The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon (12 page)

"Don't look at me, I'm not the mastermind
plotting it— if there is a plot. Lose much in that one?"

"Oh, well, it could have been worse," said
Mr. Shanrahan discreetly. Mr. Shanrahan would always be discreet,
even with an old customer who was by way of being a friend. He
glanced sidewise at Mendoza, opened his mouth for further speech,
decided against it, and whisked out his handkerchief to clean his
glasses instead. "It's the principle of the thing. And, as I
say, the insurance."

"Yes. Did this woman say anything else?"

"One has to be polite. I was— um—
noncommittal, you know, and then she got onto insurance. We must have
to carry a terrible amount of insurance, all these valuable things,
and also, it was to be supposed, sometimes things which do not belong
to us. Was it not a great financial burden? My God, Mendoza, you
don't suppose— ?"

"No, I don't. I don't know what she was after.
Insurance. ¡Media vuelta!
—
right about face! I don't know anything, damn it.
¡Mil
rayos!
So far as I know, she's simply a rich
visiting foreigner, eminently respectable, and she didn't mean
anything sinister at all— just talking off the top of her mind. And
I am wasting the afternoon. I shall now cease to do so and go back to
legitimate work."

"I hope to God you're right," said Mr.
Shanrahan nervously. "Now— just a moment, Mendoza, as long as
you're here you might as well take a look at this bracelet— no
harm— won't take a minute, just let me fetch it out for you— "

Mendoza looked at it, heard the price, said it was
outrageous, and named another twenty percent below. Shanrahan told
him coldly that this was not a street booth in a village market,
where haggling was expected; there were prices set and that was that,
take it or leave it.

"Don't give me that," said Mendoza. "What
with taxes and inflation, luxury business isn't living so high it can
pick and choose customers. How long have you had this in stock
without a bite on it?" Shanrahan looked offended and after much
persuasion named a price five percent under the original. They
insulted each other for another five minutes and came to a deadlock
on the Federal tax, Mendoza refusing to be responsible for it.
Shanrahan offered to split it with him.

"I'll think about it," said Mendoza,
picking up his hat.

Shanrahan looked at him wistfully. "I live for
the day when you get hooked by some predatory empty-headed blonde."

"And you'll still be
hoping when they nail down your coffin," said Mendoza.

* * *

He went back to his office and ruminated. First
causes, he thought: so, what about Domokous? Look at the facts
available, build it up from there.

Hackett had collected a number of little facts by
now. The Second Street hotel was largely tenanted by residents, not
transients; there was supposed to be a desk clerk on duty most of the
time, but actually it was a desultory job. The clerk remembered
Domokous going out that Monday night about seven o'clock, but
couldn't say whether he'd come in again: didn't recall seeing him go
out on the Tuesday morning, but he might have— the clerk didn't
always see residents in or out. And friends of residents, if they
knew the room number, would walk right up; the clerk couldn't keep
track of everybody.

It looked as if that Monday night might be the
crucial time, because Domokous hadn't come to work on Tuesday.

The clerk said he'd certainly never seen Domokous the
worse for drink; ditto, the other clerks and the pretty bookkeeper at
Skyros, Inc. The artistic little tale Mr. Skyros had told looked
fishier in consequence.

But there could be— considering the nymph and the
dolphin— a relatively innocent explanation. If Skyros was sailing a
bit near the wind in his business, say over some matter of customs
duty, something like that— it needn't have one thing to do with
Domokous' death— Skyros might easily be nervous, want the death
passed off as smoothly as possible without investigation too close to
home. So he'd just bolstered up the truth with enough imaginary
detail to satisfy authority, get the cops off his neck.

Driscoll . . . Yes, quite outside Domokous' death,
the insurance firm with an eye on Skyros? And Domokous just what he
looked like, victim of a pusher. Those puncture marks in him— But
it could be. People, as Bainbridge sententiously said, did some
damned funny things. That knock on the head: all right, heroin didn't
kill instantaneously, and he might have got it when he fell in that
alley, when the heroin got to him. A couple of funny little points
that Mendoza didn't much like, the business about Bratti, for
instance. Was there any connection between Skyros and Bratti? But
even that could be innocent. Skyros might have heard the name from
Domokous, some time when no one else was around. It just could be.

He had got that far thinking about first causes when
Sergeant Lake came in and said, "There's the longest beard I've
ever seen just came in— you can see there's some sort of fellow
behind it, but not much of him— and says he wants to see you.
Claims he's a priest of some kind."

"I've just gone out," said Mendoza, in
instant reaction to the word. And then he said, "Wait a minute—
a beard? A priest— a Greek? Possibly a Greek bearing gifts? Shoot
him in, Jimmy!"

It was in truth a magnificent beard—
pepper-and-salt, and curly; it cascaded from high on its owner's
cheekbones to somewhere well below where his waist would have been if
he'd had one. Mendoza eyed it with respect and ambiguous feelings.
Having the tiresome sort himself which called for a second shave if
he was to appear in public in the evening, he'd often thought how
convenient it would have been to live in an era when beards were
de
rigueur;
on the other hand, in this kind of
weather it must be rather like carrying around a portable electric
blanket. He stood up and took the proffered hand; above the beard a
pair of gentle gray eyes blinked at him shortsightedly through
old-fashioned round rimless glasses.

"I hope I don't disturb you inconveniently,
Lieutenant. Er— Nikolas Papoulos, if I may introduce— "

"And you are a parish priest of a local Orthodox
church. I think perhaps— sit down, won't you— you've come to tell
me that you knew Stevan Domokous?"

"Dear me, you really are a detective, then."
The eyes twinkled at him briefly. "We hear these days how
efficient our police force is— just yesterday my wife called my
attention to a most interesting article in the Times— but I
digress— however, this convinces me. Efficient indeed."

The eyes lost their twinkle. "But it's a sad
errand I come on, yes. And I should apologize not to have come
before. But I've been ill, and also I hesitated— it really seemed a
minor— It was only yesterday I learned of this dreadful thing. Er—
Mr. Skyros, whom I do not know— he approached me about the service
for poor Stevan. I understand the city morgue had only just released
the body. I was much shocked, Lieutenant— and I may say grieved,
for though I had not known Stevan long, he was a faithful attendant
at church and seemed an eminently good young man. I could hardly
believe it, in fact, I can hardly believe it."

Mendoza said conventionally that of course it was
always a little shock to friends and relatives. It was charitable of
Domokous' employer to assume the cost of the funeral.

"Er— I daresay," said the priest. He
unwound the thin wire bows of his glasses from around his ears slowly
and began to polish the lenses with his handkerchief. "I
daresay. But— perhaps it's uncharitable of me," he said
earnestly, and his myopic naked eyes swam blindly in Mendoza's
general direction, "but much experience with human nature leads
me to wonder about it."

"The Greek, in fact, bearing gifts?"

"Dear me, yes, very appropriate, Lieutenant.
Indeed. I— dear me, it is difficult— I debated long with myself
about coming. You know, one doesn't like to encourage slander, and
yet, perhaps, it would be just as well for you to hear about it. I
can only trust"— he began to wind the wires back around his
ears, and his eyes swam into focus again, looking anxious— "that
you will not place more importance on it than is actually warranted."

"Well, we're used to evaluating statements. What
is it?"

The priest sighed. "It may mean nothing at all,
you see. It seems that Stevan's death was only an unfortunate
accident, that he was the victim of one of these drug peddlers— by
what appeared in the newspapers, at least. I'd have said that it was
quite incredible that he would be persuaded into such a thing, but I
know these dreadful things happen. And it seems even more incredible
that what he told me could have led toto a deliberate accomplishing
of his death— no, no, I cannot accept that. However, the more I
thought about it— especially after Mr. Skyros called me— that is,
one doesn't like to feel suspicious of the motives for charity, does
one, but all the same— Well, I thought perhaps the police should
hear. Just in the event that it is important. And I trust I am not
spreading slander to tell you! Here is the matter, Lieutenant. Stevan
came to me— now let me get the date right, I must be accurate—
yes, a week ago last Sunday it was, the Sunday evening. He wanted
advice. Perhaps you've heard that he was not quite as familiar with
English as he might have been. Well, now, it seems that on the
previous evening he had worked later than usual, and had had occasion
to ask his employer some question, and so gone to his office. He said
it was not usual for Mr. Skyros to be there after hours, but perhaps
it was something to do with this shipment of goods just arrived; at
any rate, there he was. And there was someone with Mr. Skyros—
another man. Stevan heard them speaking together before he knocked on
the door— you must not think he eavesdropped deliberately, but he
hesitated to intrude, you see, when he heard that Mr. Skyros had a
visitor, and possibly there was a transom open or something like
that, I could not say. He was most disturbed over what he had
overheard. He said it sounded to be something to do with a crime, and
yet he wasn't sure— you see they were speaking English. And he
asked me what I thought he should do. He was such a very honest young
man." The priest sighed again.

"I'll tell you," said Mendoza slowly, "this
isn't the first I've heard of that. His fiancée and her grandmother—
the Roslevs— have been in. He mentioned it to them too."

"Ah, yes— I see— of course. Poor girl, poor
girl. Not that I will say I feel quite the sympathy for Katya that I
do for the old woman .... But then you know— "

"They couldn't tell me much. Possibly he told
you more in any case. Did he tell you exactly what he overheard?"

"Well, frankly, Lieutenant, I must admit that I
couldn't make much of it myself. He did try to repeat it to me. He
heard Mr. Skyros say, 'It will be necessary to make up some story for
the insurance people, madness to keep that money of course, they'll
be keeping an eye on her afterward and there's all the trouble of
taking the stuff out of the country— but that's for later, her
business, and nothing to do with you, I'll fix up something.' And the
other man, who sounded, Stevan said, very uneducated, uncouth, he
said it was— er— 'a hell of a lot of dough for that stuff? And
Mr. Skyros said something about it being all how you looked at it,
and money made money, so the proverb said. He seemed, Stevan said, to
be— how shall I put it— falsely genial with this other. And the
other man said then, if that was so, how did he know it wasn't worth
more than Skyros said; and Skyros replied that a thing one had to
sell under the counter was worth only what a buyer was willing to
pay, and ten thousand was a good profit. And then the second man said
something about the County Museum."

"The County Museum?"

"Well, the actual words Stevan quoted to me
were, I think, 'that museum place out Exposition,' which I took to
be— "

"Yes. Odd."

"It was, you see, the phrase 'under the counter'
which worried Stevan. He asked me what he ought to do, he said Mr.
Skyros had been kind to him, giving him a job when he was still slow
at writing the English and so on, and he did not like to seem
ungrateful, but that on the other hand he wanted to become a good
citizen, and anything bad, perhaps criminal, the police should know.
I advised him— rightly or wrongly— to do nothing unless he was
sure of some wrongdoing. I said he had really nothing to take to the
police."

"Quite right," said Mendoza. "Nothing
there at all, actually. That's all he heard? . . . Yes. Well, I'm
glad to hear a little more about it than the Roslevs could tell me,
but— "

"It doesn't seem to mean much? I am relieved to
hear you say so, Lieutenant. I only wondered— as I say,
uncharitable of me. But I thought it my duty to come and tell you, in
case it should mean more to you than to myself."

"Yes, very good of you to come in," said
Mendoza absently.

"Er— businessmen— doubtless merely a little
something to do with his business— and Stevan misunderstood— I
feel I may have been leaping to melodramatic conclusions— "

"Well, one never knows." And was there any
reason to ask for a formal statement? Hearsay evidence. Not yet:
perhaps never. He thanked the priest again, listened to a few more
mild ramblings about Domokous, and saw him out politely.