The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon

by Dell Shannon

  He stopped at Alison's school on Sunset on his way downtown, and was surprised to find it closed. No class, no sign on the door— nobody there, and the door locked. He felt ridiculously uneasy over that, and sought the nearest public phone to call her apartment. He let the phone ring a dozen times, but got no answer. The school closed on a Friday, a weekday, and if she was ill she'd be home. Unreasonably he felt annoyed with Alison: where was she, just when he wanted her?

  Well, it couldn't be helped; he'd check back later. He went on downtown, and straight up to Callaghan's office at headquarters. Callaghan wasn't there, and he fumed about that; hung around for ten minutes or so, and was just about to go down to his own office when Callaghan came in. He regarded Mendoza fondly, shepherded him into the inner office and installed him in the one comfortable chair.

  "Once in awhile you really earn your keep around here, Luis. You've been real helpful today— you've got no idea how helpful. I think those four thugs you ran into are all pushers, it gave us an excuse to get a warrant to go through that Elite joint, and we came across quite a little cache of stuff— including about a thousand made-up reefers— in a back room. And a few decks on Prettyman and one of the others."

  "Oh, Prettyman was one of them, was he? We weren't formally introduced."

  "The big fellow in the green shirt was Prettyman. I understand you're acting coy, don't want to show in the business by being named victim of assault. Well, that's O.K., we got these two, Prettyman and Flores, charged with unlawful possession, and we can run through the assault on the others with a John Doe if the judge co-operates. Everybody else at the Elite had been warned by the time we got there, of course— not a soul in the place, more's the pity .... And now I'd like to hear a blow-by-blow account of how you got into the hassle in the first place."

  "And there are some suggestive points in it," said Mendoza, and obliged .... Castro— they thought I was working for him. As a pusher? If Prettyman and these others are on that lay, it rather looks like it, doesn't it? Can we build it up that Prettyman is a head pusher for somebody?— let's not say Skyros until we've got more evidence, but maybe. And he's supplying these others, his boys as they put it. And if they leaped to the conclusion that this Castro was trespassing on Prettyman's territory, and resented it so much, where does that put Castro? You know about Bratti, of course."

  Callaghan blew smoke at the ceiling and said thoughtfully, "One thing this job's taught me is a lot of respect for the capitalistic system. You'd be surprised how much these little trade wars help us sometimes. If there wasn't the opportunity for competition, we wouldn't get to know about half these bastards— whether we can get evidence on 'em or not, it's nice to know their names. And when a couple of minor territory-bosses get into a little war— maybe one of 'em trying to encroach, you know, hire a boy away to his string, or sometimes something right outside the business, jealousy over a woman or something like that— it makes a grudge, and that gives us an in. None of 'em are very smart on that level, you know, they can't think far ahead. I've known 'em get into street fights, yet, one little gang against the other, and all get hauled in— ruin a ten-thousand-a-week business for some damn-fool little personal grudge. And afterward, under questioning, you'll get the same thing sometimes— with luck, and if they're fools enough. Tell you anything they know about the other gang, to take them along on the skids too."

  "Have you got anything like that from these?"

  “It's early. I hope we will. I've seen all of 'em once. They're all still damn cocky, especially Prettyman. I'd better warn you, he's saying it was a trumped-up job, you were planted to give us an excuse to drag 'em in. But I don't think that'1l do him any good with the bench, because he did have the stuff on him. I don't think we'll get much useful out of him, he's a little too smart. But I've got him well separated from the other three, he can't brief them, and they're still convinced, probably, that you were this Castro's boy. By what they said to you, sure, there's one of these little trade wars going on between Prettyman and Castro, and that does indeed put Castro as another head pusher— Prettyman's opposite number. For which middleman, I wonder?"

  "Bratti," said Mendoza. "You want to bet'? Skyros' opposite number."

  "No bets with you. I got a wife and family to support."

  "Yes, and also— look— that might say something to us about why Skyros tried to steer us onto Bratti. Heads or tails— either he didn't know Castro was Bratti's head man, and couldn't name him to us, or he thinks we're so dumb we wouldn't know Bratti wouldn't be out working the street himself. As I— mmh— divined at the time, he just wanted to get Bratti in trouble."

  "Could be. Yes, it's kind of tempting to think, isn't it? And if so, naturally Prettyman's middleman supplier— let's commit slander and say Skyros— wouldn't have much use for Bratti. The grudge might even have come from there originally, personal fight between middlemen passed down to the lower level. Cutthroat competition. I hope by the time these three have stewed awhile, we may get some revealing remarks out of them .... Oh, sure, Prettyman yelled for a lawyer right away, and there'll be bail— but that gives us a little time to hang onto them, they won't come up until Monday probably, and meanwhile we may get to hear some more about Castro."

  "And Angie," said Mendoza. "Who is Pretty's best boy. And who knows Denny, who from somewhere got the information that the Greek is turning fence. I didn't acquire these bandages in a spirit of altruism, you know— I was looking for something on my end of the business."

  "Oh, granted," said Callaghan. "I'll keep my ears open, and issue instructions to the jailers ditto. I think maybe about tomorrow it might be helpful to move two of them in together and hear what they have to say to each other. Inadmissible evidence— self-condemnation— but very interesting sometimes, and points to other places to look for legal evidence. I'll keep your corpse in mind. And I'm also going to do a little looking at Amy."

  "Who is, or was, this Frank that Prettyman and Denny mentioned?"

  "No idea, I'll have a look at Records and see if we can turn him up."

  "Well, I wish you luck." Mendoza stood up. "I hope you realize I've wasted most of the day doing your job. So far I've got nothing out of all this at all."

  "Patience, maybe you will. I'll keep you posted."

  THIRTEEN

  Mendoza returned to his own office and called Alison's apartment again. No answer. Now where the hell was she? Off on a painting jaunt somewhere? Not on a weekday: she wouldn't close the school just for that.

  He tried to remember the names of friends he'd heard her mention, and came up with only one whole one, Patricia Moore— hadn't he met her once?— dowdy Englishwoman, a commercial artist of some kind. He looked her up in the phone book and called there, but again drew blank.

  It was four o'clock. His head was still aching, and he kept hitting that damned hand on everything in reach— the left one, praise heaven for small mercies. Hackett called in and said Driscoll had disappeared somewhere with his tail. "Hell and damnation!" said Mendoza, and sent Sergeant Lake out for coffee for both of them.

  At four-thirty he tried the apartment and the school again. No luck. The night tail for Driscoll came in and asked whether the day man had called in to say where to pick him up. He hadn't. They waited around awhile for that, and nothing happened.

  At five o'clock Mendoza said he was going home, he'd had a full day. He was to be called at once, pronto, when Driscoll was located or if anything else interesting broke. On the way home he stopped at Alison's school and apartment, and found both empty and silent. Maddeningly, through the slots in her mailbox he could see several envelopes.

  He couldn't say he was exactly worried about her— Alison could take care of herself quite well— but he didn't like it. He went home, to the haven of air-conditioning and an affectionate welcome from Bast; he managed to untie Mrs. Bryson's knot, made some coffee, and lay down to ruminate in peace, or in as much peace possible with Bast curled up on his stomach.

  He woke up a
t a quarter of eight, decided it was too much trouble to get dressed and go out for a meal, and made himself an omelette. He fed Bast. He called his office: hadn't Driscoll been located yet? Yes, the day man had called in, the night man gone to relieve him, and Sergeant Hackett had been briefed when he came in after dinner, but by the time Hackett got there— to a restaurant on Fairfax— they'd both gone.

  "¡Fuera!" said Mendoza. "Keep me informed, as soon as the tail calls in."

  He had another cup of coffee. Bast lay purring steadily on his lap, and the clock-hands moved slowly around to nine-thirty. When the phone rang he jumped for it, and then had to stop to apologize to Bast, so rudely discarded. "Yes?"

  "Myers just called in, sir. Driscoll's gone back to his hotel and looks like staying in."

  "Ah," said Mendoza. "Thanks very much." He flung off his robe, dressed hastily, and this time carried his tie upstairs to Mr. Elgin. "By the way," he said as Mr. Elgin pulled the knot tight, "do you really think that precocious tom of yours— ?"

  "Well, I must say it looked that way to me," said Mr. Elgin, and elaborated.

  "You can have first choice of the 1itter," said Mendoza generously, and Mr. Elgin looked alarmed.

  "Oh, well— er— we have four already— "

  "I might have known you'd disclaim responsibility. It's legal enticement, if you ask me. Why you had to bring home a tom— this over-sexed delinquent with rape in his eye— "

  "Now really, Mendoza— she's acting pretty coy with him, too— enticement on the other side, if you ask me. And he's not just any tom. It might be worse. Abyssinians are sort of first cousins to Siamese, they ought to turn out quite interesting kittens."

  Mendoza said Elgin was a traitor and a coward, but he hadn't time to argue about it now. The night had begun to cool off a little, thank God. He drove down to Driscoll's hotel and found Myers in the lobby. "Is he sober?"

  "Depends what you mean by sober, Lieutenant. Say, I heard you got banged up a little today, that looks pretty nasty .... Well, he was feeling pretty good when I picked him up, but dinner settled him down a little. He went out to see that dame at the Beverly, and Dwyer and I strolled up and down the hall outside— you know— and we gathered there was some sort of hassle going on .... Oh, the usual thing, you might say— not that I got any more of the French than Bert did, but it wasn't hard to figure. You can recognize swearing— even, er, ladylike swearing— in any language. She did most of the talking, and most of it after she had the door open and started ordering him out. By the gestures."

  Myers looked gravely amused. "Not very polite gestures. We figured he'd been trying to make her, maybe with not much finesse if you get me, and she said No nineteen different ways— at the top of her voice— and ended up by slapping his face. Good and hard— sounded like a shot."

  "¡No me diga!" Mendoza laughed. "That I'd like to have seen. How'd he take it?"

  "Oh, mad as hell. Insult to his vanity, like they say. He went straight down to the bar, but after a couple of drinks it probably dawned on him what kind of mark-up he was paying for the atmosphere, and he came back to town and found a cheaper place. When he left and came back here, he was high, but not quite passing-out high."

  "And that might be just the way I want him," said Mendoza. "What's his room number? Come up with me."

  He knocked on the door, waited, knocked again. A stir inside; Driscoll asked without opening, "Wha' the hell you want?"

  "Open the door, Mr. Driscoll. This is Lieutenant Mendoza from headquarters, and I've got some questions to ask you."

  "You go to hell," said Driscoll.

  "Open the door or I'll get the manager to open it for me."

  A long pause; then Driscoll fumbled at the lock inside and the door opened slowly, halfway. "Listen, why the hell you got to come round at this time of night? What d'you want with me? Cops! I'm a law-abiding citizen, you can't— "

  "That's fine," said Mendoza. "Let us in, and we'll discuss this in private." He pushed Driscoll aside, went in with Myers and shut the door. The room was strewn with discarded clothes, careless: the bed a tangle of sheet and blanket. "You seem to be interested in a business way in a couple of people we're interested in too, and I'd like to ask your cooperation in the matter. Just what is your interest— or your company's interest— in Madame Bouvardier and Mr. Andreas Skyros?"

  Driscoll looked at him blearily. "I don't have to tell you one thing. It's private comp'ny business. Nothing to do with cops— "

  "But we think it has, Mr. Driscoll, and you should know that you're bound, both as a private citizen and an investigator, to co-operate with us when you're asked, give us any information you may have."

  "You can go to hell!" said Driscoll, uneasily belligerent. "Smart boy cop— sure, take all the credit if I— By God, clean it up m'self, no co-operation from you smart boys— tell Howard so too— Go ahead, beat me up, why don't you— two of you, tha's jus' the way you boys like it, isn't it, two t' one!" His eyes focused momentarily; he laughed. "You been in a li'l ruckus already, Lieutenant?— wha' happen, you run up against somebody a li'l tougher, like maybe a five-year-old kid? Go on, jus' try— dirty Mex bastard— "

  "That one I've heard from tougher ones than you, Mr. Driscoll," said Mendoza. "Just a little tougher. And we really don't operate that way, you know— it's not such a good idea to give the public reason to confuse us with the thugs. Do I understand you're refusing to give us any information you have?"

  "You got it in one— bingo!" said Driscoll, and attempted another laugh.

  Mendoza looked at him a moment more and said, "O.K., if that's the way you want to play it." He turned and came out, Myers behind, and Driscoll slammed the door after them.

  "A real tough baby," said Myers. "Oh, my."

  Mendoza grinned. "Suppose you hang around this floor while I go down and phone in for a warrant. Just in case he gets any ideas." He went down to the lobby, called his office and requested a warrant— material witness— as soon as possible. "I'll wait here for it."

  It didn't take long. One of the night-duty sergeants brought it up, and Mendoza took him back up to where Myers was holding the fort. They had to make a little noise, banging on the door and threatening to get the manager, and an interested crowd had collected by the time Driscoll finally opened to them. Mendoza charged him formally and added, "You've got five minutes to dress, make it snappy."

  “Y0u can't do this to me— "

  "Famous last words," said the sergeant. "In, buddy, and get your pants on. You're going for a joy ride .... I'll bet they turned him down for the Army, Lieutenant, he'd've learned a lot fancier cussing than that in the service."

  * * *

  The telephone brought Mendoza out of deep sleep, shrill and imperative. Mechanically he reached out to the bedside table, only half awake, and hit his hand on the edge; swore, coming further out of sleep, and turned over to reach the phone with his right hand. Bast, who was curled in a ball alongside him, uttered faint protests at being so rudely wakened.

  "Mendoza speaking?

  "This Lieutenant Mendoza of headquarters?"

  "Yes." He was fully awake now. "Who is this?"

  "Sergeant Polaski speaking, sir Kenneth Street precinct, Hollywood. We just had a call to a break-in and assault up here, and the neighbors seemed to think you ought to be informed— say the young lady's a friend of yours. A Miss Alison Weir, it's the Blanchard Arms on— "

  "I know the address, what's happened?"

  "Just got here ourselves, sir— somebody broke in and attacked her— "

  "All right, I'm coming, you carry on!" He swore steadily at his hand as he flung on some clothes: a damned nuisance. It was five minutes before he left, leaving the light on behind him. Bast looked at it plaintively, uttered a philosophic sigh, curled up with her back to it and her tail across her eyes, and went to sleep again.

  On the way across town Mendoza was absently interested to notice that the Face1-Vega was apparently capable of what the manufacturers claimed fo
r it. A good many automatic signals were off for the night at this hour, and he ignored the ones that weren't. The force was shorthanded, but he'd have a word to drop to Fletcher in Traffic: despite the comparative emptiness of the streets after midnight, it wasn't until he was within a mile of his destination that a patrol car picked him up. He didn't stop, and it was a minute behind him when he pulled up at the curb. He got to the elevator before a patrolman caught him up, breathing wrath, to be calmed down and presented with identification.

  There'd been another patrol car ahead of where he parked, and on the fourth floor there was quite a crowd. People in dressing gowns standing in their doorways, interested and excited; a very young patrolman taking notes as a pretty gray-haired woman gabbled at him; another on his knees earnestly studying the open door of Alison's apartment; a sergeant looking at something on the floor inside. Mendoza snapped out his name and pushed past the kneeling man.

  "Sergeant— "

  "Lieutenant Mendoza? Good evening, sir, I mean good morning, isn't it? I'm Sergeant Polaski." What he was looking at was a weighted short sap lying there near the door. "The— Miss Weir, she got a nasty crack on the head— doctor's with her now, he didn't think it was necessary to take her into hospital, but— The guy evidently got scared off in a hurry, before he could do much real damage. Woman across the hall, Mrs. Corder— by what we've got so far— she and her husband were just coming home, heard Miss Weir call out, and when the guy heard them coming, he ran, knocked the woman halfway down the stairs to get by, and of course the husband was so busy helping her up he can't give a description— and the stair light was out of commission anyway."