The Knave of Hearts (27 page)

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. And 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.

"I’ll get the car, meet you downstairs,"
and Mendoza was gone.

Hackett went into the sergeants’ office, picked
Landers at random, gave him his orders to meet Dwyer, and went
downstairs. The Facel-Vega was idling at the curb; he got in.

"Where are we going?"

Hackett looked straight ahead through the windshield
and repeated the address. There was silence beside him for a second
and then the Facel-Vega took off with unaccustomed violence into
traffic, and when Mendoza swore it might have been just at the
traffic.

It was a big apartment house. A lot of people lived
there.

A bad hour to go anywhere in a hurry, and Mendoza
seemed to be in a little more of a hurry than usual. He drove in
silence, except for the automatic curse when he caught a light, and
Hackett didn’t speak because he was still having that rather funny
feeling about the address.

About two addresses.

Gates Avenue. She knew someone who lived in that
place. Or had. People moved around; that had been five or six months
ago.

And Mendoza had them on the Hollywood freeway, at a
steady fifty in the fast lane.

There had been only two and a half months between
Mary Ellen Wood and Celestine Teitel.

But, thought Hackett, this is as bad as Lockhart—no
reason, getting the jitters. It’s only about seventy-five percent
sure; circumstances—look at Allan Haines— No evidence that is
evidence at all, and we can’t— Besides—

"
Christ!
"
said Mendoza, and jammed on the brakes. They skidded and screeched to
a stop. A line of cars—traffic piled up a mile ahead, it looked
like—

"Accident." Hackett put his head out the
window, peering ahead. "Nothing moving. Ambulance up there,
couple of squad cars—not a hope, Luis. You know what one little
pile-up does on a freeway."

Mendoza cursed steadily and fluently in both English
and Spanish for three minutes; and then he sat back and lit a
cigarette. "I’ll give myself ulcers. Damn fool. Like kicking
the chair you fall over. Can’t be helped." But when a
motorcycle patrolman came by five minutes later he beckoned him over,
produced his I. D. card, and asked, "Can you get me out of this,
one direction or another? I’m in a hurry."

"Sorry, sir, it’s piled up both ways for three
miles. Big produce truck turned over, and two killed. They’re
cleaning it up as fast as they can, I think there’ll be a westbound
lane open inside thirty minutes."

"0.K., thanks. Can’t be helped." Mendoza
leaned back and smoked calmly, waiting. "Fifty-fifty, he’s
gone to a party there or he’ll take a girl on somewhere else. Not
such a good chance Dwyer’1l be able to get any idea where, and
leave word."

"Lockhart seems to be jittery for some reason."

"Mmh. Not surprising. Yes, I’m remembering the
gap between Mary Ellen and Celestine too. Don’t blame the dealer
for a bad hand—way the shuffle came out. Be thankful we know who he
is."

"Sure, that’s right," said Hackett. He
wondered if he ought to tell Mendoza about this other thing—how
she’d known someone at that other address—he thought of Dwyer
saying, woman across the hall, who thought he was a very nice young
man. Maybe someone who had introduced— This was jitters with a
vengeance. Irrelevant.

There had been long intervals between the others. A
lot of people lived at that address.

It was thirty-five minutes before there was a lane
clear. Mendoza got them off the freeway at the first turnoff and went
on up into Hollywood by side streets, choosing direction
automatically, making rolling stops at stationary signals. When they
came to the apartment house, on its tree-bordered narrow street, the
curb was packed solid with cars, not a space left; Mendoza
double-parked and was out and around the car before Hackett had his
door open.

Small lobby, dimly lighted: public phone booth to the
left—elevator—stairs. No sign of Lockhart or Dwyer.

"He said they thought they’d spotted the
apartment, but didn’t say which floor—"

"
¡No tiene importancia!
"
said Mendoza, and started up the stairs fast. Second floor, nothing:
all quiet. Third floor, nothing. Hackett was breathless, pounding up
the stairs without a break: out of condition; he thought, that extra
Eve pounds, damn it—he must— And there were only four floors, and
he heard the woman’s excited, alarmed voice up there and thought,
No—

Narrow, dim, dark apartment corridor. Dwyer was
there, sprawled up against the wall, blood on his shirt, blood on his
face and hands— people in an open apartment door there,
exclaiming—a man kneeling beside Dwyer, saying something about
calling the police—

"Bert—" Hackett shoved the man away,
going on his knees too, reaching, ripping the shirt open. A knife
slash, not too deep but damn bloody—bruise on his face too—

"Art—" Dwyer tried to pull himself up,
urgent, straining—"Lockhart’s after him—it was
Lockhart—here when he came out with the girl—saw him—he—"

Footsteps up the stairs behind, and it was Landers,
gasping from the climb. "What the hell,” he said, "I got
tied up in that freeway jam, I just—Bert, what’s—"

And the apartment people exclaiming, asking
questions. "Shut up!" said Hackett savagely, pressing his
handkerchief on the knife slash.

"When and what, boy? Quick—"

"Came out with this woman," gasped Dwyer,
"God, I been out—he hit me against the wall, my head—don’t
know how long—just looked at my watch before, it was ten past
seven, I’d just come up after calling you—Lockhart—the guy saw
him, Lockhart said Gideon—and he went wild all of a sudden—the
guy I mean, he said—crazy—he said, Rhoda, you knew about Rhoda,
and then he said, But this is Rhoda, still alive, still alive, she
won’t die, I keep having to kill her—and he hit the woman—and
we— He had a knife, Art, he come at me with the knife—and
ran—Lockhart grabbed my car keys, he’s after him—"

"Oh, my God, must have sent him right off—"
Hackett shot an automatic glance at his watch: God, three minutes
past eight, that had been fifty-three minutes ago! "Take it
easy, Bert, you’re not bad, just lost some blood. Luis—"

But Mendoza was turning, listening with head cocked:
again, footsteps on the stairs, and here came Lockhart. He looked
very unlike the neat, elderly, paunchy grandfather they knew: he was
hatless, wild-eyed, almost crying.

"Sergeant, thank God—I lost him, damn it to
hell, I don’t know the damn town, the streets—I was on him a
couple blocks, but I lost him—"

"All right, take it easy," drawled Mendoza,
quite calm himself in the midst of this uproar. "Tell us what
happened."

"My fault, shouldn’t’ve spoke to him—didn’t
know how it’d set him off. My God, my God, right over the edge—this
woman with him, they come out and— He kept saying, But why aren’t
you dead, Rhoda, I killed you so many times, have to kill you again—
He hit her and I went after him, but he knocked me down—got Dwyer
too—I—the woman, he hadn’t knocked her right out, she was still
on her feet but dazed like, you know, and he dragged her
after—good—looking woman, red hair— Damn it to hell, if I’d
known the damn town! I—"

Hackett stood up. He thought, God, God. Where? How
could they-?

And Mendoza said, "No. No. The apartment—which
apartment?"

Dwyer made two tries before he got it out: "It
was apartment 406, Lieutenant—I think—"

"No," said Mendoza. He said it very calmly.
Hackett looked at him, turning; it seemed that time had suddenly,
just this one moment, slowed down, and he had all the leisure in
eternity to turn his head and look at Mendoza.

"No," said Mendoza. Quite suddenly every
vestige of color drained from his face; he looked gray. He dropped
the elegant gray Homburg in his hand. He said, "No." And
then he said on a great gasping breath,

“
Alison—Alison—Alison—" and he turned
and plunged down the stairs.

Hackett snapped to Landers, "Get an ambulance,"
and ran after. "Luis, wait—" He didn’t catch up to
Mendoza until they were in the lobby. He only just flung himself into
the car before Mendoza revved the engine.

The manufacturers claimed that a Facel-Vega could be
gunned from a stand to a hundred m.p.h. in eighteen seconds. Hackett
had never believed it before. He couldn’t hear Mendoza over the
engine, but he saw his lips moving,
Alison,
Alison
—and a kaleidoscope of light and dark
flashing past, and then the long screech of brakes, the long skid,
and the violent stop, and Mendoza left him—he was out of the car,
the car slewed around in the street. He was fling himself at the
black-and-white squad car in the opposite lane.