The Knave of Hearts

by Dell Shannon

  "Luis!" said Hackett, and he reached down and hauled Mendoza up, off the long limp body under him. The other men moving now, going through the house. "He’s out, let him be, you don’t want to kill him—" And he thought what a foolish thing that was to say.

  Mendoza swung on him, blind, berserk, struggling away; and then one of the men called, "Sergeant—there’s a woman here, I just—" and Mendoza left him. Just as blindly he stumbled past Hackett into the little bare-furnished bedroom there, and knocked the uniformed man aside.

  Hackett looked down at their Romeo. His last mistake had been king-size all right: interfering with something that belonged to Luis Mendoza. That arm looked broken, way it—and his face would never look the same again, and there was a surprising amount of blood, when no weapon had—

  He said to the other man in the room, "Keep an eye on him,” which was foolish too, because that one wasn’t going to wake up in a hurry or be going anywhere when he did; and he went into the bedroom. He said to the man there, "Go and put in a call for an ambulance."

  "Alison, Alison, mi novia, mi hermosita, amada, querida— Madre Maria, te suplico—A1ison—Dios te salve, Maria, llemz ores de gracia, el Sefror es contigo—es con— God, I can’t remember the words—Mary—salute you—of grace, of—help me remember—Santa Maria, madre de Dios, ruega, Seriora, por nosotros ahora y en la—no, no, not hour of death—"

  Hackett pulled him upright away from her there—she lay crumpled, sprawled half on bed, half on floor, bruise visible on one cheek, unconscious, but no blood, thank God no blood. But blood on him—a long deep gash down one cheek, maybe getting in the window—and on his shirt, and a sleeve ripped half out of his coat—blood on that arm.

  "There’s an ambulance on the way. Stand still, damn it, let me— Don’t move her, Luis, if it’s a head injury she—"

  "Padre nuestro, God, help me remember the right words, I can’t—que estés en el cielo, santifacado—santifacado—venga a nos tu reino—will be done, Thy will—I can’t—Alison my darling, querida, mi vida—"

  Hackett heard the ambulance coming. Time had ceased to mean anything tonight. He went out to meet it. But he wouldn’t let the interns take Markham—Wise; dead or unconscious or whatever, Markham-Wise they’d hang onto close. He helped one of the men load him into the back of a squad car. "Take him downtown, fast. For the moment, booked for common assault—tell them I’ll call in, give them chapter and verse. No, I know they won’t keep him, he’ll end up in the hospital, but it won’t be the Santa Monica emergency, it’ll be the guarded wing at the General, and a uniformed sergeant right beside him when he wakes up. Get going, report all this to the headquarters desk, and don’t let him out of your sight until he’s between two Homicide officers."

  The interns were having trouble with Mendoza. Hackett went in and held him off. He searched Mendoza’s pockets for the keys, dragged him out to the car. God only knew if it had another ten miles to go before that tire went, but the hell with it. He manhandled the strange shift, got the car turned and took off after the ambulance.

  "Te suplico, Maria madre—pray you, I pray you—y perdénanos nuestras deudas, asi coma nosotros—can’t remember, forgive me—Alison—"

  He didn’t know the town, the streets: he followed the ambulance siren blindly. The engine was pulling faithful—built like a tank—but the teeth-on-edge screech of the fender jammed on the tire was bad . . .

  Back toward Santa Monica, chasing the siren this time. Up the hill into town, down unknown dark streets and bright streets, and then the ambulance suddenly disappeared down a lighted ramp off to the side. He went straight on, braked in front of the building. Mendoza was gone before he got the hand brake on. Hackett got out and went after him, tiredly. There were steps, a big plate-glass door. A dimly-lighted lobby narrowing to a long darkish corridor, room doors either side. A white-uniformed woman clerk behind a long counter to the left, and benches, a public phone, and a man—intern or a house man on night duty—white-smocked, fending off Mendoza, looking surprised and indignant.

  "Por favor—me diga, por favor—por el amor de Dios—"

  "What’s all this? Here, you’re hurt, man—"

  "Doctor," said Hackett, "—sit down, Luis, take it easy!—police business, Doctor—the accident case just brought in, please go and find out—tell us how she is. For God’s sake, Luis, sit down and be quiet—"

  "Oh," said the doctor. He gave them a curious hard stare, but he recognized authority when he heard it; with no wasted word he turned and hurried off.

  Mendoza walked a little way up the corridor after him and sat down on the leather-padded bench along the wall there. Hackett sat down beside him.

  He wondered if—the law had some funny quirks, of course—those reported words (two witnesses) constituted a legal confession. Might be a smart lawyer could claim duress, something like that. He wondered if maybe the fellow was permanently right over the edge, in which case it was an academic question; or if maybe they might get a more complete confession. Always better to tie up a thing neatly, if possible.

  He thought somebody ought to look at Mendoza, see how bad those cuts were, didn’t think very bad, but— He didn’t have the energy himself. He just sat there waiting. Mendoza had fallen absolutely silent; he bent his head between his torn, bleeding hands and sat there motionless.

  After a while the doctor came back down the corridor, and stood looking at them, curious, perplexed, interested. Hackett got up. "Well, the young lady isn’t much hurt," said the doctor. "I think a slight concussion—bruises, but all superficial—mild state of shock. Otherwise nothing wrong. We’ll keep her overnight, but there’s no reason—"

  "You’re telling me lies," whispered Mendoza. "Lies—all my own fault, damned stupid—you’re telling me—"

  "I’m telling you she’ll be quite all right," said the doctor irritably.

  "What’s all this about? Police— Here, you, you can’t—" Mendoza had seen behind him, down there, the orderlies with a stretcher going into the last room on the other side of the hall, and he broke past the doctor’s outflung arm and ran toward the closing door. The doctor ran after him. "The patient’s had sedation, she can’t— Damn it, come back here—"

  Hackett sat down on the bench again. He thought a little numbly, Thank God. He wanted a cigarette, but when he got one out he found his hands were shaking too much to light the damned thing, so he just sat there holding it. Ought to call in, report. Ought to try to contact Lockhart, let him know it was all O.K. Find out how bad Bert was. In a minute he’d go and do that .... And he thought, God, if Lockhart hadn’t hung on just that extra half hour—! What they owed Lockhart, the born cop ....

  The door opened down there and the doctor came out holding Mendoza by the arm. Hackett went a few steps to meet them.

  "Now for the love of heaven, Luis, light somewhere and let the doctor take a look at you. You—"

  Mendoza put a hand to his temple, and Hackett saw that the big gold seal-ring was missing from his linger; he knew where it would be, on another, slenderer finger. "I’m O.K., Art," and with that he collapsed on Hackett in a dead faint. The doctor took his shoulders and Hackett took his knees and they laid him out on the bench. While the doctor propped his legs up Hackett untied Mendoza’s tie, opened coat and shirt. A couple of ugly knife cuts along the ribs, nothing bad, a little blood lost.

  "Luis, boy—"

  "What is all this?" asked the doctor, a hand on Mendoza’s wrist. Hackett sat down on the edge of the bench alongside Mendoza’s knees. "That rapist-killer you’ve been reading about. We just got him. Just now."

  "Be damned. You don’t tell me. That’s his latest—?" He jerked his head down the hall. "She was damned lucky. You don’t tell me ....Not, of course, this impetuous Latin here? Shouldn’t think he’d have to go in for rape—must say it surprised me, I’ve never seen anybody come back even that far after a shot of codeine—just because somebody’s babbling Spanish at her a mile a minute. Live and learn."

&nbs
p; "Our Romeo’s in Central Jail. Correction, hospital wing of same—or the General. This is Lieutenant Mendoza of Homicide."

  "His pulse is damn slow," said the doctor. "You don’t tell me. The one I’ve been reading about too—ruthless hunter of men—little reputation as a Sherlock?" He looked down at Mendoza.

  "He’s not just exactly himself, tonight," said Hackett. "He’s been learning a little something too. They do say, never too old to learn.”

  Mendoza opened his eyes and apologized for being a damned fool. "Move over, chico," said Hackett. "My heart’s still going pitty-pat from that wild ride you gave us. You’ve smashed up that twenty-thousand-buck wagon of yours pretty thorough."

  "The hell with the car," said Mendoza. "Have you called in to report?"

  "Ah, Richard’s himself again. No, I haven’t. I’ve been, if you must know, sitting here decidin’ what to spend a lieutenant’s pay on. Because it looked like I’d get your desk after they’d committed you to Camarillo. The rest of the time I was just reflecting what a shame it is, brilliant mind decayed so sudden. What with," said Hackett, "you trying to remember your superstitious Romish prayers and calling on the saints, like—"

  "That’s a lie," said Mendoza instantly. "’S a damned lie. I’m a rational man—agnostic—" He tried to sit up, and the doctor pushed him down again.

  "Better take it easy a while."

  Hackett stood up. "Maybe so," he said almost gently, "maybe so, boy. Until all the chips are down on the board .... I’ll go call in. You better let the doctor patch you up."

  * * *

  He sat at Mendoza’s desk that next morning, and Sergeant Lake dodged in through a crack in the doorway and said he couldn’t hold them out there much longer. "They want a detailed story, and the Chief—"

  "Well," said Hackett, and sighed. "Sure. And we’ve got something to boast about now, haven’t we? Give it another five minutes. I’ll see .... "

  The latest report from the jail hospital was, from their point of view, encouraging. Markham-Wise was over the edge all right, but talking: talking a lot, about all the women. Disconnected, but that you had to expect, and it could be put together, interested listeners said, pretty consecutively. Very nice.

  But the reporters probably didn’t want to listen to harness-horse Hackett, the faithful sergeant. No.

  He called the other hospital. The patient had been discharged. He rang Alison’s apartment and got no answer. He dialed Mendoza’s number, and after four rings, just as he was about to hang up, Mendoza answered him.

  "Reporters . . . the Chief .... Yes, sure. All right," he said vaguely. "All right, Art." And Hackett heard her say something in the background, and Mendoza laughed, and then in a minute came back on the line. "I’ll be in, " he said. "Sometime. I’ll be in, Arturo—" The receiver was fumbled back on its hook and the line went dead.

  Hackett sat holding the phone a while, feeling a little peculiar inside for a big tough sergeant of cops. He’d known Luis Mendoza a long time, but he didn’t ever remember hearing him sound quite like that. At peace. With himself, and with life.

  Anchored in safe harbor after a stormy voyage.

  Absurdly, he found his eyes were a little wet. And for once he didn’t care that a call went through the central board; he dialed again, and Angel answered on the first ring.

  "Nothing particular," he said. "Darling. I just wanted all of a sudden to talk to you .... Yes .... She’s—O.K., she’s with him .... Yes, darling .... I do too."

  He put down the phone and buzzed Sergeant Lake. Stood up and In shoved the desk chair in nice and tidy; the desk was nice and neat the way Luis liked it. "O.K., Jimmy," he said. "Shove ’em in. They’1l have to put up with me—I’ll give them the story now."

  But not quite the whole story.