The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon (13 page)

Nada absolutamente
, damn
it. He refused to believe that Skyros or anybody else had committed
murder— and a fairly elaborate murder, at that— to prevent that
amiable, honest young man from repeating that vague little story. It
didn't mean enough. The obvious conclusion, if you were determined to
make it murder, was that if Domokous had been killed over that
business, he'd found out more about it, enough to be dangerous. The
priest had told him, do nothing unless you are sure of wrongdoing.
Had Domokous, perhaps, gone looking for something more to say yes or
no? And, to his misfortune, found it?"
 

TEN

Mendoza let all that simmer gently in his mind
overnight— not much else he could do. It looked very much as if
this was going to be one of those cases where there'd never be the
evidence to bring anyone to book, even if he found the answer to the
problem. The kind of thing where you were pretty sure there'd been
funny business of some sort, but couldn't prove it. Of course, there
was some gain: if Domokous had died because he was a little too
honest, he had managed to call attention to Skyros and (if she had
anything to do with it at all) Madame Bouvardier, and Callaghan at
least would be taking a look at Skyros. Once in a while you got
something like that— the kind of thing Pat ran into more— no
legal evidence available. And sometimes, a while later something else
happened and you could say, Ah, so that's what was behind it— but
ten to one no evidence forthcoming then— just the satisfaction of
knowing for sure.

Insurance, he reflected. Mixed up in it somehow?—
by the bits and pieces he had. A nymph and a dolphin—
¡0ye,
qué va!
— some precious shipment of
imports? And what had the County Museum to do with it? However,
something useful might be got out of that fellow Driscoll. Citizens'
duty to aid the police when requested.

He had no chance the next morning to do anything
about that; he'd only get to his office when his inside phone rang.

"Returning favors," said Callaghan. “Fair
exchange?

"What, have you got something already?"

"A kind of interesting little bit that might be
more for you than me. My man took over Skyros from yours about four
o'clock yesterday. De La Torres— very good man, nose like a
bloodhound. Well, Skyros stayed late at his office, and along about
seven o'clock he had a visitor. At the back door, and as it happened
De La Torres was halfway down  the delivery-entrance alley and
it wasn't dark yet, daylight saving still being with us, and he had a
look at him as the fellow went in. Door left unlocked for him, all
very hospitable. And De La Torres recognized him, so he slipped up to
the corner  drugstore— taking a chance on losin' 'em both, but
sometimes you've got to take chances— and put in a call for
somebody to take on the guy when he left, if possible."

"And who was he and why did De La Torres know
him?"

“
Believe it or not his name's Prettyman. He isn't,
very. We picked him up about three years ago for unlawful possession,
that was before they put in the stiffer sentences, and he only got
sixty days. No other record on him. But as it happened, De La Torres
was the man picked him up, you see. And to anticipate you, there's no
more evidence on him now, for all I know he's reformed and maybe
Skyros is an innocent personal friend he's met since and he goes to
see him privately at his oilice to chat about chess problems or the
weather. Off the record, thanks very much for Skyros— I really
think you got something there. We'll continue to look into it. Well,
the office sent out Farr to join De La Torres, and when Prettyman
came out— which was about half an hour later— Farr took him on.
He drove down to Main and went into a bar there— Anselmo's— not a
very hot reputation, been closed down a couple of times for serving
juveniles and and getting caught with unlicensed stuff. In Farr goes
after him, having his teeth in it by then, and Prettyman had teamed
up with another fellow at a table. They stayed there awhile, and
Prettyman was calling the other guy Denny. Farr got as close as he
could, but there was a lot of noise in the place, as usual, and he
just got snatches of what they said. Until in about half an hour they
started out together. Neither of 'em was drunk, he says, just high,
at the backslapping all— buddies— together stage."

"Has this story got a tag-line?"

"Wait for it, I'm getting there. Farr ambles out
after 'em, and when they get to Prettyman's car round the corner—
darker side street— he gets close enough to listen. And they're
talking about Keats— "

"Now look," said Mendoza, "I've got no
time to listen to interminable accounts of the funny dream you had
last night. Tell your wife, she has to put up with being bored."

"Will you wait for it, damn it! I don't mean
Keats who wrote poetry, I mean— or I think they meant— one Walter
William Keats who's a burglar. At least, most of the time he is, he
did a three-to-five stretch  for it awhile ago, but he's also
been picked up for armed robbery and assault. This I got from
Burglary and Theft, I'd never heard of him myself, but what they call
the context kind of led both Farr and me to guess what his lay is.
Prettyman and Denny, whoever he is, were talking about Keats' bad
luck, getting in bad with the best fence in town, and— "I'm
coming to it now, you can start 1istening— Denny said, maybe he
oughta try Frank's old boss, the Greek, he was kinda getting into
that business himself. And Prettyman said, Yeah, was that so? And
then— "

"The Greek. Same one Prettyman had just been
visiting?"

"For what it's worth, Farr— who didn't know
any of this background— said he sort of got the impression
Prettyman was surprised and wanted to ask questions, but this Denny
started in talking about something else and he didn't have a chance
then."

"Mmh. Every time I acquire a little more
suggestive information about this thing," said Mendoza, "it
just makes it more complicated. Do I unravel this hearsay evidence
right, that Denny was implying the Greek was turning fence? Skyros?"

"Maybe. And I haven't finished. Then Denny—
who was a little higher than Prettyman— said, let's go see Amy,
nice girl, Amy, and maybe take a bottle along. And Prettyman said Amy
didn't go much for guys in his line of work, and Denny said, sure,
she wouldn't mind, look at Angie, she liked him all right, didn't
she? It was just, you know, Frank had been in it when he got his and
it kinda reminded her, but Amy was O.K."

"Wait a minute, let me get this down .... Yes?"

"You've almost got it. Finally they spotted Farr
and he had to go on past to his own car. In a minute they both
climbed into Prettyman's, and went on down Main to Daggett Street.
Ended up at 341. Farr put all this down in his notes while he sat
outside. After awhile Prettyman came out alone and took himself down
to a joint called the Elite at Daggett and San Pedro. I may add that
this joint we're looking at lately, because a user we picked up last
week let out that he'd been told you could get a fix there. And a
while after that Prettyman went home, which is a cheap room in a Main
Street hotel."

"Well, well," said Mendoza. "This is a
little something to think about, isn't it? But what a funny
combination— burglary and dope— and what lay do you suppose this
Denny's on, fraud or something? Unless it's one of those masterminded
crime rings, as per the detective stories of thirty years back, all
this rigmarole doesn't make any sense at all."

"I can't help that, I'm just giving it to you as
it came in. On account of your corpse. You said maybe the corpse knew
something about Skyros, and likelier something about some crooked
work in his regular business than any outside deal— but this seems
to indicate that there might be some kind of outside business.
Something funny, anyway. If he is the Greek."

"I don't deny it. What about 341 Daggett— pro
house?"

"If it is, Vice doesn't know it. Aside from that
I know nothing about Amy. How much do you want? I only had this
thrown at me half an hour ago."

"I appreciate your good intentions," said
Mendoza. "All you've succeeded in doing is arousing my curiosity
to fever pitch. I really think I'll have to look into this myself—
I couldn't explain to anybody just what to investigate. Thanks very
much, I'll let you know if anything comes of it."

"Always happy to co-operate," said
Callaghan.

Mendoza looked at his scribbled notes while he
finished his cigarette, and then got up and reached for his hat. He
had, he supposed, no business wasting time over such vague clues, on
such a nebulous affair; but if he'd admit it to himself, he always
hated to delegate authority. Now and then it made a little change, a
little interest, to get out on the street again, at the core of a
case, doing the work a sergeant or his underlings usually did, while
the lieutenant waited to have all the loose ends handed him for tying
up into neat knots. He might just begin the cast here, anyway.

Daggett Street, he
thought. Twenty-three years ago he had lived on Daggett Street, down
there the wrong side of Main ....

* * *

Hackett came in late because yesterday had been his
sister's birthday; he'd had to go out there for dinner and it was
quite a little drive back and forth, clear out to Arcadia; he hadn't
got in until after midnight, and had overslept.

Sergeant Lake told him Mendoza had been in and gone
out again, leaving a note for him. The note said, "
Inmediatamente
,
contact Driscoll and find out what his interest is in Skyros."
Hackett felt unreasonably exasperated; that was Luis for you, go on
worrying at some insignificant little thing like this, like a dog
with a meatless bone. There wasn't anything in this Domokous
business.

But he dutifully called Driscoll's hotel, which he
knew from the tail on him. Driscoll was out. Hackett left a request
for him to call when he came in, and looked over the tail's report on
him in desultory interest. Mendoza had sized Driscoll up all right:
the saga of his wanderings in the last thirty-six hours sounded
remarkably like one of those pieces of fiction in which the emphasis
was on pace rather than plausibility.

He had visited the local office of his company on
Wednesday morning, when his tail was first attached; had, as the tail
reported laconically, drunk lunch at a nearby bar, and then driven
out to the County Museum in Exposition Park. He hadn't stayed there
long, but gone on out Wilshire to the Beverly-Hilton. Stayed there
about half an hour, come out, driven back to Hollywood and gone to
another bar, where he made a phone call which, the tail deduced by
the fact that he'd got a ten-dollar bill changed into quarters first,
was a long-distance one. He had then had dinner and taken himself to
what the tail reported was a damned stale burlesque show down on
Main. Came out about nine-thirty ("thank God," the tail
appended, "enough to put a man off women for life") and
sought out another bar. Subsequently the tail had had to load him
into a taxi— perfectly safe, as he had already passed out— and
send him back to his hotel. On Thursday, not unexpectedly, he had
stayed in all morning: emerged about one o'clock, looking about as
you'd expect, and had again driven out to the County Museum. This
time he stayed a couple of hours, and from there went to the
Times-Mirror Building and stayed another couple of hours. The tail
had been unable to track close enough to find out where he'd gone
inside. He came out about six o'clock and had a sandwich and several
drinks at still another bar. And then he went back to Hollywood to a
much-vaunted live-revue theater.

Bound to enjoy himself if it kills him, deduced
Hackett. The night tail reported in just as he finished reading, and
said Driscoll hadn't shown before the day man came on, but he'd been
middling high when he came in last night and maybe was nursing
another little hangover.

Yesterday afternoon Mendoza had decided to put a tail
on the exotic brunette, and since Callaghan had taken over Skyros,
Hackett had transferred Dwyer, Reade, and Higgins to her. Higgins'
report, up to midnight, was here. Madame Bouvardier had dined at her
hotel, and had then been driven up to Hollywood by her hired
chauffeur to an address near Silver Lake. She hadn't stayed there
long, only half an hour or so, then returned to the hotel.

[ And what was there in all that? Exactly nothing. If
Driscoll's movements said anything, they said he didn't seem
inordinately interested in Mr. Skyros. And as for the woman— well!
Jewelers, hairdressers, the hotel dining room, and probably some
acquaintance in a good residential district— kind of thing you'd
expect.

' Nymphs and dolphins, thought Hackett. Once in a
while one of Mendoza's hunches paid off, but a lot of them were duds
too, and this looked like one of those all right.

About then Dwyer came in to report, on his way home;
he said Hackett might have given him a break, and let him see
something of this dame, on day duty— it wasn't, after all, often
that a respectable married man had the chance to follow a skirt like
that all over town on his legitimate job. As it was, she'd already
been in her suite when he took over from Higgins, and he'd only had a
brief look at her this morning before Reade showed up.