The Knave of Hearts (19 page)

Nevertheless—the house, home—it was a violation
of his secret place; he’d never let anyone inside it since.

Julie. They had found Julie, just as he’d been
afraid they would, and yet it was good that they had—for it had put
this strange and exciting idea in his mind.

He tried to think about it calmly, to examine it from
every angle. For it might only be his fear for his personal safety
which made him think— But every detail he could list pointed the
same way. It was very strange; he could almost call it awesome.

Could it be—that was the idea—that God did not
intend him to be punished? That his crimes were not sin at all, but
intended retribution, and he the instrument? He knew that many mad
people conceived such an idea out of their madness. But he was quite
sane, and he wasn’t ready to accept it as the truth yet, he was
only balancing all the reasons that seemed to point that way.

It was surely, surely more than random coincidence,
to begin with, that the man who lived in that place where he’d
buried Mary Ellen had known her, that there should have appeared some
reason for his having killed her. Well, perhaps by itself it was all
perfectly natural, looked at in separate segments, as it were: her
meeting this boy, this Jim Fairless, at the college, and then the
Haineses, and because she lived within eight or ten blocks of them,
the Haineses hiring her that way. And it had been quite by chance—or
had it?—that he happened to live in that place, where he walked
past the Haineses yard every day. But he remembered how surprised he
had been, afterward, when it came out in the papers where she had
lived, in the same district—roughly—as he did; that was something
more than coincidence, when he’d actually met her at the college, a
good three or four miles away, maybe more. People from much farther
off, hundreds of them, going to that college: and the one girl he
spoke to, Mary Ellen.

Of course, say it hadn’t been: say it had been a
girl from—from Huntington Park or somewhere: not knowing, he’d
still have put her in Allan Haines’ yard, probably, and then They
would have looked at Haines just the same, wouldn’t They?—and
maybe Haines would have it been accused just as it had happened.

Nevertheless, it was odd. When he thought about the
others it seemed more than coincidence, too. The way he had met them
casually (but as if it was arranged) in places where people round
about didn’t know him, so he could say whatever he pleased.

Of course he had been careful, there: the fact that
They hadn’t found him was mostly his own planning. And yet, when he
thought, why had he happened to meet just those women? All
coincidence—the random chance—and yet, could God have arranged it
particularly, was it conceivable that they were all due punishment?
Rhoda and Julie, obviously bad women—and could it be that the
others had possessed some taint, some potential evil which—?

Beyond what they all had, of course: the whole source
of temptation.

It was a queerly exciting thought, for—in the first
place—if it was not intended that he should be brought to
punishment by men, then all his carefulness had never been necessary
and it was not necessary to feel any anxiety now or again. However
cunning They might be (and he had been much encouraged to read what
the papers said of Them, for responsible newspapers would not print
falsehoods) nothing They could do would bring Them any closer to him.
And—secondly—as a corollary to that, nothing he could do would
put him in any danger.

There was nothing to say if it was true, about those
others; but he’d known about the evil in Rhoda and Julie, of
course, and now (as if it was intended he should know, and be
reassured?) he knew about this other one too. That woman, the one who
had introduced him to her first, mentioning it quite casually (as so
many people did, such things, here and now). A divorce, she said.
Something about—One of those impulsive teenage marriages, quite
short I believe, but a pity all the same. A pity. A woman, then—this
one who excited him, interested him, this Alison—who had deserted
her lawful husband, and that was not only evil of itself but led to
other—

And so perhaps, if the idea was true, it was indeed
meant— But he must be very sure.

They didn’t seem to know
very much, certainly, all this while: as stupid as the papers said?
Something in what the papers said: there must be. Of course. Two
weeks since They’d found Julie, and nearly seven weeks, eight,
since They’d known Allan Haines hadn’t killed Mary Ellen. Still,
nothing bringing Them any nearer. Was there? He didn’t think so, he
didn’t see how there could be, but he’d like to know. He went on
staring up at the ceiling, lying motionless there, listening to the
surf outside across the highway—and thinking about the idea.

* * *

On Tuesday the
Telegraph
came out with a front-page head, Key Witness Held Incommunicado?
Somehow, God knew how, a rumor had got out—garbled, of course—about
Madge Parrott. They didn’t know who, or why, or in connection with
which murder, but Brad Fitzpatrick made quite a story of it
regardless. That little word alleged had saved many a newspaper from
a libel action. The story was all secondhand report and speculation,
but it was surprising how few ordinary readers discriminated—it was
in print, it must be so. The impression a hasty reading left was that
the police had had presumably sensational information from a new
witness, whom they were holding secretly, refusing all cooperation
with the press. There was a subhead, The Public Should Be Told, and
references to the Gestapo.

Mendoza saw it on the way downtown, stopped and
bought a copy, and arrived at his office white-hot with anger. The
office men took one look at him and examined their consciences
uneasily, as did every other man he hauled up before him in the next
hour. But what it came down to was—no one in particular to blame:
reporters always hanging around, and a thoughtless word muttered
within twenty feet of one like Fitzpatrick was enough.

Nevertheless, they all got a tongue-lashing about
careless talk; and all but a couple of them retired shaken. It was
rare for Mendoza to vent his temper on Juniors, and it was somehow
more devastating to be reviled for a fool in three-syllable words,
packed in ice and tied up with cutting sarcasm, than if he had used a
horsewhip. Hackett remained imperturbable in a corner; and Sergeants
Curraccio and Lake, who long ago had learned to bow to the storm on
occasion and let nature take its course, said, "Yes, sir,"
and waited stolidly for dismissal. When it came, Lake was even brave
enough to say, "Excuse me, Lieutenant, but there’s someone
waiting to see you."

"Unless it’s the Chief, let him wait!"
said Mendoza. "I’ve wasted enough time on this damned
business. Get out, get out!" Lake sighed and did so. Mendoza
swung round in his swivel chair to face the window, lit a cigarette
with an angry snap of his lighter. "The public should be told!
;Qué va! Show hands round the table, boys, all friends here!"

"Oh, well," said Hackett mildly, "a
little something there, Luis. They’ve got a right to know whether
their tax money is going to fools or not. And you’ve got to admit
the other papers have been pretty fair on the whole. After all, they
had something on us to start—Allan Haines."

"
¡Estupido!
”
said Mendoza violently. "That’s it, that’s it! Enough to
make any citizen uneasy—he might find himself in Haines’ shoes
any day! Which would not be enjoyable, but if it’s an honest error
at least he knows the odds against it—and that, when it does
happen, it’s usually rectified before they lock the door to the gas
chamber. Fitzpatrick and his ilk slant it to read that we’re either
morons or a new Gestapo—a little of both—damn the public! And
that’s bad, that couldn’t be worse, because in the last analysis
it’s the public we look to for help and cooperation."

"Don’t lecture me," said Hackett. "I
can read too."

"Then you’re a damn sight smarter than seven
of ten ordinary citizens! It is alleged, sure—they spell it out,
but what does it mean to them? It says in the paper, the paper said!
Obvio, it’s true, it’s in print! And so—and s0,"—he
swung back and pointed his cigarette at Hackett—"how many
people the boys are out talking to, questioning, have been a lot
harder to get at, have thought what the hell, why waste time, tell
them anything—the cops can’t see through a pane of glass anyway!
How many have been scared of getting in trouble with these arrogant,
brutal cops, and told them the easy lie—don’t know nothing about
it!—when one of them might have given us just one valuable little
pointer—
¡Válgame Dias!
Sure, let Fitzpatrick say anything he pleases short of libel about
us, but if I say he’s delayed the hunt, put a spoke in our wheel,
how he’d yell foul!"

"
Tómelo con calma
,
take it easy. Just one of those things. Here’s the latest news.
Myself, I think we’ve done pretty well for ten days on the Andrews
list. Twelve out of the twenty."

"What do they look like?" Mendoza took the
reports, glanced over the names.

“
Offhand, I’d say three out of the bunch are
worth looking at a little closer. I’ve checked them—the top ones.
Item, all three correspond roughly to the description. Item—"

"Yes. George Hopper, William Bell, Michael- Yes,
I see. Resident at the house twenty to thirty months ago—approximate
dates, of course, damn the woman. Clerk, salesman, clerk."

"Not very elusive," said Hackett. "A
couple of them, she remembered where they worked, and they were still
there. Some more big as life in the phone book. The rest were
tougher—So Bert and Tom and I divided ’em up and went to look at
them, and these three come closest to the description. Three or four
more we can definitely mark off on that count-bald, or fat, or
something. Four or five of ’em left the Andrews house when they got
married, but of course that doesn’t really say much. He might be. I
don’t think so, you don’t think so, but it happens. But for what
they’re worth, I think these three look at least as promising as a
few others we’ve got."

"Yes, we’ll look at them. But from a little
distance, Art. Through men who can smell a reporter when one’s
hanging around, and whose tongues aren’t hung in the middle. Bert
and Farnsworth, maybe."

"Why the long way round? This isn’t a pro
deal, where we might warn off the big boy sniffing around open.
Everybody who’s innocent here—and there’s only one guilty
man—will cooperate, answer questions. In spite of what you say
about the ordinary citizen, most of ’em have a kind of touching
blind faith in us, you know."

"Even if that’s so, we won’t give
Fitzpatrick or anybody else any small excuse to yell Gestapo. We
can’t afford to.
Claro está
,
a lot of those on some other lists of possibles we’ve got, men with
records—nobody cares what we do there. But let us openly approach
one man who holds a fairly good job, substantial-looking citizen,
respectable background, and what’ll be the next thing?—pray make
it public why, Lieutenant! What’s your ground for casting public
suspicion? This case has attracted too much publicity as it is.
Things the press usually expects us to keep to ourselves—the cry
goes up here, let the public know! And what grounds, Art, what the
hell could we say there? You know and I know, on a thing like this,
you look everywhere you can, it’s just logical routine to look the
places we’re looking, in Haines’ office, in that neighborhood,
and so on—but it doesn’t look that way to a civilian with no
experience of hunting. So we have an open session with, say, this
George Hopper,” he flicked the top name on the list, "and the
press boys print it, Suspect Questioned, you think Hopper as an
honest fellow—if he is—likes it? How come suspect, he says—and
so do the press boys. And we say, Why, he once lived in Mrs. Andrews’
house. That’s all, boys. Just that. You think it makes sense to
anybody who hears it? There’s the moronic cops for you, grasping at
straws, trampling roughshod over a man’s reputation!"

"O.K., 0.K., I got your idea in the first
sentence, I agree with you. I’ve been a cop a while too, I know how
these things go. Calm down, Luis, or you’l1 be the one to get high
blood pressure. All I will say is that it’s goin’ to make it a
harder job, posing as poll takers and insurance investigators and
contacting acquaintances and neighbors instead .... This is getting
you down, boy, you’re letting it ride you.”

Mendoza didn’t answer that for a minute, lighting a
new cigarette; then he said in a more restrained tone, "I know,
I know. Sorry. But you know one of the things I keep thinking about,
Art? Today’s the thirteenth day of November. It’s seventy-eight
days since Pauline McCandless was killed. And between some of them
there was quite a gap, six months, nine months, but he only waited
two months and a little between Mary Ellen and Celestine Teitel. We
don’t want another one.”

Hackett said, "God, no .... I’ll contact Bert,
get started on these. You know what’s in my mind? You better tune
up your private radar and come through with a hunch, because I think
on this one it’s a long chance routine’s going to get us there."
 

FOURTEEN

But Mendoza had no hunches. He sat there doing
nothing for a while, after Hackett had gone; the letdown from the
outburst of anger had drained him of energy. He had slept three hours
last night, finally, and all the force left in him was nervous mental
force. Sometime today he must get something to make him sleep
tonight.