The Knave of Hearts (26 page)

He laughed at her and at himself; he laid down his
efficient modem electric razor and he laughed.
Conventions—traditions! The old lady insistently boasting about her
pure Castilian ancestry, once she had all the money—the elegant
Wilshire Boulevard apartment—and all the diamonds. He laughed at
her very tenderly, remembering.

You god of my race, great Quetzalcoatl, help me
now, be with me now, thou supreme being of the thunder and the
fire—and our smiling lady Cihuacoatl of the lovers, watch over me,
be near!

Well, boy, I loved you, she said to him; perhaps a
foolish old woman, and if you think I told you lies—
¡oyé
vaya!
—lies I told you—but I loved you
.... You were yourself, you went your own way, not mine: you turned
your arrogant back on the Church and you sought out the strange women
and the modern ways and thoughts: but you were yet mine,
hijito
—I
loved you and I marked you.

He put the razor away; he turned from the man in the
mirror and came into the bedroom, and he thought absently he would
have to decide what to do about the diamonds. All the jewels. The old
lady, cautious and shrewd, any sum over five dollars wealth to her;
he’d tried to educate her a little, but she had never seen the
investment on paper, essentially the promise to pay—she liked the
tangible value. The portable value. Just in case. So, all those
diamonds in the safe-deposit vault. All those rubies. The emerald
rings, the emerald necklace and bracelets . . .

(Not the rubies, for Alison. The emeralds, yes, the
emeralds fine for Alison of the red hair.)

He knotted his tie nice and neat, and he went out to
the kitchen and had another finger of rye without chiding himself at
all, and he told himself at the same time it was the rye, turning him
maudlin and sentimental, what the hell, it was just to carry him
through—

Get the best price he could for the jewelry she’d
thought was safe investment: no hurry about it, except of course to
pay the goddamned inheritance tax.

(The emeralds for Alison.)

Cihuacoatl, our lady of lovers, be with me now,
son of the race which sacrificed to you, need I have, need l have.

He drank half of a third
cup of coffee. His stomach felt a little queasy. He let the cats in.
He checked his pockets for wallet, silver, keys; he went out to the
garage. Another day. The continued hunt. By God they’d get him—if
it was a year from next Christmas. Give Mendoza the thinking machine
a clear field, half a chance—

* * *

Today, for the very first time, there was just a hint
of rational autumn in the air. The kind of thing even Californians,
unthinkingly gearing their feelings about seasons to their
Anglo-Saxon ancestors’ ideas, expected of November. The gray sky,
the little cool wind—even if the temperature didn’t drop below
sixty-eight and Chief Lockhart’s middle-western-weight suit felt
just a little heavy. They’d almost cleaned them up today—only six
or eight left he hadn’t seen; and if the truth were told Chief
Lockhart was feeling a little guilty and worried. None of these
fellows he’d seen was anything like Gideon Wise, and when you came
to think about it, it was pretty damn far-fetched to figure one of
them would be. Out of a hundred and 635 eighty million people—the
distance between Mount Selah and Los Angeles—kind of thing that
just didn’t happen.

Wasting his own time and the time of these big-city
fellows who’d been so nice to him, and spoiling Martha’s
vacation, all for nothing. He’d been woolgathering; it just wasn’t
reasonable.

Which was mostly the reason he said to Hackett, at
five-forty that afternoon, "What say we just go by that place we
were this morning, try to get that one off our minds? If we’re
anywhere near. He might be back now, if he was out—or answering the
door."

"O.K.," said Hackett dispiritedly. He was
feeling somewhat the same way about it himself; he’d be just as
pleased to get this cleaned up, know Yes or No for sure.

He bucked the traffic up Glendale Avenue, turned off
at Gates. The curbside was crowded at this hour, a lot of old
apartments around here without garage space for tenants, and he had
to park nearly half a block away. And it was just as he slid into the
space there, reached a hand to the parking brake, that (the funny,
irrelevant way these mental processes worked) he remembered about it
fully, it came to him. It was Alison Weir, the one who knew someone
in that place. "I’ll just run in and give this to Pat,"
she’d said, and he’d let her out, driven round the block and
picked her up again— "Thanks, Art, as long as we were passing—

They walked back, and a voice hailed them cautiously
from the curb. Dwyer sat there in the open door of his car. It was
beginning to get dark, the halfway hour—in the Spanish they called
it between dog and wolf—and he was an anonymous shape, a little red
moving spark of cigarette-end there.

"We1l," said Hackett, veering over to him.
"You here yet or again?"

"We’re earning our salaries these days,”
agreed Dwyer. "On a job like this I take against females. Mostly
who I’ve got to talk to, you know, and I’m lucky to find one in
live home the first time I ring the bell. Don’t they have anything
to do at home any more? My wife isn’t gadding around all day, six
days a week—at least I don’t think so—"

“
Frozen foods," said Hackett, "and vacuum
cleaners with all those attachments to clean everything from curtains
to the baby."

"That’s a big town for you," said
Lockhart. "Place like Mount Selah, there’s no place much to go
and they can’t go very far. You still waiting for this landlady?"

"Not very long. Daughter said six. Five of now.
I’ll give her till six-thirty and call it a day. I suppose this is
your last stop too."

"I hope so," said Hackett. He and Lockhart
went in, climbed up to the second floor. Lockhart lurked around the
corner of the landing and Hackett rapped on the door; after an
interval he rapped again, louder. There was a furtive slither of
sound in there at each knocking, but no one came to answer the
summons. He rejoined Lockhart. "But he’s in there. I think. Or
maybe he keeps a cat or something. Funny."

They started down the stairs. "Maybe he’s just
not feeling like company," said Lockhart. "Heard something
in there, hah?" In the street he stopped and looked back at the
door. "Might hang around a while, maybe he’ll show."

"Oh, let it go," said Hackett. "Long
chance. Maybe he hasn’t got a decent bathrobe and was shy about
facing anybody in his pajamas." He was getting hungry and he
wanted to go home.

"Well, I don’t know," said Lockhart
slowly, "just occurred to me, you know—"

Dwyer came over. "No go? Wonder if he’s
playing hooky, off with a blonde somewhere, and his boss paying his
sick leave."

"It’s Saturday night," said Lockhart.
"Let’s see, he’s been off work sick about three days, didn’t
you say? Round about the time a cold keeps you down. Might be he’s
feeling better by now, reckons to go out somewhere—it being
Saturday night. Even in a big town, they tell me, Saturday night’s
the night to go places. I don’t know but what I’ll hang around a
spell, just to see."

"Well—" said Hackett.

"You go ’long, Sergeant, don’t bother about
me. You’ll be wanting to get home to that Angel girl o’ yours,
and dinner. I kind of got my teeth into this thing now, and it’s
been a washout so far—feel I been wasting all our time—but we
don’t want to miss any chances."

"I’ll be glad to drive you back to your hotel,
Chief," volunteered Dwyer. "Probably hang around another
half hour or so like I say."

"Yeah, let’s give it that much time,"
said Lockhart. "No harm. If that’s O.K. with you, Sergeant.
Martha, she’s got friendly with a woman in the hotel—nice woman,
widow traveling alone—they were goin’ out to some fancy place for
tea and do a show, I don’t suppose she’ll be back much before
seven. You go along, I’l1 just wait around a while."

"Well, all right," said Hackett, "if
you feel like it."

"Got nothing much else to do," said
Lockhart.

Hackett left him there, sitting in Dwyer’s car. He
figured it was a waste of time in a way, but of course you never
knew. They’d been using a headquarters car on this, so now he had
to go all the way back downtown to exchange it for his own, and the
traffic at this hour was murder. When he got there, he went up to the
office from force of habit, to see if anything new had come in.

Nothing had. Mendoza had gone out for a meal, and
Sergeant Lake was just leaving, about to switch over this number to
the night man in the communal sergeant’s office.

"Feels like fall today, thank God," he said
to Hackett. "Hottest summer in forty-seven years, they say. You
should hear Caroline at me—you’d think it was a personal insult
for me to be sitting here in air conditioning all day."

"Well, it must be aggravating," said
Hackett.

"Sure. But she’s the one wanted that house in
the valley. Good ten degrees hotter out there. But I guess I’d
better figure on some kind of air conditioner at that."

"Wait for off-season, you’ll get it cheaper."

"I suppose. Well, I’ll be off. Scarne called
in, I left the message on the book."

"O.K., I’ll see you." But as Lake reached
to the switchboard, the phone rang there on his desk and he picked it
up automatically.

"Headquarters, Homicide .... Sorry, he’s not
in. A message—"

"Who is it?"

"Stebbins."

"I’ll talk to l1im. Go on, Jimmy." Lake
went on out and Hackett took the phone. Mr. Stebbins, cautious, was
reluctant to impart a message, but Hackett convinced him that he knew
all about it; it would be safe with him and he’d pass it on to
Lieutenant Mendoza.

"Well," said Mr. Stebbins, "if you
say. I’ve got another ’un for him. Had quite a time on it,
too—funny piece o’ proputty, mostly gov’ment land round it, and
no number or street. You tell the lieutenant—he’ll remember the
place—it’s that little cabin just this side o’ Malibu village,
all by itself off the highway, little bit in from the beach."

"O.K., I’ve got that, what’s the name?"
Hackett jotted down brief notes on the pad, added the name as Mr.
Stebbins read it out to him. "I will be damned," he said,
looking at it. "I will be— Listen, Mr. Stebbins?-you still
there?"

"I’m here."

"Does he rent or own it?"

"Owns it. I found the feller sold it to him,
’bout three years back. Hanley and Sellers handled it—’twas an
estate sale, old feller who built it died roundabout then. Awful hard
place to sell, account of being way off by itself, you know, and
nothing fancy. Old feller’s daughter said, get what you can. They
finally sold it for forty-two fifty."

"I see. Thanks very much, Mr. Stebbins, we
appreciate this—"

"No credit to me. Got to think of the community,
ain’t we? Feller runnin’ around killing women. Hope I’ve
helped. Got a couple more to look out—you tell the lieutenant I’ll
let him know soon’s I do."

"Yes, thanks very much." Hackett hung up
and looked at the scribbled name.

Well, a lot of people owned beach property, of
course. It didn’t say much of anything. Not really. Except that
this was a name they had. A name from the Andrews’ list, and the
name of the fellow who lived in that apartment he’d just
left—where, presumably, Dwyer and Lockhart were still hanging
around. Or just leaving: it was twenty to seven. Didn’t say much.
Except that Luis’ private radar had operated again, maybe. Or maybe
just coincidence.

But Luis was going to be interested; and it would be
interesting to know, when Lockhart did get a look—

The phone rang and he picked it up. "Dwyer,"
said a rather breathless voice in his ear. “No time to talk—tell
the Lieutenant—it’s this one, Lockhart’s boy—he spotted him
ten minutes ago when he came out. We’re tailing him, he stopped for
gas at the comer, I got to get back—I’ll call in when we know."

"Hackett said, "O.K.," to the dead
air.
 

NINETEEN

It was a curiously noncommittal way for it all to
come to an end—the long time of plodding, patient hard work, the
endless routine, the false casts and the empty coverts drawn. At this
end of a day, here in the empty office all alone, knowing
for-almost-sure. Just a couple of telephone calls, a name. Simple
first principles.

And of course it wasn’t ended, not by the hell of a
long way. Not yet. They hadn’t anything on him at all, of tangible
evidence, the kind the D.A. and the grand jury would listen to. A lot
of hard work still to come, to get him in the net. But, for almost
sure, now they knew. Now he wasn’t anonymous any more, they had a
name and a face and an address.

He got through to the central board and said, "I’ve
got to keep our line open, Al—call my wife and tell her I’ll be
late, will you? Thanks."

He wondered why Lockhart and Dwyer had taken off
after the fellow—no reason at this stage—Lockhart with his teeth
in it, born cop sticking to the trail, an automatic thing. He hoped
to God Lockhart would have better sense than to confront him, charge—
On the other hand, of course, in the moment’s startlement he might
come out with some damning admission, and Dwyer was there as a
witness.