by Dell Shannon
three weeks back, from that fifteen-year stretch."
"Oh, this I like to hear," purred Mendoza. "But not soon enough to have done that job?"
"Uh-uh. I figure that was Denny. The way I say, these Donovans always stuck pretty close. Family feeling, you know? When I saw that entry in Benny's ledger, under the date which'd have been just about the time whoever did the Shanrahan— MacReady job was disposing of the loot, I had a kind of sentimental little vision, you know. Here's Jackie Donovan coming out after fifteen long years inside— and maybe his loving brother Denny figured on making a little celebration. I don't know what Denny's been doing since— God knows we get enough casual stick-ups and break-ins we never can get anybody for, it could be he's managed to support himself that way, just smart enough to take nothing but cash, you know. Anyway, I wondered. I've had a little bet with myself that the proceeds wrung out of Benny Hess went to arrange a celebration party for Jackie Donovan. And I might add," said Goldberg, "that I did a little private cussing that I didn't know about it until after Jackie was out, or I could've put a leash on him to lead me to Denny. If you see what I mean."
"As it is, you don't know where either of them is?"
"I wish to God I did. That entry is enough to let me haul Denny in for questioning, at least. But ninety percent of this is all in my mind— just like the head-doctors say— and," added Goldberg bitterly, "some of the allergy specialists .... I haven't got anything to take to the D.A. And now I've bared my heart to you, what's your interest and have you got anything more useful to hand me?"
"Maybe you'd better have another drink," said Mendoza. "I'm going to tell you something that'll raise your blood pressure." He told Goldberg about Driscoll and the mysterious visitor to the County Museum, and Goldberg invoked the Almighty, burst into a paroxysm of sneezing, called down curses on all stupid civilians, and emerged from fresh Kleenex to tinish his second drink.
"Damn specialists. Tell me to avoid nervous tension. All in your emotions. What the hell do they expect, that I'll give up all my seniority and go and grow roses somewhere quiet? I will be damned. My God, these private eyes . . . I'll tell you, Mendoza, I can't say at that that it comes as a big surprise. Donovan I couldn't lay my hands on, but I'd have taken a little bet there was some negotiation going on about that collection. We're reasonably smart these days, you know, and I can add one and one as easy as the next man. It was obvious no fence'd take on that kind of thing, and so I thought about it— along the lines of that one about the lost horse and the idiot boy— and— do you know that Lexourion's daughter is here?"
"My God," said Mendoza, "don't tell me I've been keeping three men busy on eight-hour shifts all to do work you've been doing too?"
Goldberg sat back and laughed. "There you are, too many cooks. Dangers of a big organization. Sure I've had men on her. What else could Donovan— if it was Donovan— do with a thing like this collection? And at that, I've had moments of doubt. I mean, a dumb small-time pro like Denny Donovan— would he even read the papers next morning to know what he had? I had another little vision of him dumping all those boxes in a pawnshop for five bucks— only of course they haven't showed up."
"I don't know for sure about Donovan," said Mendoza, "but whoever it was, he knew. That visit to the museum director— "
"Sure, and I'm going to be awful damn interested in what that one looked 1ike," said Goldberg. “And the only surprise to me about that is the direction it took. Because I thought a little harder, after I had the word that the daughter was in town, and I asked myself how I'd handle it, say I was a middling-smart pro like Jackie Donovan stuck with that stuff— because Jackie was out by then— and I thought one like that might think it was just worth a five-buck investment— just on the chance, you know. So I sent a man down to look through the classified ads the last three weeks— "
"¡Hijo mio!" said Mendoza affectionately. “A man after my own heart. Exactly what I'd have done. And did you come up with anything interesting?"
"I think so," said Goldberg. "In two ways, you might say. There was an ad run in the personals for five days— haven't got a copy on me, but I can supply you— an ad that said, quote, Concerning Greek money, party will negotiate. Box So-and-So, unquote. It makes you wonder sometimes, doesn't it? You'd think they'd realize after a while that even the run-of-the-mill rookie in uniform's got an I.Q. over seventy-five."
"Isn't it the truth! And of course you went down and asked who'd placed the ad."
"One Andrew Jackson placed it. I shouldn't think any connection of the late general. There were no answers to Box So-and-So at al1."
"None?"
"None. Which makes you think about a few other things. I was kind of persistent, and finally got hold of the girl who had taken the ad in the first place, not that I had much hope of her remembering anything about Andrew Jackson. But she did. I don't think she could pass a standard Civil Service exam, she's the kind has to stop and think what comes after C in the alphabet, but she placed him because she's female. Sex, it's wonderful. She said he was an awful handsome young fella— just like a movie star— looked like that new fella in movies now, couldn't remember his name but he's Greek or Italian or something, just awful handsome. She— "
"¡Arriba!" said Mendoza. "Goldberg, I could kiss you! I think we do arrive somewhere. Yes, we'l1 show her the corpse's photograph— but it does look open-and-shut. Very satisfying?
Goldberg sneezed and said plaintively, "Elucidate."
"With pleasure," and Mendoza lit another cigarette and began to talk ....
NINETEEN
Time never meant much to Mendoza when he was working a case; he chased Goldberg back to his office to get the name of the classified-ad girl, called the Times, and bullied the editor of that department into giving him her home address. He had caught Hackett just on the point of leaving; he passed over the address. "Go down to the morgue, get their file shot of Domokous and see what she says about it."
"That one I don't see," said Hackett, who had had a brief account of their joint deductions and got out the silver stater again to show Goldberg. "If it was Domokous who placed that ad for Skyros, why didn't he say something to the priest or the girl when he was talking about-"
"I don't think he ever thought twice about the ad— connected it with anything else. There are several little excuses Skyros could have given him: it was an advertising stunt, say, or a business code of some kind, or a joke on somebody— can we even be sure Domokous read the thing?
Skyros probably had it all typed out neatly, together with the false name and address as of the advertiser, all Domokous had to do was hand it over the counter and pay, and all the girl had to do was count the words. Just luck she happened to remember him, and in connection with the ad. Of course Goldberg"— Mendoza beamed on him— "did catch her immediately afterward while it was fresh in her mind. I can see Domokous doing that as just a little errand for the boss, maybe on his lunch hour, and forgetting it by the next day. And of course, damn it, he's not around to have his memory jogged and tell us it was Skyros' ad— but it's another little handle."
"It all ties up, all right. This Denny pulled the break-in and found he was stuck with the collection— but how can we figure Skyros got into it?"
"He knew Frank," said Mendoza. "It's got to be that— use a little imagination on it. Frank wasn't his head pusher, of course— that we can say almost for certain— but maybe he'd got confidential with Prettyman, maybe Prettyman talks a bit too much when he's tight or something— if that's so, pity we can't slip him a bottle in jail— anyway, Frank knew Skyros' name if nothing else. And Frank was probably sharing quarters with Denny at the time. There's Angie too. Angie in the same string of boys. Guess at it— it always pays the ones like Skyros to be nice and friendly to the boys, if anonymously. Maybe he contributed some money to pay for poor Frank's funeral, something like that, and Denny knew who he was from Frank before and called up to thank him. Anyway, they were acquainted— if only just acquainted�
� somehow. I can guess at this part of it. You know what restricted circles, so to speak, the pros like Denny move in. He might not have known anybody— or of anybody— except Skyros, who might be expected to know a bit more about that collection than he did, who might give him a little advice about how to realize something from it. And of course it'd look like easy money to Skyros .... Considering that ad, and the fact that he hasn't attempted to hide his acquaintanceship with Lydia Bouvardier, I don't think she's been allowed to realize that he's anything but an ordinary helpful middleman— of the innocent variety, that is. Maybe he represented himself as a sympathetic friend of Papa's. Because no one actually answered the ad. It was a blind— it was to satisfy Lydia that that's how he got in touch with the thief."
"That sounds reasonable," nodded Goldberg. "He's a canny one?— longheaded fraud artist?"
"Oh, very careful indeed of everything to do with Mr. Skyros ....Let's not fight about him, Goldberg. It may be, with luck, enough will emerge that Callaghan'll have something on him too, and unless he did the actual murder— which I very much doubt— that charge'd earn him a stiffer sentence— we may as well let Pat have him .... But for some reason the negotiations have been delayed. Mmh. That little visit Lydia paid to Alison— and the note— yes, I wonder. You said Jackie Donovan was the one with a few more brains, Goldberg." Mendoza laughed.
"I wonder if maybe Jackie put a monkey wrench in the works, by wanting to change the price. If he came out to find the deal set up, and told Denny he was a fool to take the first price mentioned— especially when they had to cut it with Skyros— and has been trying to hold up Lydia for more."
"You're building bricks without straw there, chico," said Hackett.
"Yes, first things first. With luck, we'll hear the details later! You go and see this girl, that much we'll get cleared up tonight. Goldberg is going to rout out the museum director— "
"I want to hear first hand what that visitor looked like," said Goldberg. "If it was either of the Donovans, I think I'd recognize a description. And that gives us another little something. I'll say this: Denny would probably talk. He wouldn't mean to get anybody in trouble, but he just can't help talking, and any kind of complicated little lie, he'd get all tangled up in it. If we get something to put out a Wanted on the Donovans, and pick them up, I think Denny would eventually give us a lot more of the story."
"Which is very nice and helpful to look forward to," said Mendoza.
"But it would be even more helpful if we can get somebody else to talk. And you know, if it's handled just right— scarcely worth while to trump up a charge on her, and it'd probably never stick anyway— she's got the money to hire a smart lawyer— "
"You needn't tell me," said Hackett, "what you're going to do. Somehow, all in the most innocent way, Goldberg, he always ends up with the good-looking females in a case— if any. If just to question. I know, you're going out to the Beverly-Hilton."
"She's not my type," said Mendoza. "But yes, I'll take her on, because neither of you have anything like what's called the élan to appeal to her, and I'll get more out of her. I hope enough to add up to a charge of some kind on Skyros."
But he didn't get out there at once. Just as he was leaving the office the outside phone rang, and it was the Greek priest, apologetic. "The old lady, she doesn't understand much about the law, Lieutenant. She has this conviction in her mind that you will say Katya was the one who killed Stevan, because you think she's a lunatic."
"About that, who knows?"
"Indeed. But if you would be so kind to come by, just a few moments, let her hear you say it's not true— she won't believe me, she says I would not know what the police think. It would be a kindness— "
"What's the address?" asked Mendoza with a mental sigh. It was a shabby old frame apartment on a side street off Main; the priest was waiting for him in the entrance. "Very kind," he repeated.
"Such a distressing thing— sometimes it's hard to understand the ways of God, Lieutenant. I have been thinking of that passage: From him what hath not shall be taken even that which he hath. I know something of the story, you see: when she came here there was no Russian church near, she came to ours, and has been a faithful attendant. Not an easy or happy life— her husband deserted her long ago, and there were three children— two sons and a daughter. She could do nothing but domestic work, but she managed to raise them alone— it was a struggle. The older son was a sailor, and killed in an explosion at sea— his wife had died at Katya's birth— and the younger son was killed in the war. The daughter,"— the priest sighed— "perhaps malnutrition, or a hereditary disposition— she is in a tuberculosis sanatorium. There is, of course, no money but what Katya earned. She will be in straits if the girl— "
They climbed rickety, dirty stairs. "Pass by on the other side," said Mendoza. "What else? You see a good deal of it— I see more. The innocent bystanders. I know."
"But that," said the priest, "is not the terrible thing, Lieutenant. In this country, no one need starve, there is always charity. We have a church fund— No, it is not the material. If this poor girl is— incompetent, either temporarily or otherwise, there'll be these pompous doctors, I daresay, to say it is all the fault of her childhood environment and such nonsense. Always a difficult, sullen girl . . . And never any appreciation or gratitude shown for the struggle and sacrifice— not that the old lady wanted that— only a little love. And none of that either."
"It's not a thing to be manufactured," said Mendoza. They went into a bare, shabby room where the old woman sat huddled in a chair. He told her no one was thinking that her granddaughter had killed Stevan, she was not in prison; she was in the hospital, because it might be she was ill and needed treatment.
The woman listened in silence, her dark tragic eyes fixed on his.
"You would know this— you are of high rank in the police. Do you tell the truth to me? . . . Yes, she's sick— sick she must be, to say such things to me— she doesn't mean it, you know, she doesn't know at all what she says— " anxious, turning to the priest.
"No, she does not know, she wouldn't say such things to you from her heart."
"If they would let her come home, I make her well and strong soon .... But I should take her clothes? They would let me in to see her, if I go there?"
"I don't know," said Mendoza. "Perhaps not if she's very ill, but you could ask."
"I will go," she said on a little gasp; and he knew that she would be very frightened, seeking that place of impersonal Authority, but she would go bravely and ask, for the love she bore one incapable of loving. And again her glance on him was half fearful.
He got away from the priest as quickly as he could afterward, feeling depressed.
* * *
"I apologize for intruding so late," he said to Madame Bouvardier.
"It makes no matter." Her eyes were busy, trying to sum him up.
"You come from Mr. Skyros? On your card you write his name— "
"Well, let's say about Mr. Skyros. May we sit down?" Mendoza offered her a cigarette, smiling, laying on conscious charm. "You know, madame, it's not kind of you to come here and get yourself mixed up with criminals. You get yourself into trouble, and then you go home and say some very nasty things about these low-class Americans, which we don't deserve at all."
"But what is this? Me, mixed up with criminals? Who are you? It's a joke, maybe— "
"No joke. Lieutenant Mendoza of the police, madame." He produced his credentials. "You've been making quite a little work for us lately, you know. Although if you forgive me, I will say that my men have found it much more entertaining than following some lout of a suspected thief."
"I? Followed? What— " She was deciding whether to be angry or frightened.
"I won't eat you," grinned Mendoza. "Sit down and we'll make a little bargain. I think"— and it was a lie, but the easiest way to handle it and the only way to get anything out of her— "you've been an innocent victim in this case. Of course, you don't know our l
aws, and obviously a beautiful young lady like you, she doesn't waste her time studying books— "
She smiled and relaxed a little, beside him on the couch. "No, indeed I don't know about things here— imagine, I'm told the police are all uncouth canaille and look like farmers! Obviously also this is a lie."
"You're too kind— I hope so, madame, And then too, you are still grieving for your late father and possibly— shall we say?— not in any state to judge clearly. But shall we also say, it wasn't very wise of you to accept the proposal to buy back your father's collection from the thief."
"And now what has given you this idea?" She widened her eyes at him, wary, playing for time.
Mendoza laughed, brought out the little box, let her see the coin.
"You recognize it? Good .... No, we have not got the rest, only this, but we will have .... Now, it's late, and there's no point in playing games, trying to trick each other. Cards on the table, madame. We know almost the whole story. Mr. Skyros has been negotiating for you with the thief, hasn't he? Very unwise to trust him— he is a professional criminal himself, you know— "
"But I do not know! What is this— Skyros? A— a gangster?"
"Well, that could be one word for it— "
"I have not trusted him, but this I did not imagine," she said thoughtfully. "How extremely odd."
"He has it arranged with the thief, you see. We have evidence on him," said Mendoza, hoping he told the truth, "and on several others— including Donovan." He watched her on that one, and saw that she recognized the name; so Goldberg hadn't been woolgathering, and they'd been right about that. "It is, in other words, all off, madame: they're about to be arrested and charged, and I am afraid it will appear as if you conspired with them— you understand— unless, of course, you speak out and tell the truth. All the truth. How you met Mr. Skyros, and all about the negotiating, and so on. But whether you do or not, that deal is off. I should imagine, however, that you'll get the collection back in time, when it's recovered."
