The Knave of Hearts

by Dell Shannon

  at the place.

  A frame cottage, old, unpainted, weathered: about three rooms. Railed porch around four sides, and a carport, empty. It wasn’t attractive, but it looked solidly built for a beach cabin. There wasn’t another building within half a mile or more: the nearest houses would be the big places up in Malibu village. The track went on, about thirty yards, to the highway, and across the highway there was a good public beach. Mendoza thought Romeo might have fancied a place like this. There didn’t seem to be a street name for the track, or a number on the cabin, but he sketched out a little map of its location. That made fifteen. He found four more on his way back to where he’d started. He’d spent the entire afternoon on this, and it might all be a mare’s nest; but you never knew. He turned around again and drove a mile up the highway to a little, gaily painted real estate office.

  * * *

  The man who had been Edward Anthony was in his shabby Hollywood apartment, making the hours pass. He was feeling very excited and eager and impatient—also very confident—and it seemed that time had stopped, that this day (and tomorrow, and the next day) would go on forever.

  That it would never get to be Saturday night.

  He had not gone to work today and he wouldn’t tomorrow, because he was afraid it would show somehow, that he couldn’t seem his usual self. He had called up and said he wasn’t feeling well, he was coming down with a bad cold, maybe the flu, and thought he’d better stay home the next few days—and besides, he didn’t want to infect anyone else. Mr. Rasmussen hadn’t liked it too well, but he’d said all right. He just didn’t feel he could go through the same sober routine of everyday; and it was, in a way, a red-letter day (as they called it), when the truth was at last revealed to him, and he felt it deserved to be marked as a holiday. Red-letter day. Red for blood, red for—

  He walked up and down the little sitting room excitedly, thinking about it. Yes, yes, of course many foolish people, mad—deluding themselves—and he’d been slow to accept it for that reason. But now he was quite sure.

  He had not recognized it at the time, but there had been some of that evil taint in all of them, not only Julie and Rhoda; and so that was the reason, and the little worried guilt he had felt had not been necessary. It was quite all right. Everything was quite all right: he would never be punished by God or man. And so Saturday night would be all right too. It was odd to think how nervous he had been a while ago, when there was that headline about a new witness. Who, how could there be, and did they really— And then it all came out, only a desperate kind of lie, the newspaper or the police, it didn’t matter which—nothing in it—and that police officer having a fight with a reporter . . . It just showed all the more clearly that they hadn’t anything really—losing his temper because it was true, what the paper said— If they had anything, they’d be only too pleased to tell about it, with all that was being said. All true Very stupid. Although of course he had been clever . . .

  But that was irrelevant. They didn’t matter, his cleverness didn’t matter, because it was intended, all arranged—no danger, no danger. Quite safe.

  Things you thought coincidence, just random chance—afterward you saw how they were meant. His safe, secret place, the little house standing alone: he’d only just realized what a very ideal place it was. Partly on account of Julie. He’d felt it was a kind of violation, then, but that was while he’d still been feeling the guilt—afterward—and now he knew there was no reason for that. Of course, of course.

  An ideal place-for the future. A lot of excited, rather incoherent plans were drifting round his mind, but mainly he was thinking about Saturday night.

  Take care, of course. Reasonable care. Only sensible. But nothing would interfere, it would all go as he planned it out.

  He was only sorry it was Saturday—a whole day wasted, for he usually drove right down there after work on Fridays. But this was more important, naturally. She had been reluctant, hadn’t wanted to go out with him at all, which was a little unflattering, but he didn’t think for a moment that she had any idea— Probably that evil in her sensing the holiness in him, and—

  It was extremely uplifting, this wonderful knowledge of justification. Saturday night. Other Saturday nights. Others. As many as he liked, any time at all.

  He would tell her they were going to a restaurant along the beach. A lot of fashionable places down here, she’d think nothing of it; people thought nothing, here, of driving thirty miles for dinner. And once he stopped, at his place, no one to hear if she—

  Saturday night. Other Saturday nights.

  If he could just calm down a little, if he could go to sleep maybe and not wake up until it was time—if he could- Must put up his usual appearance, but he’d manage that all right then— Only, all the other times, he hadn’t planned it out at all, it had just happened; and this was so much more exciting . . .

  He made a little ceremony of getting out the knife, unwrapping it. It was a good knife, good and sharp, but he was still of two minds about it, whether he’d been right in buying it. He wasn’t at all sure it would be as—as satisfying, as uplifting, somehow, with the knife. And of course a great deal more blood—which might be better in a way, and yet—

  He liked the feel of the knife in his hand. There was a nice stiff leather sheath had come with it, to fasten on your belt—it was a hunting knife really, of course—and he decided to carry it anyway. If he buttoned his coat over it it wouldn’t show—and then, if he decided to use it, it would be there.

  He ran his finger delicately down the blade and shivered a little, pleasurably. Good and sharp . . .

  He was walking fast up and down, again. Looking at the clock every few minutes.

  Queer, very queer, but God’s ways were mysterious. This one, she didn’t look like Rhoda—this Alison—except for the hair—but there was a link between them, of course, the same kind, the same kind. Killing what was in Rhoda time and time again. Of course. All of them, the essential evil, the devil mocking. Bringing out the awful weakness in men.

  Such a long time to Saturday night . . .

  * * *

  Mendoza was feeling pleased with himself and with Mr. Ralph Stebbins. Sometimes you reached in blind, not expecting much, and drew an ace the first time round. He’d had a nice little story planned for the real estate fellow—how he was looking for a particular kind of place, he’d been driving round and seen these he liked, and could he be put in touch with the owners? But Mr. Stebbins wasn’t the usual brash real estate salesman. He was a weathered-looking old Yankee New Englander with a mouth like a steel trap, a pair of very sharp blue eyes, and a rustily unused-sounding voice. One look and two words, and Mendoza had shut the office door behind him, sat down, and laid all his cards face up on the desk between them.

  "This is all very much maybe, as you can appreciate. These places, it’s just a random list of possibles from a first hasty look—"

  Mr. Stebbins said, "Dunno. Ain’t s’ many places with just these qualifications. Alone ’n’ all."

  "No. But it might be up in one of the big canyons—I might be wrong from the word go about the kind of place it is, the kind he’d like. This is just a first cast. I could set some men looking all through the property descriptions at the Hall of Records, sure, and track down the owners’ names in time. A lot of time. But frankly, I haven’t got a man to spare at the moment, and then, too, this is home territory for you, and you’ve got an excuse to ask questions—you’d find out with less trouble, quicker. I realize I’m asking you to waste a couple of days, cooperating with us for no profit—"

  "Dunno," said Mr. Stebbins. "Reckon it’s profit to the hull community, if you catch up to a murderer. Business ain’t so good as all that lately. I just run this place to give me suthin’ to do anyways. Retired eleven years ago and come out here and dang near went crazy sittin’ around. Be kind of interesting, help you fellows out a little."

  "I’d be very grateful. As I say, it may all be a mare’s nest, but—off the re
cord—I think we’re coming a little closer to an idea who he is, and this is for legal evidence—just in case—to locate him." The chances were, as in many of these multiple cases, if and when he was brought to trial, it would be on a charge of only one or two of the murders; and the way it looked now, though Julie Anderson was the oldest one, they might be able to collect more legal evidence on that one than the others. Maybe Madge Parrott would recognize him—a little step further on, that would be .... "I don’t need to tell you that all this is off the record, not to be gossiped about."

  Mr. Stebbins sniffed. "Never was much of a talker. Wife’s dead these four years, I live alone—nobody but the cat to talk to and she looks a—plenty answer—back but she don’t speak English. You leave it to me, Lieutenant. I’1l find out for you ’n’ let you know, soon as."

  EIGHTEEN

  Hackett had the uneasy feeling that he was taking an undeserved holiday from work. He and Chief Lockhart got on fine together, and he liked Mrs. Lockhart too, meeting her when he delivered Lockhart back to his hotel. After all the hard routine day after day on this thing, it made a little break to be driving Lockhart around, pointing out all the suspects-in-embryo. It was, he figured, a long chance that any of them was Gideon Wise—or was it? But they had to look, though it seemed a time-wasting process.

  They’d started out on the Andrews list, but had missed a few of them—men off sick, one on a late vacation and not expected back until Monday—so they’d have to come back to those; and two of them were on Mendoza’s list of those under more careful scrutiny, too, but it couldn’t be helped. They’d covered a dozen that first afternoon, started in again next morning and got to twenty that day—what with driving back and forth, though Hackett had tried to group them in batches to be found in roughly the same areas.

  They’d covered quite a lot of territory, and they’d got on fine, enjoying each other. There was still a long list to look at, and this Saturday morning they were setting out again bright and early, as so many business places closed at noon.

  "What’s the program today?" asked Lockhart, getting in beside him.

  "Three down in Compton, a couple in west Hollywood—we’ll be chalking up mileage. Talk about a guided tour."

  “You sure are showing me the country, all right. Not that you seem to have any what I call country round here—one town runs right into another, seems like, and it beats me how anybody ever finds their way around."

  "Even natives get lost sometimes. I thought first we’d recheck on this one we haven’t seen yet, in Hollywood—it’s more or less on the way and he’s on the Andrews list. Try where he lives."

  "O.K. That the one works at a bank, or the shoe clerk? Oh, I remember, sure. Hell of a job," said Lockhart cheerfully, "keep ’em all straight. Funny to think too, all the scientific things we got nowadays, still comes back to awful simple first principles. Looking at a man. Having a feeling about him. The way you say the lieutenant does pretty often. About the only experience of that I ever had, with Gideon—and a damn funny feeling it is .... That’s a pretty long cast the lieutenant’s making, on checking those beach places."

  Hackett grunted agreement. "A real wild one—but knowing Luis, I wouldn’t be too surprised if it came off. Sometimes he seems to have a kind of sixth sense about these things, way I say. Doesn’t come off every time, or every tenth time, but once in a while . . ."

  "Pretty smart boy," said Lockhart.

  "Sharp enough to cut himself—except just here and there," said Hackett absently. He caught the light at that corner, and as he waited, unfolded the list from his pocket to check the address again. Gates Avenue, that was— And at that moment something rang a faint bell in his mind about that address. He couldn’t place it at all, and he didn’t have the feeling that it was connected with the case, with anything professional .... They were, naturally, checking these men at the places they worked, but this was a home address for one who was off sick; they hadn’t been here before. It was a steep side street off Glendale Avenue, and when he saw it, saw the shabby old four-family flat, it said a little something more to him.

  Not much. He’d been past here before, that was all. No, stopped here, about where he was now, sliding into the curb. He had the vague impression—somebody Angel knew, was it—? Halfway it came to him, himself and Angel in the front seat, and somebody in the back saying, "I’ll just run in and leave this for—" and a name. Somebody they knew knew someone who lived here, or had lived here then. He didn’t remember any more about it, and it wasn’t very important, was it?

  ". . . That fellow down at the beach, you said he’s found out about who owns most of those places or rents ’em."

  "And not a name on any of our lists corresponds. I said it was a wild one—but there’s three or four left to go. Hello, Bert," added Hackett, putting his head out the window. "What’s the word?"

  Dwyer came over and got in the back seat. "Morning, Mr. Lockhart. You and Art still out chasing your wild goose? You know something, on a thing like this I get awful damn envious of the detectives in books. Those fellows that only spend about a week to every case, and twelve hours out of every day they’re consortin’ with beautiful girls and important millionaires and I don’t know what all—something exciting goin’ on every minute, whether it’s bedding down with a blonde or having a gunfight with a gangster. Not that I’m complaining, you understand, about not running up against a couple of hoods shootin’ around corners at me."

  Hackett laughed. "How often I’ve had the same thought."

  "This one—I’ve got half a dozen I’m collecting statistics on—I’ve got nowhere on yet. Wasted two days already. He doesn’t seem to know many people. The only one I talked to who knew anything about him is a woman who lives across the hall—and I don’t know that I got half of what she said down right, she’s got an English accent you could cut with a cleaver—and she don’t know much, except she thinks he’s a very nice young man. Now I want to talk to the landlady, and nobody answered the door yesterday afternoon so I came back after supper last night, and her daughter tells me she’s gone on a visit to her sister in Laguna Beach. Daughter doesn’t know anything about the tenants, she’s just there temporary, but Mama’s expected back very late last night or this morning. So I start out here this morning, and now the daughter tells me Mama’s decided to stay another day—she called last night—but she’ll be home for sure by six tonight. So I’ll have to come back again."

  "It all comes of female emancipation," said Hackett, "letting them gad around all over alone. Is he still in?"

  "Far as I know. I’m not allowed to look at him close, but this woman across the hall said yesterday she thinks he’s home sick all right, she didn’t hear him go out for a couple of mornings. Cold or something."

  "Yes. Well, no harm looking." Hackett got out of the car. "That wouldn’t make him too sick to answer the door. Now, Chief, you stay out of sight, we’ll reconnoiter the terrain inside and hide you where you can get a glimpse and hear him, and I’ll be the fellow with the wrong address looking for Mr. Smith."

  Which program was carried out, but to no avail; the door stayed shut and silence came from beyond it. "Either he’s shamming and told his boss a lie to play hookey, or he’s died of pneumonia maybe. Hell," said Hackett, "that means another trip back later on. Oh, well, all in the day’s work . . ."

  * * *

  "Alison," said Mendoza aloud, and woke with a start. He lay for a moment orienting himself to a new day (a moment ago, she’d been there close, smiling at him). He swore in a whisper and sat up. The cats were awaiting his waking in their own ways: Bast curled philosophically on his feet, her daughter diligently washing her stomach, El Senor sitting on the bureau by the window making chattering noises at the birds in the yard.

  Mendoza got up; he felt like death. On Thursday night he had looked at the little tablets and told himself it was absurd and dangerous to be dependent on such things, what had got into him? He hadn’t taken any, and had lain awake until three
o’clock, and taken one, and then had to drag himself out at eight still half asleep. So last night he had taken two, and now as usual he felt only half here mentally. He groped out to the kitchen, fed the cats and let them out, started the coffee, and with no strength to shave or dress until afterward, sat there waiting for it. Just as it was arriving at the pouring stage, there was an excited flurry outside: El Senor and a bird. Mendoza went out and took it away from him; it wasn’t much hurt, and it lay there in his hand, warm, shamming dead instinctively in this moment of terror, a small gray sparrow with bright shoe-button eyes. He laid it in the crotch of the big oak tree down the yard, and brought El Senor in to give it a chance to recover its breath. "No! ¿Comprende? Bad cat! Yes, I know it’s your nature, hijito, and you are annoyed at my obtuseness, but I can’t help it. No birds!" And very likely El Senor, brooding on this piece of injustice, would think up some diabolical revenge while Mendoza was absent.

  He poured the coffee, and added a little rye to it, and drank it too hot; shuddered, and began to come back to life a little. He took a second cup, also spiked with rye, back to the bedroom with him; he didn’t want any breakfast.

  And as he faced the man in the mirror, shaving, the old lady whispered to him over his shoulder, A bad place you come to, boy—men never know how to look after themselves—that is what we are for, Luis, that and a few other things maybe, hijito. You laugh at the old ways and ideas, Luis, but live a little longer, mi nieto, you come to see they would not be there at all if they were not forged out of the generations’ sorrow and joy. Listen to me, hijito, use the little sense the good God gave you . . .

  Damn, old one, old enough to know my own mind, he said to her. Turned forty this year, and damn the head doctors who said it was all what you took in before you walked alone or learned the alphabet! You grew up, got your eyes open, came to be a man standing alone, an intelligent, rational man. God knew he had loved her, he had grieved for her, though she was old and it came quick and easy; but what a mixture there (look at it steady and whole!) of superstition, sentimentality—and the dry shrewdness which was maybe the part of her he had kept .... Running back and forth to the priests . . . The old fairy stories to amuse a child, the legends heard from a thousand mothers down the generations—and not until he was grown and away had he recognized them for what they were: the garbled tamed stories, once pagan religion, of a people of older and darker blood than the haughty fairskinned Spaniards with their guns and their pride .... Of smiling Tlazoltcotl, mother of the gods: Tonacatecutli, the god of gods; Tonatiuh of the sun; Xiucoatl and Ometecutli and Mictlantecutli who held the sword of death; and Cihuacoatl the beautiful goddess, Chae who sent the rain or drought, and Kolotl of the dog face, and the great Quetzalcoatl, the feathered-serpent god. A long time past and just stories for children, she said, half believing, half fearing .... Did any man ever escape entirely from the blood in him?