The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon (24 page)

"Oh, go away, young woman!" said Mr. Skyros
crossly. "I'm a very patient man, and I don't want to make a big
fuss about this little nonsense, call in the police and tell them you
put these silly little threats on me— poor Stevan's girl, it
wouldn't look nice at all!— but I don't put up with it all day
either. A lot of craziness in your head is all. You stop bothering
me, go away, forget it."

"You just wouldn't dare— the cops— I do too!
You got to. I'll tell— "

"Now look," said Mr. Skyros, and stood up.
He knew it was scarcely a chance at all he was taking; the girl knew
nothing in any case, she was only bluffing, and how she had thought
to get away with it was beyond his understanding. But she would not
go to the police, and it would not be necessary that he carry out a
threat to do so. Of course he could not do that— it was only that
she must be made to understand her ridiculous position. "Now
look, voung woman. I'm patient like I say, I explain to you how it
happens, this little mistake. It's nothing, you know nothing, because
there's nothing to know— and that's all to say about it. I don't
like to do such a thing, but I can't be pestered like this, and you
don't leave my office, then I call the police and tell them how you
try to blackmail me— over nothing, just a silly idea— "

"— Wouldn't dare— "

"Now, who do they listen to, I ask you? Me, I'm
a respectable businessman, an honest man, my own place, never in any
kind of trouble, and no— no axe to grind I got, like they say— "
He shrugged. “Why should I tell lies about this unimportant girl—
some kind of cheap job, a cheap little couple of rooms somewhere, a
girl nobody knows or cares about much, isn't it? Nobody pays any
attention to you, Miss— "

"You old devil!" she screamed at him
suddenly. "You got to give me that money, you got to— you— "
She sprang to her feet, still gripping the desk, leaning across it.
"You got to, you know you got to," she panted. "I got
to have— "

Suddenly Mr. Skyros felt just a little nervous. It
was absurd, of course, but her eyes were quite wild, she sounded—
And nobody else in the building, so far as he knew: the office staff
had all gone off, Saturday afternoon . . . "I don't got to do
anything," he said. "You go away and calm down, or I call
the police."

“
You— you— I got to have that money! I'll kill
you— if you don't— "

Her hand darted out like a snake, snatched up the
letter-knife from the desk. It was a miniature Indian dagger of
brass— Mr. Skyros had a fancy for such things— with a curved
blade, and while it was not quite as razor-sharp as a real dagger
would be, it could probably inflict some damage— its point was
sharp enough. Mr. Skyros stepped backward involuntarily, tripped over
his desk chair, and half fell sideways, clutching at the desk.

"Now, young lady, don't you be foo1ish," he
started to say.

"Kill you— I just got to— " And she was
on him like a cat, rushing around that side of the desk. Mr. Skyros
felt the knife-point bite deep into his upper chest and let out a
shrill yelp, staggering backward toward the window with some idea of
calling for help. She flew at him again, sobbing with fury, and then
the door opened and a nondescript man ran in, got her from behind by
the arms, said, "What the hell's going on here?" and blew a
whistle out the window.

Mr. Skyros collapsed into his desk chair and squinted
fearfully down at his chest. There was some blood; he tore his shirt
open and was rather disappointed to find only a minute puncture in
the pink soft flesh. "This— this fiend of a female," he
gasped to the man, "she— "

Running footsteps pounding up the stairs, a uniformed
patrolman. "Darcy, headquarters," said the other man.
"Attack of some sort, you better call the wagon. Listen, sister,
you just calm down and stop trying to fight me, you're goin' nowhere
right now."

Mr. Skyros sank lower in his chair and moaned to
himself. Police— having to hear all about it— and no telling what
this terrible woman would say— These crazy females!

"That's right,
sister, you take it easy for a change," said the man. The girl
subsided suddenly into a straight chair, and crouched there bent
forward, hair falling over her face, silent and sullen.

* * *

Mendoza got there in time to follow the patrol car in
to the precinct station. He took Mr. Skyros along, volubly
protesting. Mr. Skyros' little wound was given first aid, and he was
asked if he wanted to charge the young woman formally with assault.

"Look," said Mr. Skyros earnestly, "let's
not make the big thing out of this, isn't it? I'm sorry for the young
lady, that's all. She's this poor Domokous' girl, going to marry him
she was, and maybe she's a little lightheaded— a little crazy, you
know— with the grieving for the poor boy. You see what I mean,
gentlemen. She's got some crazy idea in her  head— I don't
know, don't ask me how females get ideas!— that it's, somehow,
because he works for me he gets himself killed like that, you see? I
don't know how she figures, gentlemen, she comes, says a lot of crazy
things that don't make any sense at all, says it's all my fault poor
Stevan dies— don't ask me why she thinks like that! It's a terrible
thing all round, poor Stevan and now his girl acting like she's
crazy— but I don't want any big trouble about it, bad for
everybody, isn't it? I'm sorry for this poor girl, she don't know
what she's saying, you know. She don't hurt me much," said Mr.
Skyros bravely, "just a little scratch like, and I don't hold
any grudge on the poor girl. You let her go home, get calmed down,
maybe see a doctor— I don't charge her with anything, gentlemen."

But it wasn't quite as simple as that. Mendoza let
Skyros go; he had a pretty good idea of what was behind this, and
there wouldn't be anything more to be got out of Skyros. The last
couple of remarks the girl had made in his office that day— he
could add two and two and figure she'd had a second thought; maybe
the little Domokous had told her that time might be material for
blackmail. It could just be that Domokous had told her more, though
it didn't seem likely when what he'd told the priest added up to
nothing, really. And what was it worth if he had— hearsay evidence?
Still . . . So he let Skyros go, and saw the girl there in the
precinct sergeant's office.

"You went to Mr. Skyros' office to threaten him,
Miss Roslev," he said. "What did you have to threaten him
with? . . . You can tell me, you know, and I can see he's punished
for it, if it's something very bad." Almost instinctively he
spoke as one would to a child, for her blank stare. She had made no
attempt to tidy herself, comb her hair, refasten her blouse where its
buttons had pulled apart in the little struggle.

She just stared at him vaguely. After a moment she
said, "Five thousand dollars. He's got to pay me. I know— I do
so know."

"What do you know, Miss Roslev?"

"He's got to," she said. "Just got to.
Or I'll tell. A lie, say I don't know nothing. I do too. An awful lot
o' money— Stevan said— about an awful lot o' money. Five thousand
dollars, I thought."

"Yes. What about it, Miss Roslev'?"

She looked at him a long moment, and her eyes focused
on him, and then she smiled a small, scornful smile and said, "That's
not my name. I'm Katharine Ross. I'm Katharine Ross, I don't have
nothing to do with these people, funny foreign-sounding names,
nothing I got to do— my name's Katharine— Katharine— Katharine—
I'm Katharine Ross and I— "

Mendoza went out and told the sergeant it might be a
good idea to call in a doctor to look at her, also to notify the
grandmother as next of kin. Maybe she was shamming, maybe she thought
Skyros had charged her and she'd get out of it playing crazy, but he
didn't much like her looks.

And it didn't matter a damn, it wouldn't be legal
evidence anyway; but he hung around to hear what the doctor said. And
of course that didn't mean a damn thing either: a lot of double talk!
Thus the doctor— shock, perhaps temporary amnesia, perhaps an
unstable personality; one could not really say definitely without
intensive psychiatric examination, and naturally one was not
equipped— oh, well, as to competent, one would not like to say—

Mendoza said a few things to himself about modern
psychiatric theories, and went out to the charge room. The
grandmother was there by then, and the priest had come with her. Any
man in the force ran across both attitudes his first day in uniform,
but Mendoza had never much liked meeting either one: the old woman
saw Authority to be feared, always tyrannical; the priest, Authority
to be ultimately relied on, always knowing all the answers.

Mendoza didn't know all the answers any more than
another man. He told them what he knew. And because one day it might
be legally important (though he didn't think so) whether Katya Roslev
really knew something or didn't, he went with the old woman and the
priest back to the room where she sat slouched in a chair, silent,
under the doctor's eye.

"Katya, the gentleman, Mr. Skyros, he is kind
and don't ask the police to shut you in jail,"— the old woman,
timid— "you can come home with me now, I know you don't mean
anything wrong, whatever it is you do. Katya— "

The girl looked at her blankly. "Go home?"
she said. "Home— with you? I don't know you. My name's
Katharine Ross. Good American name. I don't know you— funny old
foreign woman, can't even talk English good— I don't know anybody
like you, I never did— "

"Oh, Katya, you don't say such to me— me who
raises you from a baby, tries to teach you all how to do right— how
is it you say, you don't know me? It is your own great-mother speak
to you, my dear— it's not to matter, what you've done, you know I
don't stop loving you— it's all right, Katya— " She went off
into her own tongue then, probably saying it all over.

“
I don't know you or your damned foreign talk, you
old bitch!" screamed the girl at her, harsh and sudden. "Go
away— go away— go away!"

The priest exchanged a look with Mendoza and led the
old woman out; she had fallen silent, looking stunned. "Perhaps
it's foolish to ask what you think, Lieutenant? Such a distressing—
"

"Not for me to say. They'll take her into
hospital, of course— the General."

"But always I am kind with her," whispered
the old woman. The priest shook his head and shepherded her away.

And it was, that, very
much a side issue; Mendoza switched his mind back to the main
problem, driving back to headquarters.

* * *

Hackett had wandered through Records looking for
O'Brien in vain; he didn't know him well. Finally he asked, and was
told that O'Brien wouldn't be in until afternoon, off on some special
job. Hackett swore mildly and took himself out to lunch. Coming back,
he just missed Mendoza, heard about the undefined excitement at
Skyros' office and wondered about that. He looked over the tails'
reports on the Bouvardier woman, which contained nothing of interest
at all.

About two o'clock he went down to Records again and
found O'Brien, who looked more like a school principal than a
policeman, half-hidden behind a stack of file-size record cards.
"Heard you were asking for me," said O'Brien.

"Nothing official." Hackett pulled up a
chair. "It's this little thing. I remembered you saying your
hobby is coins. It's cropped up in something of Luis Mendoza's, and
we wondered if you could give us any idea what it might be. If
anything. For all I know, it's just a souvenir medal from a midway
shooting gallery or something like that."

"Let's have a look," said O'Brien. He took
the thing in his palm, weighed it, whisked out his handkerchief to
polish it and then stopped, looked at it again, made a little
clicking sound with his tongue, and put the handkerchief away without
using it. "He said, "But it can't possibly— it must be a
replica— " He opened a drawer, brought out a magnifying lens,
and bent over the coin laid fiat on his desk; presently he turned it
over very delicately and examined the other side.

“
Well?" said Hackett.

"Where'd you get this?" asked O'Brien.

"Apparently somebody lost it in a hot car."

"Jesus H. Christ," said O'Brien in an awed
small voice. "And you or Lieutenant Mendoza have been carrying
it around loose in your pocket— "

"Why not? What is it, anyway? Is it worth
anything?"

"Worth anything," said O'Brien. "Worth—
well, I wouldn't like to guess what, offhand, I'm not a real expert—
and besides, you wouldn't often find a thing like this in such good
condition. Not fine condition, but technically very good, and of
course you could hardly expect anything better. I'll be damned. I
will be damned. Carrying it around loose— "

"What is it?" asked Hackett. "I
thought it looked pretty well beaten up myself. I suppose you could
polish it, if it's silver— "

O'Brien clutched the magnifying glass like a bludgeon
and asked if any vandal up in Homicide had tried to polish it.

"No, of course not, and why the hell all the
excitement about it?"

"I'm not an expert," said O'Brien, "as
I say. But my own interest has always been mostly in the older
foreign stuff, and I can tell you just a little something about this,
Sergeant. Though I've never seen anything like it outside a museum,
which is where it ought to be. This is a Greek coin, I wouldn't say
from which city but most likely Athens or Elis or just possibly
Syracuse, and I'd place it as dating from somewhere around 400 B.C."