Case Pending - Dell Shannon (5 page)

"Elena was serious, all right!" said
Teresa. She turned to Mendoza.

"Look, you might's well know how it was, an'
weasel round like I suppose you got to, to be sure Ricky didn't have
nothing to do with—with killing her. That's silly, he wouldn't.
Elena met him in school three years back, see—that's Sloan Heights
High, where I went too. Only I had the sense to finish, and she
didn't—wanted a job so's she could buy a lot of splashy clothes 'n'
all—soon as she turned sixteen, she got a work permit an' a job
uptown in a Hartners' store, putting stuff on the models in the
windows, unpacking in the stock room, like that—"

Ramirez moved restlessly. "All this
foolishness," he muttered, "keeping girls in school so
long—history and algebra, it don't teach them any better to keep
house and bring up the kids.  And Elena always give Mama her
five dollars a week, regular, like she should."

"I'm not saying nothing against her, Papa, only
she should've finished like I did, learned typing and all, so's to
get a better job. Sure she gave Mama money, and bought things for the
kids too, she wasn't stingy. All I—"

"Mr. Wade," murmured Mendoza.

"That's what I'm
getting
to. She saw I was right in the end, see? Because the Wades, they
reckon they're a lot too good for the likes of us, they didn't like
Ricky taking up with Elena. Mr. Wade, he works for the city, they own
their house and all that—you know. Elena, she liked Ricky a lot,
sure, he's a nice boy like I said, but at the same time she saw it'd
be kind of a step up the ladder for her, marry into a family like
that. She didn't want to stay on Liggitt Street all her life, well,
who does? But the time she had a little fight with Ricky, 'n' don't
go thinking it was anything serious, just a little spat like, she
started thinking how silly it'd be to really lose him—I know all
this because she talked it over with me, see, nights—we got the
same room. I mean, she thought, he's used to different sorts of ways
and she got worried she wouldn't know how to act right about things
like that if they got married."

"It was foolishness," said Ramirez. "That
school place for teaching the fascination. But it's Elena's money, if
she wanted—"

"Fascination?" Momentarily the subtle color
of near-synonyms in the Spanish misled Mendoza.

"No, it wasn't," said Teresa. "It's—it
was worth the money, Papa, and that Miss Weir's real nice, you know I
seen her once, when I met Elena uptown to shop. It's a charm
school"—turning back to Mendoza—"you know, they teach
you what's right to wear and so on. Me, I say it was O.K. for Elena
to try to improve herself, sure. Even if she had to quit her job like
she did, it's a six-week course an, every day—she could get another
easy enough after. What was silly about it, those Wades aren't all so
much that she had to feel nervous about them! Mother of God, you'd
think they were millionaires with a butler maybe like in the movies,
way she talked. He's just a bookkeeper in some office, but—you
know—they're the kind put their noses in the air at us, dirty
low-class Mexes, they say to each other,
an
'
Catholic which they don't like so much either. Me, I don't let people
like that bother me, not one little bit. Maybe we do rent a house
instead of owning one, an' maybe our street isn't so high-class, an'
we don't have no car or telephone or electric washing machine—maybe
Papa does just drive a delivery truck—what's that got to do with
anything? We're respectable folks, Papa's worked for Mr. Reyes all
the time since he come over, and that's nearly twenty years, and we
don't owe nobody no money like I'll bet the Wades do. I got a good
job typing for
El Gente Méjico
,
'n' I've saved nearly three hundred dollars toward furniture an' so
on for when Carlos and me get married this summer—which I'll bet is
more than Mrs. Wade can say she did!" Teresa gestured
contemptuously.

"People like them, let them talk! But it
bothered Elena, see."

"You have much common sense," said Mendoza
with a smile. "I think Carlos is lucky. So nothing was said last
night about where your sister and Mr. Wade were going?" She
shook her head. "But you would certainly have expected that he'd
see her home?"

"Oh, sure. I can't figure out how she come to be
alone—she must've been, for whoever—did it—to sneak up on her.
You said—the corner at Commerce an' Humboldt? She must've been on
her way home then, and from that Palace rink too, coming that way."

"We'll find out. Mr. Ramirez, you'll have to
identify the body formally, and there'll be an inquest, of course.
I'll send someone to take you down to the morgue."

"Identify—that mean you're not sure it is
Elena?" asked the girl sharply.

"No, that we know. It's only a formality of the
law."

"Yes, I understand," said Ramirez. "You're
kind, we thank you."

Mendoza took the girl's arm and led her out to the
dining room. She looked up at him alertly, half-suspicious. "Well,
what now?"

"No need to upset your father more," he
said easily. "Will you give me the address of this school your
sister attended, please—how long had she been going there?"

"A—about three weeks it was, yes, just three
because today's Saturday an' she began two weeks ago last Monday. I
don't know that it was doing her much good at that, she couldn't
seem—"

"Miss Ramirez, you're a smart girl. You can look
at things straight, and I don't think you'll lie to me just to defend
your sister's memory. Tell me, do you think she'd have let a stranger
pick her up, as they say?"

Teresa put a hand to her cheek. "That's a hard
one to answer, mister. Right off I'd say no, an' not to, like you
said, make out Elena was better than she was. When I said we're
respectable folks, that wasn't no lie either-us girls've been raised
proper, know what's right 'n' wrong, even if maybe we don't know
everything like about which forks an' spoons. No, sir, Elena wouldn't
ever have gone with a strange fellow, way you mean, somebody whistled
at her on the street or offered her a ride. But it might be she would
think it was O.K. if it was somebody she'd seen around, if you know
what I mean, and he acted all right. This rink place, f'r instance,
she went there a lot, belonged to some crazy club they got for
regular customers, and if some fellow there got talking to her and
maybe offered her a ride home, if she was alone, or said he'd walk
with her, she might've thought it was O.K., if he seemed polite and
all. She—she couldn't size people up very good. I know—I told her
time an' again—she made herself look cheap, bleaching her hair and
all that make-up, but she wasn't like that really. She was"—her
face twisted suddenly—"she was just a kid. Rollerskating . . .
."

"I see, thank you. Someone will come for your
father—you'll see he's ready? I'll cease to intrude for the moment
then, but as this and that comes up, one of us will be back to ask
more questions."

"I s'pose you got to."

"Were you very fond of your sister, Miss
Ramirez?" he asked, soft and offhand.

She was silent, and then looked up to meet his eyes.
"She was my sister. That don't say I couldn't see her
faults—nobody's all good or bad. It don't seem fair—she should
die like that before she was even nineteen, hadn't had nothing much.
But it's a thing that happens, people dying, age don't seem to have
an awful lot to do with it sometimes.

Little babies, like a couple of Mama's. You got to
figure God must know what He's doing.  And think about them
that's still alive."

There was in her round brown eyes all the sad,
inborn, fatalistic wisdom of the primitive tribe living close with
the basic realities of life and death.

At the door, Mendoza met the priest just arriving:
round-faced, rich voiced, middle-aged Irishman, the self-introduction
as Father Monaghan unnecessary to guess his ancestry. "You are—?
Oh, ye-s-but what an incredible, tragic thing, I can hardly believe—
Before I go in, then, Lieutenant, perhaps you would tell me in more
detail—" And when he had heard, steady blue eyes fixed on
Mendoza, he said quietly, "God grant you find this poor wicked
man soon. If there is any way I can be of help— I know this
district well, and most of those living here, you know—"

"Yes, thank you, we'll keep it in mind."

"You said, Lieutenant—Mendoza? At least it
must be some comfort to them that one of their own people should be
investigating, one of their own faith who—"

"Not for some while of that or any, Father."

"Ah," said the priest, "but not
forever, my son, will you say that to God. One day you will return
the full circle."

Mendoza smiled, stood back to let him pass, and went
out to the porch. Adjusting his hat, he said to himself, "
¡muy
improbable, venga lo que venga—nada de eso!
"

The man called Tio Tomás was leaning on the porch
railing. He showed yellow snags of teeth in a brief grin. "Nothing
doing—that's what I say to them kind too. All they're after is
money. For a cop maybe you got a little brains." The grin did
not change his wary cold eyes. His skin was bad, showing relics of
the smallpox.

"You will be a brother to Manuel Ramirez, I
think."

"Sure, that's right, but I don't live here, I'm
just visiting. Too bad about Elena, she was a nice kid."

Mendoza looked him over thoughtfully. "I'll hear
your permanent address."

"I live in Calexico, I got a business there, I
didn't have nothing to do with—"

"Indeed?" said Mendoza; small satisfaction
warmed him for something, however irrelevant and minor, to take hold
of. The most respectable families had black sheep, and this was one
of them, that he could see with half an eye. "You're a Mexican
national, not a citizen? I'll see your entry permit." The man
brought it out promptly; it was in order. "Exporter. What do you
export?"

"I got a silversmithy," said Ramirez.
"Nothing big, you know, just a man and four girls—jewelry. You
know how the tourists go for native stuff, and here too. I make a
better profit on it up here even with the duty, you can mark it up
higher. I'm just up on a little business trip."

"With success?" asked Mendoza genially.

"Oh—sure, sure. Got to get back, though, the
business don't run itself." His eyes shifted. "Say, I won't
have to stay, just account this thing about Elena? I didn't have
nothing to do with— I mean, it was some crazy fellow killed her,
wasn't it—"

"It would be as well if you stay for the
inquest," said Mendoza, gave him a last smiling inspection and
went unhurriedly down the walk to his car; he felt the man's eyes on
him. He drove back to Commerce and caught Higgins and Dwyer comparing
notes before leaving for headquarters. No one in the block had heard
anything unusual last night.

He had not expected much from that. He sent Dwyer
with the headquarters car over to Liggitt Street, to keep an eye on
Tom
á
s
Ramirez.

"Maybe a waste of time. Maybe something for us,
but not connected with the murder. He's been in trouble, I think he's
been inside, anyway he doesn't like cops-not too close. Exporter, his
papers say. He might be just that, indeed."

Dwyer said, "Marijuana—or the big H. Sure, he
might. And how about this, Lieutenant-t-he girl finds it out and
either says she'll turn him in or wants a cut, so he—"

Whatever he is or isn't, he's small time. I don't
think so, but of course it's a possibility we'll have to check. Stay
on him, I'll send a man to relieve you." He took Higgins back to
headquarters to pick up another car and ferry the father down to the
morgue.

Himself, instead of returning to his office where he
should be attending to other matters, he set off to see the Wades.
There should be just time before lunch. It was a very routine errand,
something for Hackett or even one of Hackett's underlings, and not
until he was halfway there did Mendoza realize clearly why he felt it
important to see to it himself, why he had gone to the Ramirez house.
The sooner all this personal matter was cleared out of the way,
proved to be extraneous, the better.

And he must satisfy himself doubly that it was
irrelevant, because it was always dangerous to proceed on a
preconceived idea. He had been seized by the conviction, looking at
the body, that this girl had been killed by the killer of Carol
Brooks—but it was little more than a hunch, an irrationality backed
by very slender evidence.

Carol Brooks, three miles away over in East
L.A.—maybe a bigger loss than this girl had been. A young, earnest,
ambitious girl, who had earned her living as a hotel chambermaid and
spent her money not on clothes but voice lessons—with an expensive
trainer of high repute, too, who thought a good deal of her, was
giving her a cut price. He had said she needed constant
encouragement, because she didn't believe a black girl could get very
far, unless she was really the very best, and she'd never be that
good. Maybe she would have been; no one would ever know, now.

Nothing very much to support his conviction, on the
surface evidence. And he must guard against holding it blind, if
other evidence pointed another way. As it would-as it did. Nobody
lived long without giving at least a few people reasons for dislike,
sometimes reasons for murder. They might turn up several here. And
that was the easy way to look for a murderer, among only a few, the
immediate surroundings and routines of the girl who'd been killed.