The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon (19 page)

"You can get some more, it's good. Yes, go on."

"At a dollar and a quarter— "

"I'll buy it, I'll buy it! Go on!"

"Well! I felt a little uneasy about it, and I
looked around— and there were two drawers in the desk not quite
shut, and I thought I'd left the closet door closed— I usually do.
But I couldn't swear to any of it, it just made me wonder a little.
There isn't anything missing, not that there'd be much of real value
to take, but the only good pieces of jewelry I have, my grandmother's
topaz ring and a few odds and ends like that, weren't touched. I
wasn't sure, I just felt-you know— a little queer about it. And you
needn't remind me I was wamed, I couldn't leave the chain up when I
went out, could I? And I couldn't see that the door had been forced,
and those windows onto the fire escape were locked."

"With plenty of time, he could try this and that
master key or even take an impression and get a key made. It wasn't
forced, no, but it might have been manipulated in some way. We'll
take it off and have a look, and you'll have a new one installed
anyway. What about that thing, that little coin? Where was it?"

"As a matter of fact I had it with me. I wanted
to show it to Vesperian, he knows a little about a lot of things and
I thought he might be able to say what it was. But I didn't get a
chance to talk to him, as it happened. It's still in with the change
in my coin purse, in my bag."

Mendoza went to find it. "This I'll take charge
of. Yes, he came when you'd be gone and he could expect enough time
to search thoroughly, for such a little thing. All he was after. And
he did search, and didn't find it. So he figured you must be carrying
it, and he came back to get it after you were home .... What the hell
is its importance? But fifty to one, that's the answer."

"Yes, I thought of it, of course. But I wasn't
sure, as I say, and it seemed incredible— even after the garage
business— and I didn't see any reason to call the local precinct,
there wasn't anything missing and I'd feel a fool— you know how
they looked at me before! And I was awfully tired, all the talk and
confusion in a crowd like that, you know— I thought I'd just call
you about it in the morning, there wasn't anything to do at that
hour. So I went to bed. That was about midnight. All right, so I was
a fool not to think of the chain— but after all, he'd been there,
how did I know he was going to come back? I've no idea what time it
was when I woke up— "

"The call came through at one-forty, miss,"
contributed Sergeant Polaski.

"Then I suppose it'd have been ten or fifteen
minutes before. I don't know what woke me— some little noise he
made, maybe— but all of a sudden, I was awake, and I knew there was
somebody in the apartment. I lay there for a minute, telling myself
not to be a nervous idiot, you know how one does, and then I did hear
something for certain, just a little slurred sort of sound in here—
footstep on the carpet, I think. I got up as quiet as I could, and
put on my robe— I had some vague idea of waiting until he came into
the bedroom, if he did, and then slipping out to reach the phone and
yell 'Police!' at least. I was terrified, it's a wonder he didn't
hear my heart pounding. I waited for what seemed  like ages, and
then he did come in— I was over by the window, I just saw a big
dark shadow move through the door. He had a pencil-flash— he was
awfully quiet— and he just stood there inside the door, as if he
was waiting for something. I thought— "

"That sounds," said the sergeant
thoughtfully, "like an experienced man. He wanted to be sure you
were sleeping sound. He could tell by your breathing."

"At the moment, I sounded to myself like a steam
engine. I see. I suppose that was what gave me away— he heard me
from the wrong place, not the bed— and maybe I made some noise
moving. Anyway, all of a sudden he switched on the flash and swept it
around, and saw me— I was almost to the door— and made a lunge
for me. I was too frightened to scream, I didn't think I could make a
sound to save my life, but I did try— I called 'Help!' or
something, that was what the Corders heard— and I managed to pull
away from him and ran in here— I thought if I could get to the
phone, just to knock the receiver off and yell— and of course he
came after me, and he must have knocked me out the first blow,
because that's all I remember. When I came to, the Corders were
dithering around and the police just getting here."

"He didn't even have time to snatch your bag
afterward— he heard the Corders coming, and was afraid he'd be
trapped— maybe he lost his head a little, dropping the sap he'd
used. Yes, I see."

"Corder," said the sergeant, "he said
something about there having been some other trouble lately— garage
broken into— and he seemed to think Miss Weir'd want you called,
sir— "

"Yes, I told him all about it that morning, you
remember," said Alison.

"Well, sir, if this is mixed up with some case
you're working, as I gather it is, it's out of our hands," said
the sergeant, looking interested. "And if that's all the lady
can tell us," he heaved himself up— "we'll be getting
back to the station."

"You've been very kind," said Alison,
smiling at him. "Thank you so much." The gracious effect
was marred by a sudden wide yawn. "Oh, lord, I'm getting sleepy
now, those pills— "

"Well, it's our job, miss, glad to oblige,"
said the sergeant gallantly. "If you'll be O.K. now, alone— "

"Oh, I'll be here," said Mendoza. "It's
almost morning anyway— three o'clock— and I told my sergeant to
call me here. She'll be O.K., and a new lock can be put on tomorrow."

The sergeant looked rather doubtful, but took himself
and the patrolman out. Williams was nearly asleep in his chair;
Mendoza shook him awake and sent him back to headquarters with the
note to deliver to Prints. "And you are going to bed. With
another of the doctor's pills."

He steered her into the bedroom. "You'd better
stay home and rest tomorrow."

"Yes, thank heaven it's Saturday," she said
through another yawn.

"Were you really worried, Luis?" she added
sleepily, untying the sash of her robe.

"Oh, terrified— terrified. But then I scare
easy." He kissed the corner of her mouth lightly. "Go to
sleep."

She kissed him back drowsily. "Don't forget the
Roquefort."

"
¡Qué joven
,
what a woman! Good night,
gatita
."
As he came out to the living room the phone rang. It was Hackett,
relaying the information that both Skyros and the Bouvardier woman
had been, as far as was humanly ascertainable, virtuously in their
own beds at the crucial time.

"Or at least, in their beds. Now can I go back
to mine?"

“
For what's left of the night. I could wish the
bastard— whoever he was— had carried on this little caper
tomorrow night, I've had a full day. However! Yes, I'll see you at
ten o'clock, that gives you an extra two hours to get the rest a
growing boy needs."

Hackett groaned and hung up. Mendoza carried all the
dishes out to the kitchen and stacked them neatly, unable to wash
them with one hand; struggled out of his jacket, took off his shoes
and stretched out on the davenport, and thought some more through the
last of Alison's cigarettes. Then he switched off the light, hitting
his bandaged hand on the stiff parchment shade, and went to sleep.
 

FOURTEEN

Mr. Andreas Skyros had been a worried man even before
he had those two phone calls. He would have said he could hardly have
been more worried.

In the first place, there was the County Museum. He
had seen Jackie Donovan yesterday evening, and Donovan had let it out
to him— in the most casual way, as if it was a bargaining point!—
how he had found out about the insurance. These low-class crooks!—
one would think that anyone with the intelligence God favored a dog
would realize— !

Donovan saying stupidly, "Well, hell, they
wanted to buy it before, didn't they? If they'd bid higher'n she
would— only sense to go an' ask!" Sense!

The County Museum . . . Mr. Skyros was not acquainted
with its director, but he could vividly imagine what reception
Donovan had had. And doubtless they had instantly called the police,
or at least the insurance firm— God in heaven, yes, of course, that
was how the insurance people had got onto it! For all he knew, they
might have been quietly working away and found out everything—

No; stop; foolish to be so pessimistic. They could
not— could they?— really have discovered anything. The insurance
fellow had come to see Lydia Bouvardier, but unless she was lying,
the insurance people had not seemed to know that she had actually
been approached as yet. A crazy female, but not so crazy as to give
that away, or Mr. Skyros' name, or Donovan's. Naturally not. And no
one else knew anything about this, except Donovan's brother—

Mr. Skyros had a moment of quite violent regret. If
only Jackie Donovan had not got out so soon! Another month in San
Quentin, and the whole deal would have been over and done. Denny was
another matter entirely than Jackie. An amiable, soft man, and
stupid— even more stupid than Jackie— and very easy to handle.
Denny, of course, had needed Mr. Skyros to advise him in the
business— and it had again pointed the moral to Mr. Skyros of that
proverb about casting one's bread on the waters. He was a man who
liked to be pleasant and friendly whenever possible, and it had been
only a thoughtless polite remark, that day after poor Frank's
funeral, when Denny called to thank him for sending the money . . .

"I knowed it was from you, sir, I hope you don't
mind, but I sort of felt like I ought to thank you— Frank thought
you was a swell boss, he— "

At the time Mr. Skyros had been angry and alarmed; he
was always so careful to keep his name and face right out of any
provable contact, and here was someone entirely outside the business,
someone with no interest in preserving secrecy— only because he had
happened to be Frank's brother. Well, one could not prevent people
from having relatives, of course. But this lout, Frank's brother,
what line was he in? Mr. Skyros had heard, but could not recall now.
But Denny sounded humble and anxious, and automatically Mr. Skyros
had been paternally friendly, with an eye to winning his loyalty. And
inevitably had said, "If there's ever any way I can help you, my
friend— "

And had it not paid off! Not two months later, Denny
coming to him with this— money for nothing, you could say. And
agreeing to the price at once, so astonished that they might get such
a price for it; and to the cut, fifty-fifty. It was, of course, a
reasonable price— and a reasonable cut. After all, it was a rather
delicate matter to handle, it required just the right touch, and Mr.
Skyros was the man to handle it. He had, of course, no intentions of
revealing himself as in touch with the original thief— he did not
then know Lexourion's daughter; she might be an honest woman who
would immediately go to the police at the mere suggestion.

He was quite pleased with the artistic little idea of
the advertisement in the paper ostensibly to get in touch with the
thieves. It had convinced her that he was only the helpful friend of
her late father's, as he had represented himself; and of course it
had been easy to persuade her to let him make the contact in that
way— a lady could not be allowed to have such dealings with a
criminal, when there was a gentleman willing to substitute. It had
delayed matters, inevitably, there had to be plausible time allowed,
to give it the appearance of— of verisimilitude. But all so very
easy and smooth. And then this one, this Jackie, must show up, just a
little smarter— smart enough to see that Mr. Skyros had tied
himself into it and must get his cut, but greedy for a higher price
in consequence.

The County Museum, my God . . .And this crazy woman,
bent on defrauding the insurance company. Madness. Nothing out of Mr.
Skyros' pocket, but could she not see that in a matter of this kind
one must give a little in order to gain? True, two hundred thousand
dollars was a respectable sum of money: Mr. Skyros could appreciate
the temptation, to get it back twice. But it was not such a thing as
cash, or nice bearer bonds, or a handful of diamonds— anonymous,
unidentifiable. Wherever this thing showed up, it would be known; and
it could not be sold piecemeal, its actual intrinsic value was as a
whole: split it up, and it was worth nowhere near that amount. If she
wanted anything out of it, the pedigree, so to speak, had to be
clear. Men to buy in secret, she said: nonsense: anyone who laid out
that kind of money wanted to boast of it.

So, this nice plausible little story for the police
and the insurance men, one easy to believe, for they too would know
it was nothing a thief could sell to a fence. Perhaps to make them
think— it was an idea— that the thief had aimed for her all
along, to hold it at ransom, as it were. A nice story about this
telephone call, this meeting with a disguised fellow— no, not to be
identified, so little she'd seen of him— the exchange of cash for
the collection. And there she was with it in her legal possession,
able to sell it openly.

Everybody made a profit that way. My God, she had no
guarantee the old man would have left her anything at all: had he
lived longer, the thing would have been sold, and heaven above knew
she had plenty of money already; he might very well have left
everything to some society or college, who knew? The ten thousand
profit to Mr. Skyros (though she need not know he had a piece of it,
of course) and the Donovans was the little price she paid for clear
title to it, for being able to realize something from its sale.