tank and tonight that was a damned good thing.
The wind force dislodged the fender, it fell off awkward and sudden, another crash. Spare a thought for the squad—car drivers behind, faithful, sirens screaming like lost souls— Luis, Luis, easy, don’t kill me just when I’ve got Angel, my darling— The long sloping lazy curves, around what had been the big polo field, now was a big tract of jerry-built new houses—and no car could take these curves at such a speed—
"Santa Maria, madre de Dios," said Mendoza very distinctly, "I pray you, I pray you."
Hackett looked at the speedometer and looked away, trying to forget the three figures it registered. The siren was a little way behind now, the first siren. The driver of that squad car, no wonder, didn’t want to commit suicide.
"I am a very great fool," said Mendoza. "I am the greatest fool in the world." If Hackett had had breath he’d have agreed.
Luis, for God’s sake— But he had not said it aloud, he hadn’t breath or strength to say it aloud.
The siren, both the sirens, had caught up a little. A thought, a prayer, for the blindly obedient squad-car drivers. And damn good drivers. Yes.
And another curve. And Mendoza uttered a sound of purely animal rage; the tortured brakes screamed—they slewed around in a half circle: the speedometer needle arched away left toward zero. The Facel-Vega skidded around halfway, brakes shrieking, caromed off the rear of the T-bird last in the line of traffic, hitting it side on, and stopped facing the curb. The leading squad car, braking frantically, sideslipped to a tire-screeching stop against the curb a foot away. The second one, at five-m.p.h. less speed, managed to skid to a violent stop facing the opposite direction. .
That place it was, end of Chautauqua, where the road narrowed down to the Malibu road— God, didn’t seem like ten minutes from Hollywood, thirty miles, thirty miles—and the three-way signal at the bottom of the hill— The traffic, thick there, had heard the sirens, but it hadn’t anywhere to go, out of the way. It huddled there helpless, trapped in the narrow roads and the one wide road, nowhere to go—here, crowded close in to the curb, bumper to bumper both lanes—stationary, frightened, impotent.
The sirens behind moaning on a low note now. God—
Mendoza swung the wheel, sobbing in fury and desperation. Hackett crouched away instinctively—there was the long rending screech of metal on metal, as the Facel-Vega was jammed through where no car could go, scraping between the cars there to the left, climbing the curb, smashing past the light pole, knocking it half over drunkenly-ramming down the sidewalk past the shabby store-fronts- And a crash and another crash and they were somehow through, past, swerving around right in a great sweeping turn— The sirens, no, only one behind—other driver not so crazy, take that incredible chance after them—and straightened to the new road, the coast road. New sound, not just the wind of their passing—
He looked out and saw. The collision with the T-bird, or the desperate scraping past that solid post there-the whole side of the car was stove in, and now that right fender was jammed solid against the tire, screeching loud—wear it through in five miles, and a blowout at this pace—
Angel, my darling.
But the siren clearing the way again now, and now the brakes screaming again, the further long skidding turn, don’t look at the speedometer—
The Malibu road curving inland now, along where that cabin was, if— And over there to the left, in lonely dark, the tail lights of a car. God, could it be—were they in time? He’d had fifty minutes’ start—but no sirens clearing the way.
A violent swerve left, to a rougher road. No tail lights now.
"Mary, Mother of God," whispered Mendoza, "be kind—"
Stationary. Stopped.
Hackett sat for ten seconds, realizing it. The simple fact. Stationary, and alive. He thought he was still alive.
Siren moaning to the lowest note behind: more brakes squealing. He got out of the car—painfully, entangling himself in the gearshift. He blundered after a slim, dark figure that must be Mendoza, far up ahead, silhouetted just a minute against sky—
Night, dark, sea smell. The beach place. Sure, of course. He ran through hampering sand; he heard Mendoza running ahead, the patrolmen, heavy, behind. Heard his own hard breath. He raised a groping hand, feeling for his gun.
Wooden steps: he nearly fell, caught himself. And Mendoza was there, snarling at him, seizing his hand—"¡N0 fuego, imbécil!" God, God, of course couldn’t use the gun: who
was on the other side of the door, the window? Small place—
A door. He ran at it heavily, hard as he could, one shoulder forward. Mendoza was gone. Car-door slam: the second squad car. A man, two men, joining him. He heard loud running on wooden flooring, round the other side of the house—he heard Mendoza shouting, a distance away, somewhere at the back—"Michael Markham! Gideon Wise! We’re coming in—surrender yourself!—we’re coming—"
He shoved and struggled at the door—too solid, too thick—panting, listening to his labored breath and that of the men beside him. He heard glass smash in, back there. Heard an animal howl inside the house, beyond this door. And a little gleam beside him as one of the men— Hackett caught the wrist quickly. "Don’t fire! God knows who—" Sounds inside there now. God, God. He heard himself sob furiously at the door. Luis—He jerked out his gun again, jammed it below the doorknob at an acute downward angle, the sharpest he could manage, and shot out the lock.
He fell through the door, from dark to dark, the other two men behind him.
Noises, animal noises of men fighting, somewhere near. "Luis—"
Damn fool Mendoza, never would carry a gun— He fell against a wall, feeling frantically for a light switch, clutching the gun ready for when he could see—
No reckoning time. Five seconds, five minutes since Mendoza had left him, got in? He felt frantically along the wall—noises quite near now, men struggling there— And there was the little lever under his hand, and suddenly there was light.
And God said, Let there be light.
TWENTY
Hackett stood there in the sudden blazing light, leaning on the wall, because there wasn’t anything for him to do. The three patrolmen, one over there in another doorway, two beside him, just stood too. Looking. But after a minute Hackett moved. It was a reflex action, and curiously enough at least some of what made him move was the thought of what Brad Fitzpatrick might say in the Telegraph.
"Luis, stop it—get off him. You can’t bring him in like that—” No telling how long Markham-Wise had been out: Mendoza didn’t care, hadn’t noticed. He had him down on the floor, there was blood all over him—the knife dropped a little way off, Mendoza hadn’t needed a knife, but blood on it—