by Dell Shannon
He laughed at her and at himself; he laid down his efficient modem electric razor and he laughed. Conventions—traditions! The old lady insistently boasting about her pure Castilian ancestry, once she had all the money—the elegant Wilshire Boulevard apartment—and all the diamonds. He laughed at her very tenderly, remembering.
You god of my race, great Quetzalcoatl, help me now, be with me now, thou supreme being of the thunder and the fire—and our smiling lady Cihuacoatl of the lovers, watch over me, be near!
Well, boy, I loved you, she said to him; perhaps a foolish old woman, and if you think I told you lies—¡oyé vaya!—lies I told you—but I loved you .... You were yourself, you went your own way, not mine: you turned your arrogant back on the Church and you sought out the strange women and the modern ways and thoughts: but you were yet mine, hijito—I loved you and I marked you.
He put the razor away; he turned from the man in the mirror and came into the bedroom, and he thought absently he would have to decide what to do about the diamonds. All the jewels. The old lady, cautious and shrewd, any sum over five dollars wealth to her; he’d tried to educate her a little, but she had never seen the investment on paper, essentially the promise to pay—she liked the tangible value. The portable value. Just in case. So, all those diamonds in the safe-deposit vault. All those rubies. The emerald rings, the emerald necklace and bracelets . . .
(Not the rubies, for Alison. The emeralds, yes, the emeralds fine for Alison of the red hair.)
He knotted his tie nice and neat, and he went out to the kitchen and had another finger of rye without chiding himself at all, and he told himself at the same time it was the rye, turning him maudlin and sentimental, what the hell, it was just to carry him through—
Get the best price he could for the jewelry she’d thought was safe investment: no hurry about it, except of course to pay the goddamned inheritance tax.
(The emeralds for Alison.)
Cihuacoatl, our lady of lovers, be with me now, son of the race which sacrificed to you, need I have, need l have.
He drank half of a third cup of coffee. His stomach felt a little queasy. He let the cats in. He checked his pockets for wallet, silver, keys; he went out to the garage. Another day. The continued hunt. By God they’d get him—if it was a year from next Christmas. Give Mendoza the thinking machine a clear field, half a chance—
* * *
Today, for the very first time, there was just a hint of rational autumn in the air. The kind of thing even Californians, unthinkingly gearing their feelings about seasons to their Anglo-Saxon ancestors’ ideas, expected of November. The gray sky, the little cool wind—even if the temperature didn’t drop below sixty-eight and Chief Lockhart’s middle-western-weight suit felt just a little heavy. They’d almost cleaned them up today—only six or eight left he hadn’t seen; and if the truth were told Chief Lockhart was feeling a little guilty and worried. None of these fellows he’d seen was anything like Gideon Wise, and when you came to think about it, it was pretty damn far-fetched to figure one of them would be. Out of a hundred and 635 eighty million people—the distance between Mount Selah and Los Angeles—kind of thing that just didn’t happen.
Wasting his own time and the time of these big-city fellows who’d been so nice to him, and spoiling Martha’s vacation, all for nothing. He’d been woolgathering; it just wasn’t reasonable.
Which was mostly the reason he said to Hackett, at five-forty that afternoon, "What say we just go by that place we were this morning, try to get that one off our minds? If we’re anywhere near. He might be back now, if he was out—or answering the door."
"O.K.," said Hackett dispiritedly. He was feeling somewhat the same way about it himself; he’d be just as pleased to get this cleaned up, know Yes or No for sure.
He bucked the traffic up Glendale Avenue, turned off at Gates. The curbside was crowded at this hour, a lot of old apartments around here without garage space for tenants, and he had to park nearly half a block away. And it was just as he slid into the space there, reached a hand to the parking brake, that (the funny, irrelevant way these mental processes worked) he remembered about it fully, it came to him. It was Alison Weir, the one who knew someone in that place. "I’ll just run in and give this to Pat," she’d said, and he’d let her out, driven round the block and picked her up again— "Thanks, Art, as long as we were passing—
They walked back, and a voice hailed them cautiously from the curb. Dwyer sat there in the open door of his car. It was beginning to get dark, the halfway hour—in the Spanish they called it between dog and wolf—and he was an anonymous shape, a little red moving spark of cigarette-end there.
"We1l," said Hackett, veering over to him. "You here yet or again?"
"We’re earning our salaries these days,” agreed Dwyer. "On a job like this I take against females. Mostly who I’ve got to talk to, you know, and I’m lucky to find one in live home the first time I ring the bell. Don’t they have anything to do at home any more? My wife isn’t gadding around all day, six days a week—at least I don’t think so—"
“Frozen foods," said Hackett, "and vacuum cleaners with all those attachments to clean everything from curtains to the baby."
"That’s a big town for you," said Lockhart. "Place like Mount Selah, there’s no place much to go and they can’t go very far. You still waiting for this landlady?"
"Not very long. Daughter said six. Five of now. I’ll give her till six-thirty and call it a day. I suppose this is your last stop too."
"I hope so," said Hackett. He and Lockhart went in, climbed up to the second floor. Lockhart lurked around the corner of the landing and Hackett rapped on the door; after an interval he rapped again, louder. There was a furtive slither of sound in there at each knocking, but no one came to answer the summons. He rejoined Lockhart. "But he’s in there. I think. Or maybe he keeps a cat or something. Funny."
They started down the stairs. "Maybe he’s just not feeling like company," said Lockhart. "Heard something in there, hah?" In the street he stopped and looked back at the door. "Might hang around a while, maybe he’ll show."
"Oh, let it go," said Hackett. "Long chance. Maybe he hasn’t got a decent bathrobe and was shy about facing anybody in his pajamas." He was getting hungry and he wanted to go home.
"Well, I don’t know," said Lockhart slowly, "just occurred to me, you know—"
Dwyer came over. "No go? Wonder if he’s playing hooky, off with a blonde somewhere, and his boss paying his sick leave."
"It’s Saturday night," said Lockhart. "Let’s see, he’s been off work sick about three days, didn’t you say? Round about the time a cold keeps you down. Might be he’s feeling better by now, reckons to go out somewhere—it being Saturday night. Even in a big town, they tell me, Saturday night’s the night to go places. I don’t know but what I’ll hang around a spell, just to see."
"Well—" said Hackett.
"You go ’long, Sergeant, don’t bother about me. You’ll be wanting to get home to that Angel girl o’ yours, and dinner. I kind of got my teeth into this thing now, and it’s been a washout so far—feel I been wasting all our time—but we don’t want to miss any chances."
"I’ll be glad to drive you back to your hotel, Chief," volunteered Dwyer. "Probably hang around another half hour or so like I say."
"Yeah, let’s give it that much time," said Lockhart. "No harm. If that’s O.K. with you, Sergeant. Martha, she’s got friendly with a woman in the hotel—nice woman, widow traveling alone—they were goin’ out to some fancy place for tea and do a show, I don’t suppose she’ll be back much before seven. You go along, I’l1 just wait around a while."
"Well, all right," said Hackett, "if you feel like it."
"Got nothing much else to do," said Lockhart.
Hackett left him there, sitting in Dwyer’s car. He figured it was a waste of time in a way, but of course you never knew. They’d been using a headquarters car on this, so now he had to go all the way back downtown to exchange
it for his own, and the traffic at this hour was murder. When he got there, he went up to the office from force of habit, to see if anything new had come in.
Nothing had. Mendoza had gone out for a meal, and Sergeant Lake was just leaving, about to switch over this number to the night man in the communal sergeant’s office.
"Feels like fall today, thank God," he said to Hackett. "Hottest summer in forty-seven years, they say. You should hear Caroline at me—you’d think it was a personal insult for me to be sitting here in air conditioning all day."
"Well, it must be aggravating," said Hackett.
"Sure. But she’s the one wanted that house in the valley. Good ten degrees hotter out there. But I guess I’d better figure on some kind of air conditioner at that."
"Wait for off-season, you’ll get it cheaper."
"I suppose. Well, I’ll be off. Scarne called in, I left the message on the book."
"O.K., I’ll see you." But as Lake reached to the switchboard, the phone rang there on his desk and he picked it up automatically.
"Headquarters, Homicide .... Sorry, he’s not in. A message—"
"Who is it?"
"Stebbins."
"I’ll talk to l1im. Go on, Jimmy." Lake went on out and Hackett took the phone. Mr. Stebbins, cautious, was reluctant to impart a message, but Hackett convinced him that he knew all about it; it would be safe with him and he’d pass it on to Lieutenant Mendoza.
"Well," said Mr. Stebbins, "if you say. I’ve got another ’un for him. Had quite a time on it, too—funny piece o’ proputty, mostly gov’ment land round it, and no number or street. You tell the lieutenant—he’ll remember the place—it’s that little cabin just this side o’ Malibu village, all by itself off the highway, little bit in from the beach."
"O.K., I’ve got that, what’s the name?" Hackett jotted down brief notes on the pad, added the name as Mr. Stebbins read it out to him. "I will be damned," he said, looking at it. "I will be— Listen, Mr. Stebbins?-you still there?"
"I’m here."
"Does he rent or own it?"
"Owns it. I found the feller sold it to him, ’bout three years back. Hanley and Sellers handled it—’twas an estate sale, old feller who built it died roundabout then. Awful hard place to sell, account of being way off by itself, you know, and nothing fancy. Old feller’s daughter said, get what you can. They finally sold it for forty-two fifty."
"I see. Thanks very much, Mr. Stebbins, we appreciate this—"
"No credit to me. Got to think of the community, ain’t we? Feller runnin’ around killing women. Hope I’ve helped. Got a couple more to look out—you tell the lieutenant I’ll let him know soon’s I do."
"Yes, thanks very much." Hackett hung up and looked at the scribbled name.
Well, a lot of people owned beach property, of course. It didn’t say much of anything. Not really. Except that this was a name they had. A name from the Andrews’ list, and the name of the fellow who lived in that apartment he’d just left—where, presumably, Dwyer and Lockhart were still hanging around. Or just leaving: it was twenty to seven. Didn’t say much. Except that Luis’ private radar had operated again, maybe. Or maybe just coincidence.
But Luis was going to be interested; and it would be interesting to know, when Lockhart did get a look—
The phone rang and he picked it up. "Dwyer," said a rather breathless voice in his ear. “No time to talk—tell the Lieutenant—it’s this one, Lockhart’s boy—he spotted him ten minutes ago when he came out. We’re tailing him, he stopped for gas at the comer, I got to get back—I’ll call in when we know."
"Hackett said, "O.K.," to the dead air.
NINETEEN
It was a curiously noncommittal way for it all to come to an end—the long time of plodding, patient hard work, the endless routine, the false casts and the empty coverts drawn. At this end of a day, here in the empty office all alone, knowing for-almost-sure. Just a couple of telephone calls, a name. Simple first principles.
And of course it wasn’t ended, not by the hell of a long way. Not yet. They hadn’t anything on him at all, of tangible evidence, the kind the D.A. and the grand jury would listen to. A lot of hard work still to come, to get him in the net. But, for almost sure, now they knew. Now he wasn’t anonymous any more, they had a name and a face and an address.
He got through to the central board and said, "I’ve got to keep our line open, Al—call my wife and tell her I’ll be late, will you? Thanks."
He wondered why Lockhart and Dwyer had taken off after the fellow—no reason at this stage—Lockhart with his teeth in it, born cop sticking to the trail, an automatic thing. He hoped to God Lockhart would have better sense than to confront him, charge— On the other hand, of course, in the moment’s startlement he might come out with some damning admission, and Dwyer was there as a witness.
Brisk steps along the corridor outside, and Mendoza came in. Hackett raised a circled thumb and forefinger at him. "The winner and still the champ—both your long gambles have come rolling home, chico. We’ve got him, I think."
"Don’t tell me! Who, what, and when?"
"It’s Michael Markham—bank teller—moved from the Andrew house eighteen months ago. He’s also Gideon Wise. Lockhart spotted him just now—" he gave Mendoza a quick breakdown on that. "I’m waiting for Bert to call back. Don’t know why they got on his tail, but—"
Mendoza leaned on Sergeant Lake’s desk. He looked rather drawn and excited. "Stop thinking about your wife’s cooking. You’re at least as smart a small-town chief and one of your own men. It’s Saturday night—maybe Romeo has a date."
Hackett looked up at him. "God, yes, sure. Sure. What a fool I—"
"Evidence, evidence! Not a hundred percent sure, no, of course not! But, by God, how I’d like, for once in my career, to frame a charge on this one, right now! Bring him in on something, keep him all nice and cozy in a cell while we look for the legal evidence! One thing, We’ll have eyes on him twenty-four hours a day from now on."
“I had a sort of underhanded idea just now about Lockhart—if he confronted him—"
"Pues si, sure—an idea. We’ll think about it. You said both gambles?"
"You spotted his beach place. Stebbins called just before Bert." Hackett shoved over his note.
Mendoza smiled slowly, reading the scrawl. "That place. I thought when I saw it, ideal for our boy. I’ll have no snide remarks, Arturo, after this, about my crystal ball. Pure intellectual reasoning and logic . . . Michael Markham. Nice respectable-sounding name. Nice respectable-looking fellow. His bank will throw seven fits, won’t they?"
"Crossing bridges," said Hackett wryly.
"Not very long odds now, is it? Sure, no evidence, nothing certain—but off the record, not for the D.A.’s ear—or Mr. Brad Fitzpatrick’s!—now we know. And, hell and damnation,” said Mendoza, "I don’t see—barring a full confession—that we can charge him with Mary Ellen Wood, more likely one of the others—and what will you bet the Telegraph takes him under its wing and plays him up as another innocent being railroaded? Clara que si, crossing bridges, but . . . And I wish Bert would call in, damn it .... I’d like to know—if our boy has a date tonight."
"Here he is now," and Hackett picked up the phone as it rang.
* * *
". . . at this apartment house," said Dwyer. “He’s driving a royal blue two-door Chevvy, last year’s model, by the way. There’s a booth in the lobby here, that’s where I am. We’ve spotted the apartment, we think, at least the floor, and Lockhart’s about ready to have kittens on the landing—seems like he’s havin’ visions of the guy murdering some woman in there while we wait around—"
"And it could be that’s not as far-fetched as it sounds," said Hackett.
"Don’t swear, Bert, I’m hungry and tired too. Hold on a minute." He relayed the news to Mendoza. "What about it? Send somebody to take over the tail, sure. It might be a date, he may be taking some girl out, or it might just be a party there, half a dozen people. A
nd if he does go on somewhere—Lockhart’s got the jitters, but there’s no reason—"
"No reason," said Mendoza. "Famous last words, maybe? O.K., yes, sure, relieve Bert, tell him to try to leave word there—leave Lockhart behind—if our pigeon flies on. But—no harm going over to take a little look ourselves, or—you go on home, I’ll chase up there myself, you’ve had a full day—"
"Not on your life. I’d like to have a look at what we’ve been chasing too, and Angel already knows I’m held up .... Bert? I’m sending somebody over to relieve you—if you have to go after him somewhere, leave Lockhart there. Not that you’ll likely have any idea where, but you might just overhear some indication—try for it anyway—Give me his plate number. O.K. The boss and I are coming over too, take a look. What’s the address?" He wrote it down as Dwyer gave it, and then (his mind catching up with pencil as it were) he recognized it, and for half a second there he had a very funny feeling.
That was the apartment house where Alison Weir lived. Of course, a lot of other people lived there too. There must be thirty-eight or forty apartments in that house.
