The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon (17 page)

"And there are some suggestive points in it,"
said Mendoza, and obliged .... Castro— they thought I was working
for him. As a pusher? If Prettyman and these others are on that lay,
it rather looks like it, doesn't it? Can we build it up that
Prettyman is a head pusher for somebody?— let's not say Skyros
until we've got more evidence, but maybe. And he's supplying these
others, his boys as they put it. And if they leaped to the conclusion
that this Castro was trespassing on Prettyman's territory, and
resented it so much, where does that put Castro? You know about
Bratti, of course."

Callaghan blew smoke at the ceiling and said
thoughtfully, "One thing this job's taught me is a lot of
respect for the capitalistic system. You'd be surprised how much
these little trade wars help us sometimes. If there wasn't the
opportunity for competition, we wouldn't get to know about half these
bastards— whether we can get evidence on 'em or not, it's nice to
know their names. And when a couple of minor territory-bosses get
into a little war— maybe one of 'em trying to encroach, you know,
hire a boy away to his string, or sometimes something right outside
the business, jealousy over a woman or something like that— it
makes a grudge, and that gives us an in. None of 'em are very smart
on that level, you know, they can't think far ahead. I've known 'em
get into street fights, yet, one little gang against the other, and
all get hauled in— ruin a ten-thousand-a-week business for some
damn-fool little personal grudge. And afterward, under questioning,
you'll get the same thing sometimes— with luck, and if they're
fools enough. Tell you anything they know about the other gang, to
take them along on the skids too."

"Have you got anything like that from these?"

“
It's early. I hope we will. I've seen all of 'em
once. They're all still damn cocky, especially Prettyman. I'd better
warn you, he's saying it was a trumped-up job, you were planted to
give us an excuse to drag 'em in. But I don't think that'1l do him
any good with the bench, because he did have the stuff on him. I
don't think we'll get much useful out of him, he's a little too
smart. But I've got him well separated from the other three, he can't
brief them, and they're still convinced, probably, that you were this
Castro's boy. By what they said to you, sure, there's one of these
little trade wars going on between Prettyman and Castro, and that
does indeed put Castro as another head pusher— Prettyman's opposite
number. For which middleman, I wonder?"

"Bratti," said Mendoza. "You want to
bet'? Skyros' opposite number."

"No bets with you. I got a wife and family to
support."

"Yes, and also— look— that might say
something to us about why Skyros tried to steer us onto Bratti. Heads
or tails— either he didn't know Castro was Bratti's head man, and
couldn't name him to us, or he thinks we're so dumb we wouldn't know
Bratti wouldn't be out working the street himself. As I— mmh—
divined at the time, he just wanted to get Bratti in trouble."

"Could be. Yes, it's kind of tempting to think,
isn't it? And if so, naturally Prettyman's middleman supplier—
let's commit slander and say Skyros— wouldn't have much use for
Bratti. The grudge might even have come from there originally,
personal fight between middlemen passed down to the lower level.
Cutthroat competition. I hope by the time these three have stewed
awhile, we may get some revealing remarks out of them .... Oh, sure,
Prettyman yelled for a lawyer right away, and there'll be bail— but
that gives us a little time to hang onto them, they won't come up
until Monday probably, and meanwhile we may get to hear some more
about Castro."

"And Angie," said Mendoza. "Who is
Pretty's best boy. And who knows Denny, who from somewhere got the
information that the Greek is turning fence. I didn't acquire these
bandages in a spirit of altruism, you know— I was looking for
something on my end of the business."

"Oh, granted," said Callaghan. "I'll
keep my ears open, and issue instructions to the jailers ditto. I
think maybe about tomorrow it might be helpful to move two of them in
together and hear what they have to say to each other. Inadmissible
evidence— self-condemnation— but very interesting sometimes, and
points to other places to look for legal evidence. I'll keep your
corpse in mind. And I'm also going to do a little looking at Amy."

"Who is, or was, this Frank that Prettyman and
Denny mentioned?"

"No idea, I'll have a look at Records and see if
we can turn him up."

"Well, I wish you luck." Mendoza stood up.
"I hope you realize I've wasted most of the day doing your job.
So far I've got nothing out of all this at all."

"Patience, maybe you will. I'll keep you
posted."
 

THIRTEEN

Mendoza returned to his own office and called
Alison's apartment again. No answer. Now where the hell was she? Off
on a painting jaunt somewhere? Not on a weekday: she wouldn't close
the school just for that.

He tried to remember the names of friends he'd heard
her mention, and came up with only one whole one, Patricia Moore—
hadn't he met her once?— dowdy Englishwoman, a commercial artist of
some kind. He looked her up in the phone book and called there, but
again drew blank.

It was four o'clock. His head was still aching, and
he kept hitting that damned hand on everything in reach— the left
one, praise heaven for small mercies. Hackett called in and said
Driscoll had disappeared somewhere with his tail. "Hell and
damnation!" said Mendoza, and sent Sergeant Lake out for coffee
for both of them.

At four-thirty he tried the apartment and the school
again. No luck. The night tail for Driscoll came in and asked whether
the day man had called in to say where to pick him up. He hadn't.
They waited around awhile for that, and nothing happened.

At five o'clock Mendoza said he was going home, he'd
had a full day. He was to be called at once, pronto, when Driscoll
was located or if anything else interesting broke. On the way home he
stopped at Alison's school and apartment, and found both empty and
silent. Maddeningly, through the slots in her mailbox he could see
several envelopes.

He couldn't say he was exactly worried about her—
Alison could take care of herself quite well— but he didn't like
it. He went home, to the haven of air-conditioning and an
affectionate welcome from Bast; he managed to untie Mrs. Bryson's
knot, made some coffee, and lay down to ruminate in peace, or in as
much peace possible with Bast curled up on his stomach.

He woke up at a quarter of eight, decided it was too
much trouble to get dressed and go out for a meal, and made himself
an omelette. He fed Bast. He called his office: hadn't Driscoll been
located yet? Yes, the day man had called in, the night man gone to
relieve him, and Sergeant Hackett had been briefed when he came in
after dinner, but by the time Hackett got there— to a restaurant on
Fairfax— they'd both gone.

"
¡Fuera!
"
said Mendoza. "Keep me informed, as soon as the tail calls in."

He had another cup of coffee. Bast lay purring
steadily on his lap, and the clock-hands moved slowly around to
nine-thirty. When the phone rang he jumped for it, and then had to
stop to apologize to Bast, so rudely discarded. "Yes?"

"Myers just called in, sir. Driscoll's gone back
to his hotel and looks like staying in."

"Ah," said Mendoza. "Thanks very
much." He flung off his robe, dressed hastily, and this time
carried his tie upstairs to Mr. Elgin. "By the way," he
said as Mr. Elgin pulled the knot tight, "do you really think
that precocious tom of yours— ?"

"Well, I must say it looked that way to me,"
said Mr. Elgin, and elaborated.

"You can have first choice of the 1itter,"
said Mendoza generously, and Mr. Elgin looked alarmed.

"Oh, well— er— we have four already— "

"I might have known you'd disclaim
responsibility. It's legal enticement, if you ask me. Why you had to
bring home a tom— this over-sexed delinquent with rape in his eye—
"

"Now really, Mendoza— she's acting pretty coy
with him, too— enticement on the other side, if you ask me. And
he's not just any tom. It might be worse. Abyssinians are sort of
first cousins to Siamese, they ought to turn out quite interesting
kittens."

Mendoza said Elgin was a traitor and a coward, but he
hadn't time to argue about it now. The night had begun to cool off a
little, thank God. He drove down to Driscoll's hotel and found Myers
in the lobby. "Is he sober?"

"Depends what you mean by sober, Lieutenant.
Say, I heard you got banged up a little today, that looks pretty
nasty .... Well, he was feeling pretty good when I picked him up, but
dinner settled him down a little. He went out to see that dame at the
Beverly, and Dwyer and I strolled up and down the hall outside— you
know— and we gathered there was some sort of hassle going on ....
Oh, the usual thing, you might say— not that I got any more of the
French than Bert did, but it wasn't hard to figure. You can recognize
swearing— even, er, ladylike swearing— in any language. She did
most of the talking, and most of it after she had the door open and
started ordering him out. By the gestures."

Myers looked gravely amused. "Not very polite
gestures. We figured he'd been trying to make her, maybe with not
much finesse if you get me, and she said No nineteen different ways—
at the top of her voice— and ended up by slapping his face. Good
and hard— sounded like a shot."

"
¡No me diga!
"
Mendoza laughed. "That I'd like to have seen. How'd he take it?"

"Oh, mad as hell. Insult to his vanity, like
they say. He went straight down to the bar, but after a couple of
drinks it probably dawned on him what kind of mark-up he was paying
for the atmosphere, and he came back to town and found a cheaper
place. When he left and came back here, he was high, but not quite
passing-out high."

"And that might be just the way I want him,"
said Mendoza. "What's his room number? Come up with me."

He knocked on the door, waited, knocked again. A stir
inside; Driscoll asked without opening, "Wha' the hell you
want?"

"Open the door, Mr. Driscoll. This is Lieutenant
Mendoza from headquarters, and I've got some questions to ask you."

"You go to hell," said Driscoll.

"Open the door or I'll get the manager to open
it for me."

A long pause; then Driscoll fumbled at the lock
inside and the door opened slowly, halfway. "Listen, why the
hell you got to come round at this time of night? What d'you want
with me? Cops! I'm a law-abiding citizen, you can't— "

"That's fine," said Mendoza. "Let us
in, and we'll discuss this in private." He pushed Driscoll
aside, went in with Myers and shut the door. The room was strewn with
discarded clothes, careless: the bed a tangle of sheet and blanket.
"You seem to be interested in a business way in a couple of
people we're interested in too, and I'd like to ask your cooperation
in the matter. Just what is your interest— or your company's
interest— in Madame Bouvardier and Mr. Andreas Skyros?"

Driscoll looked at him blearily. "I don't have
to tell you one thing. It's private comp'ny business. Nothing to do
with cops— "

"But we think it has, Mr. Driscoll, and you
should know that you're bound, both as a private citizen and an
investigator, to co-operate with us when you're asked, give us any
information you may have."

"You can go to hell!" said Driscoll,
uneasily belligerent. "Smart boy cop— sure, take all the
credit if I— By God, clean it up m'self, no co-operation from you
smart boys— tell Howard so too— Go ahead, beat me up, why don't
you— two of you, tha's jus' the way you boys like it, isn't it, two
t' one!" His eyes focused momentarily; he laughed. "You
been in a li'l ruckus already, Lieutenant?— wha' happen, you run up
against somebody a li'l tougher, like maybe a five-year-old kid? Go
on, jus' try— dirty Mex bastard— "

"That one I've heard from tougher ones than you,
Mr. Driscoll," said Mendoza. "Just a little tougher. And we
really don't operate that way, you know— it's not such a good idea
to give the public reason to confuse us with the thugs. Do I
understand you're refusing to give us any information you have?"

"You got it in one— bingo!" said
Driscoll, and attempted another laugh.

Mendoza looked at him a moment more and said, "O.K.,
if that's the way you want to play it." He turned and came out,
Myers behind, and Driscoll slammed the door after them.

"A real tough baby," said Myers. "Oh,
my."

Mendoza grinned. "Suppose you hang around this
floor while I go down and phone in for a warrant. Just in case he
gets any ideas." He went down to the lobby, called his office
and requested a warrant— material witness— as soon as possible.
"I'll wait here for it."

It didn't take long. One of the night-duty sergeants
brought it up, and Mendoza took him back up to where Myers was
holding the fort. They had to make a little noise, banging on the
door and threatening to get the manager, and an interested crowd had
collected by the time Driscoll finally opened to them. Mendoza
charged him formally and added, "You've got five minutes to
dress, make it snappy."