The Knave of Hearts (29 page)

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."

"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.