Case Pending - Dell Shannon (18 page)

"That you do," said the man from Homicide,
and smoke trickled thin through his nostrils; if he took in the
double-entendre he gave no sign of it.

"Well, nice to run into you—I’ll give Gunn
your regards." Morgan seemed to be under a compulsion to sound
hearty, make inane little jokes: "I hope, by the way, we’re
not concerned with the same clients again, like that Hurst
business—nasty."

"I want 2416."

It was the building Morgan had just left; he said,
"That’s it. Be careful of the third step—it’s loose. I
nearly broke my neck."

"Thanks very much." And more
conventionalities of leave-taking, and he was free. He started again
for his car. The gun was suddenly very heavy there against his chest.
When he got out his keys, he saw his hand shaking a little. Damn
fool, he thought angrily.

It’s going to be all
right. Just the way I want it to go. No matter who, no matter what.
And, by God, if it isn’t, if the very worst happens—whatever that
might be—this was one time anyway he wouldn’t stand still to be
knocked out of the ring. He’d have tried, anyway.

* * *

Mrs. Irene Cotter was rather thrilled and wildly
curious. Two men, detectives of all things, calling in one morning,
and both about those Lindstroms. If you'd asked her, she'd have
said—in fact, she was saying it now to Mendoza—that most any
other tenants she'd ever had while she was manageress here, and
that'd been eleven years, were more likely to bring detectives
around. That blonde hussy in 307, for instance, or Mr. Jessup who
was, not to beat round the bush, just a nasty old man—and there'd
been that couple in 419 that got drunk most nights and threw things.

She told him about them all, at some length and, when
she remembered, taking pains with her grammar, because this one was a
lot more interesting-looking, and seemed more interested in her, than
the first one. She always thought there was something about a man
with mustache. This one looked a little bit like that fellow in the
movies, the one that was usually the villain but personally she
thought about a lot of the movies she'd seen with him in that the
girl was an awful fool to prefer some sheep-eyed collar-ad instead,
but there was no accounting for tastes. And a real gentleman too,
beautiful manners; of course that was one thing about these Mexes,
people said things about them, but of course there was classes of
them just like anywhere, only when they were highclass like this one,
you said Spanish.

"—And I tell you, when he up and left, and
everybody knew it, nobody couldn't hardly believe it! You'd never
have thought they was that kind at all, fly-by-nights I mean that
don't go on steady, you know what I mean, all their lives. But I tell
you, lieutenant, I like to sort of study people, and G—goodness
knows I get the chance in my job, and I said to myself at the time,
There's something behind it."

"There usually is. The man left in August, you
said, early."

"I couldn't swear to the date, but it was after
the rent was due—and paid. They was never a day late. Good tenants.
Maybe the first week."

And how long did the woman and boy stay on?"

"Oh, I can tell you that to the day. It was the
twenty-second of September they left, she told me in the morning,
late, round noon maybe, and they went that night. I remember because
she was paid to the end of the month, but they went before, and I did
think that was funny, because it must've meant she'd paid extra
wherever they were moving, you know, to move in before the first. And
already bein' paid up to the first here, you'd think—Of course, all
I know, she didn't say, they might've been going back east or
somewheres. I did ask, account of mail, not that they ever had much
of that, mostly ads—but she never said, just looked at me as if I
was being nosy. And I'll tell you something else, Lieutenant, you can
believe it or not, but that was just exactly the fourth time I'd
spoke to Ms' Lindstrom, all two years they'd been here. That was the
kind they was—her, anyways. Why, they'd moved in a week or more
before I ever laid eyes on her—it was him rented the place, and
paid, and like people mostly do they moved in at night, after work,
you know—not that they had much to bring, a few sticks o'
furniture. But I was telling you about when he went. It was Mis'
Spinner in 319 told me, right next to them, they had 320, you can see
that I wouldn't notice right off, especially with them, sometimes I'd
see him going off in the morning or coming home, but not every day.

And Mis' Spinner thought I ought to know he'd left,
at least hadn't been there she didn't think four-five days, time she
told me. Well, they was paid up to the end of August, I didn't go
asking questions till then, none o' my business, but when September
first come round, it was her come down to pay the rent and then I did
figure, better know where we stood, if you see what I mean. Without
wanting to be nosy," added Mrs. Cotter virtuously. "She
wouldn't admit he'd gone and left her, froze right up and said I
needn't worry about the rent, and some rigmarole about he was called
back east sudden. But alla same, it wasn't a week before she had to
get herself a job, so I knew all right. And if you ask me-"

"Where did she work, do you know?"

"Sure, it was a night job cleaning offices
downtown—the Curtis Building. And that's what I was going' to say,
Lieutenant—that kind of job, it shows you what she was like, and
you ask me, it all ties in, it was prob'ly all her fault, whole
thing. She was one of them old maids married like they say, for sure.
Went around with a sour look alla time, never a smile or a friendly
word in passing—and as for looks! Well, I don't s'pose she was more
than forty, and I tell you, she looked like her own gran'mother! Hair
screwed up in a little bun behind, and skin like a piece o'
sandpaper, you could tell she never took any care of herself, prob'ly
used laundry soap and that's that—never a scrap of make-up, and
cheap old cotton house dresses was all I ever seen her in. You know's
well as me there's no call for a woman to let herself go like that,
these days! And if she acted to him the way she did to everybody
else, even the youngster, well, between you 'n' me 'n' the gatepost,
I don't blame him for walkin' out. A man can take just so much.
She'd've been the kind wouldn't let him sleep with her either, a
regular prunes-an'-prison old maid like they say, if you know what I
mean. Why, if she'd taken a little trouble, fix herself up and act
nice, she coulda got a better job, waiting in a store or something,
you know, daytimes.There's just no call for a woman to look like
that, if she's got any self-respect! But she wasn't one you could
talk to friendly, you know, give any advice, like—she was downright
rude to everybody tried to make friends, so after a while nobody
tried no more, just left them be. And I do think he'd have been
different. Times he came by to pay the rent, or if you met him going'
out or like that, he always acted friendly and polite. I figure he
just got good and fed up with the whole way she was—it musta been
like livin' with a set bear trap."

The detective grinned at that and she permitted
herself a ladylike titter, smoothing her defiantly brown pompadour.
"I gather you didn't exchange much casual talk with the woman at
any time."

"Nobody did, she wouldn't let 'em. . . .Ever
hear her mention going to buy a doll? That I did not.  It wasn't
a girl she had, it was a boy, I thought I said. Marty, his name was.
He favored his dad, I must say he was a nice-raised boy. Always took
off his cap to you, and he was real quiet—for a boy, you know. He'd
be about eleven or a bit past when they come, and that last year they
was here, he all of a sudden'd started to shoot up, early like some
do—going to be as big as his dad, you could see. A real nice boy,
he was, not like his Ma at all. . . .Well, I'm sure I don't know why
she'd be buying a doll, unless it was for some of their fambly back
east, might be she had a niece or something.

But for goodness' sake, Lieutenant, won't you tell me
what this is all about—what's she done?—or is it him? I mean'

"I don't know that either of them's done
anything. It's a matter of getting evidence, that's all, not very
important." He was standing up.

"Oh. I must say, I can't help being curious—two
of you coming, same day, ask about them! You can't blame me for that,
couldn't you just—"

"So Mr. Morgan was asking about the Lindstroms
too?" He looked thoughtful, and then smiled and began to thank
her. She saw she wouldn't get any more out of him, but that didn't
stop her from speculating. The Lindstroms, of all people!

Mrs. Cotter watched him
down the walk to his car, heaved an excited sigh after him, and
hurried upstairs to tell Mrs. Spinner all about it.

* * *

The clock over the row of phone booths, in the first
drugstore he came to, said ten past twelve. Mendoza spent an annoying
five minutes looking up the number in a tattered book, finally got
the office, and just caught Gunn on his way out to lunch.

"Oh, Luis—how's the boy?—good to hear from
you. Say, I'm afraid Andrews' idea didn't pay off, you know, about
that hood New York wants for jumping parole. It was a long chance,
find him through the wife, and of course it may be she's collecting
from some other county agency. If he wants— What's that? Sure
thing, anything I can tell you. . . .Morgan, well, he's probably
having lunch somewhere right now."

"It's one of his cases, that's all. And all I
want from you is the present address. The name is Mrs. Marion
Lindstrom. Apparently she's only recently applied for relief."

"If we're working on it, that's so, within a few
months anyway—it'll be right here in the current file, hang on and
I'll look."

Mendoza opened the door for air while he waited. He
was rapidly developing a guilty conscience: wasting time over this
meaningless thing. He didn't get paid or shouldn't—for listening to
inconsequential gossip. A dozen things he should have been doing this
morning besides"—Graham Court," said Gunn's voice in his
ear.

"Oh? Any idea approximately where that is?"

"Somewhere down the wrong side of Main, that
area—below First or Second. We've got'

"
¡No
puede ser!
" said Mendoza very softly to
himself. "It can't be, not so easy, I don't believe it. . .
.When Morgan comes in, tell him to wait, I want to see him. Call me
at my office
immediatamente
—or
even quicker! I want everything you've got on these people. Let me
have that address again."

* * *

It was Gunn, of course, and not Hackett, who said all
the things Hackett might say later; before outsiders, like this,
Hackett paid lip service to rank. Gunn had once been Mendoza's
superior; he spoke up. By the same token, of course, Mendoza wouldn't
have talked so freely if Gunn hadn't been a retired Homicide man.

"You've got your wires crossed, Luis. What
you've got here is just damn-all, it doesn't mean a thing. First off,
how many people d'you suppose moved out of that section of town last
September? There's no narrowing it down to a couple of blocks, you
have to take in at least a square mile—call it even half a mile—at
a guess, seven-eight thousand families, because you're taking in
apartments, not just single houses. In that kind of neighborhood
people aren't settled, they move around more. And—"

"I know, I know," said Mendoza. "And
that's the least of all the arguments against this meaning anything
at all. But say it—it's not even very significant that the move
should be from the twenty-four-hundred block on Tappan to within two
blocks of Commerce and Humboldt, because those are the same sort of
neighborhoods, same rent levels, same class and color of people. All
right. Evidence—!" He hunched his shoulders angrily, turning
from staring at the view out Gunn's office window. "Say it. Even
if it is the same killer, no guarantee he lived anywhere near either
of the girls. So all this is
cuentos de hadas
,
just fairy tales."

Hackett made a small doleful sound at his cigarette.
"I guess you're saying it for yourself, Lieutenant."

"You've got no evidence," Gunn said flatly.
"You'd just like to think so, which isn't like you, Luis. What
the hell have you got?"

"I've got two dead girls," said Mendoza,
abrupt and harsh. "And they don't matter one damn, you know. The
kind of murders that happen in any big town, this week, next week,
next year. No glamour, no excitement, no big names. Nothing to go in
the books, the clever whimsy on Classic Cases or the clever fiction,
ten wisecracks guaranteed to the page, a surprise ending to every
chapter, where fifteen people had fifteen motives for the murder and
fifteen faked alibis for the crucial minute, conveniently fixed by a
prearranged long-distance phone call. They weren't very important or
interesting females, these two, and anybody at all might have killed
them. You know," he swung on Gunn, "this kind of thing, it
doesn't go like the books, the clues laid out neat like a paper trail
in a game! You start where you can and you take a look everywhere, at
everything—
¿Qué más?—
I
then you start all over again."

"I know," said Gunn heavily. "What I'm
saying is, you've got nothing at all to link these two cases. The
doll, that's really out of bounds, boy, that one I don't figure any
way. The odds are that somebody found the girl, didn't report it, but
picked up the package—"