The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon (11 page)

"That's right. And to anticipate, none of them
have windows, and five other garages had their padlocks forced. Mr.
Corder happened to come out just after me, and found his broken, and
we looked, and found the others. I hadn't thought much about mine,
you see. It's an old one, the padlock, and rusted, and it does stick
sometimes— I'll think it's closed and then find it's just stuck
halfway. I suppose it's careless of me, but quite a few times I've
put the car away after dark and next morning found the padlock wasn't
closed properly. So I hadn't thought twice about finding it that way
this morning. Not until I saw the car, with the driver's door open
and the seat pulled out. Everything intact as far as I can see—
there wasn't anything there to take, of course, except some maps and
cleaning rags in the glove compartment?

"The seat," said Mendoza. "That thing
you found— "

"Yes, I thought of it right away. It doesn't
seem to belong to anyone I know. And we have it dinned into us so
much about co-operating with the police— I was just trying to be a
dutiful citizen. I called that sergeant again and told him about it,
but he obviously thought I was imagining things— just a nervous
female. Well, I thought somebody ought to know— "

"He didn't send anyone up to look?"

"Oh, yes. At least he didn't, but he said to
call the local precinct. Which Mr. Corder already had. And a couple
of men came up and looked at everything. It was a nuisance, of
course, made us both awfully late— but we left everything just as
it was for them. And they looked in the other garages, and said it
was probably kids."

"Any other car touched?"

"No. And that was just it. It was only mine. So
I told those men all about it, because it seemed rather open—
and-shut to me. There being no windows, I mean— he didn't know
which garage, and he had to try several garages before he found the
right car. And they looked at me pityingly— these imaginative
females!— and said all over again it was probably kids, just
messing around."

"Yes. You can't really blame them, on the face
of it it sounds too vague and— apologies— the sort of thing a
nervous female might dream up. But it is suggestive, isn't it? It
might be— it could be— whoever dropped that thing. And on the
other hand— all that trouble, hunting up the car and so on, just
for— Has there been any vandalism of that sort, kids roaming
around at night and getting into mischief, in the neighborhood?"

"Not that I know of."

"And nothing to get hold of on it, any more than
on my little business .... And I might have known," added
Mendoza as Hackett drifted up to the table, "that I couldn't
have lunch in peace, not opposite a pretty female anyway, without you
barging in."

"It's not the redhead," said Hackett, “—
hello, Miss Weir, and apologies to tell the truth— it's the chance
of sticking you with the check, Luis."

"Neither of you'll be sitting opposite long,"
said Alison. "I've got to get back. I wondered if I ought to
advertise it, you know— d'you think it'd do any good?"

"I do not. If he, she, or it knows for pretty
certain it must have been lost in the car, they'd recognize an ad as
a trap."

"Oh!— of course, I didn't see that. But it's
such a little thing— "

"Yes. One piece of advice I'll give you, knowing
your casual habits,
chica
.
Put the chain up on your door and keep those two windows near the
fire escape locked."

“
My lord, you don't really think— ? But I'd
suffocate, those are the north windows where the only air comes in—
You can't think, just for a little thing like that— ?"

"Somebody went to a little trouble to look in
the car. If it wasn't just kids' random mischief, and you're not
imagining things.
No se sabe nunca
—
one never knows .... You remember what I say now, ¿comprende? Y
hasta muy pronto," as she rose to leave.

"Well, all right, I can't stop to argue now,"
said Alison, and fled back to her class.

"And what was all that about, if it's any of my
business?" asked Hackett.

"It's not, but they say two heads are better
than one." Mendoza told him.

"That's a funny one, all right. Maybe one of
these superstitious nuts, it's his best lucky talisman or something?"

"Could be. I don't know. I don't know anything
about anything," said Mendoza, regarding his coffee gloomily.
"And there's another funny little thing tied up to it that—
Maybe I'm getting old, Art. Losing my grip— "

"All come out in the wash," said Hackett.
"The trouble with you is, you've got what they call a tortuous
mind. You build up little picayune things to worry about, that don't
mean a damn. Like this Domokous thing. It's
un
callejón sin salida
, boy— a dead-end
street. Higgins checked in on Skyros just after you left. If he's
playing games with the exotic brunette, they haven't even got to Post
Office yet. He goes from home to office and vice versa, and that's
all. The brunette— I borrowed one of Galeano's men to check on her—
is staying at the Beverly-Hilton. She's one Madame Rafael Bouvardier,
of Paris, and she's apparently loaded. Has her own maid with her, and
a suite. No expense spared."

"That was the picture," agreed Mendoza.
“What's her first name and what's she doing here?"

"How should I know? She hasn't confided in the
hotel people. Just a pleasure trip, probably. Though why pick L.A. in
this season, God knows. She's been here about three weeks. Don't tell
me you want her tailed too. We just haven't got a man free."

"But I can think of unpleasanter jobs,"
said Mendoza. "I might even take it on myself— keep my hand
in, so to speak."

"
¡No hay más
,
that's all, brother!" said Hackett. "Since when do you need
practice chasing skirts? Just an excuse to take the afternoon off!"
 

NINE

Mendoza had said, no hunch; and he didn't have that
unreasonably sure conviction that this or that was so. It was more on
the order of that uneasy doubt as to whether one had left the gas
turned on or the faucet running.

He had the further guilty feeling that he was wasting
time, but he drove out to the Bever1y-Hilton, and was waiting his
turn at the desk clerk to frame some discreet questions about Madame
Bouvardier, when he saw her descending the nearest stair into the
lobby. No expense spared, that you could say again, he reflected:
very Parisian, very exotic— again the wide lace-brimmed hat,
another black-and-white printed silk gown, what at least looked like
diamonds, long gloves, fragile high heels.

And well met: so, wasting time, but might as well be
hanged for a sheep as a lamb. He abandoned the line at the desk and
strolled after her, with a vague idea of picking her up somehow, all
very gentlemanly and polite, and getting confidential over a drink—
as confidential as she could be persuaded, and at that he flattered
himself he was far more accomplished than any of his sergeants.

But she didn't establish herself conveniently in the
lobby, the adjacent lounge, or the bar; she walked purposefully out
the main door, and Mendoza drifted up in time to hear her ask the
doorman for Madame Bouvardier's car.

"Yes, madame, the chauffeur's just gone out,
he'll be here directly, madame."

Hell, thought Mendoza, and turned back for the side
door and sprinted for the  Facel-Vega in the middle of the lot.
Hired car and driver, the chauffeur calling from the lobby to
announce arrival— he wouldn't be sixty seconds picking her up. He
thrust coins at the attendant and switched on the engine almost in
one motion.

But he was just in time, taking the wide curve out to
Wilshire, to catch a glimpse of the lace hat through the rear window
of a stately black middle-aged Chrysler. He was held up a couple of
cars behind, but the Chrysler wasn't hard to keep in view along here;
it went straight up Wilshire at a steady pace, heading back for
Hollywood. Before they got into town, Mendoza managed to pass the
cars ahead and fall in directly behind it.

A couple of blocks this side of La Brea, the Chrysler
turned left and went round the block, and Mendoza dropped back a
little, guessing at a stop. Middle of the block, and the chauffeur'd
gone round to drop her on the right side; he hopped out smartly,
illegally double-parked, and opened the door, and out she came, said
a few words. Probably as to where and when to pick her up. Mendoza
was legitimately caught in this lane by the halted Chrysler, an
excuse for watching. The chauffeur touched his cap, grinned apology
over his shoulder at Mendoza, and ran around to the driver's door
again. And Madame Bouvardier vanished through the door of an elegant
black-glass-and-marble fronted shop labeled in discreet gold script,
Shanrahan and MacReady.

"Well, well," said Mendoza sadly to
himself. "A mare's nest. With a clutch of wild goose eggs in
it." But he turned the next corner, miraculously found a parking
space, and strolled back to keep an eye on the black glass door.

In twenty minutes it opened and she came out and
turned in his direction. He stayed where he was, propping the wall of
the bank on the corner, and his flagging interest was slightly
aroused by her expression as she passed him: she was biting her lower
lip, looking thoughtful and annoyed. She carried no parcel, and her
bag was too small to conceal even a little one.

She walked on half a block, stopping a few times to
look in windows, and disappeared into the plush elegance of Chez
Frédéric, Coiffures.

"Oh, hell," said Mendoza to himself. She
hadn't stopped at the counter in there, but with a white-robed
attendant at her elbow passed on into the rear premises. Be there for
hours, very likely.

What did he think he was doing, anyway? You couldn't
expect a tailing job to turn up something interesting in the first
hour. If he wanted to know more about the female, put a man on her,
and preserve patience.

And no reason she
shouldn't have gone where she did. A place any woman might go. But,
as long as he was here.— He turned around and walked back to
Shanrahan and MacReady.

* * *

Mr. Brian Shanrahan welcomed him into the chaste
quietude of the shop with subdued cries of delight, or what passed
for that with a dignified middle-aged professional man of repute.

"And what may I have the pleasure of showing you
today? Perhaps at last something in a wedding set? I have— "

"You and my grandmother," said Mendoza.

"And how is the charming
señora
?
Such an interesting old lady— "

"You find her interesting," said Mendoza,
"because she's the cautious type who likes to put money into
portable value she can look at instead of six percent common stock,
and is one of your best customers. It's not for want of telling she
hasn't grasped that you figure a two hundred per-cent mark-up."

"Now that's slander, Mendoza," said
Shanrahan aggrievedly. "Seldom more than a hundred and fifty.
And if it's something for her birthday, she was in and briefed me
thoroughly. There's this bracelet she has her eye on, very fine
stones, if you'd like to look— "

"No," said Mendoza. "It's ridiculous,
and I refuse to be a party to it. I'd like to inherit something from
her eventually besides stock for a secondhand jewelry shop. I didn't
come in to buy anything, I want some information?

Mr. Shanrahan sighed and asked what about.

"A few minutes ago a woman came in here— a
very exotic, expensive-looking young woman— black and white
ensemble, lace-brimmed hat, gloves— "

"And diamonds in some very old-fashioned
mountings," nodded the jeweler intelligently. "Friend of
yours?"

"Heaven forbid, not my type— "

"Didn't know you had one."

"What did she want? Who waited on her?"

"As a matter of fact I did."

"Of course, you took one look and she spelled
Money, so you wouldn't trust her to an underling."

"Or I tried to. She looked at a couple of
things, but she wasn't really interested. If she hadn't— um— as
you say, looked quite so expensive, I might have put her down as an
amateur novelist looking for information. The first thing she came
out with was, what enormous value all these beautiful things must
represent, we must have to be very careful about thieves. Did we have
a burglar alarm? Did we have a night watchman? Had we ever suffered a
robbery? All in machine-gun style, and a very thick accent."

"
¡Vaya por Dios!
"
said Mendoza. “I refuse to believe that she came in to, as the pros
say, case the joint! Now what the devil— "

"Good God," said Mr. Shanrahan. "You
don't think— "

"No, I don't, it's ridiculous, I just said so. A
suite at the Beverly-Hilton, her own maid— and those clothes—
Impossible."

"Good God," said Mr. Shanrahan again.
"Burglary. Don't even suggest it. Another one. We average three
a year, and this is really too soon after the last— only three
weeks. My heart won't take this sort of thing much longer— not to
speak of the insurance company. Really, Mendoza!"