Case Pending - Dell Shannon (19 page)

"You're so right," said Mendoza. "It
was dark, and her handbag was half under her, almost hidden."

"Well, there you are. They were killed the same
general way, but it's not a very unusual method—brute violence."

"That eye," said Hackett to his cigarette.

Gunn looked at him, back to Mendoza. "If it's a
real hunch, Luis, all I've got to say is, keep throwing cold water at
it—If it just naturally drowns, let it go."

"What else am I doing?" For they both knew
that it wasn't ever all pure cold logic, all on the facts: nothing
that had to do with people ever could be wholly like that. You bad a
feeling, you had a hunch, and you couldn't drop every other line to
follow it up, but a real fourteen karat hunch turned out to be worth
something—sometimes. Say it was subconscious reasoning, out of
experience and knowledge; it wasn't, always. Just a feeling.

"All right," said Hackett amiably, "cold
water. I don't like the doll much myself. I said I'd buy all that
about the guy at the skating rink, but there's nothing there to show
it's the same one. In fact, the little we have got on that one, it
suggests he admired the girl, wanted to pick her up—like that,
whether for murder or sex."
 
"So
it does," said Mendoza. "And no hint of anything like that
for Carol Brooks."

Gunn opened his mouth, shut it, looked at Hackett's
bland expression, and said, "You saw both bodies, of
course—you're a better judge of what the similarity there is
worth."

"Oh, let's be psychological," said Mendoza.
"Not even that. Art says to me before I looked at Ramirez, 'It's
another Brooks'—maybe he put it in my mind."

"Sure, lay it on me."

There was a short silence, and then Mendoza said as
if continuing argument, "Nobody's interested in this kind of
killing, no, except those of us whore paid to be interested. But it's
the kind everybody ought to take passionate interest in—the most
dangerous kind there is—just because it's without motive. Or having
the motive only of sudden, impulsive violence. The lunatic kill. So
it might happen to anybody.
Claro que sí
,
let one like that kill a dozen, twenty, leave his mark to show it's
the same killer, then he's one for the books—the Classic Case. And
don't tell me I've got no evidence these were lunatic kills. It's
negative evidence, I grant you, but there it is—we looked, you
know. Nobody above ground had any reason to murder the Brooks girl,
and she wasn't killed for what cash she had on her. The couple of
little things we've got on Ramirez, nothing to lead to murder—and
she wasn't robbed either. Not to that murder. I don't have to tell
you that brute violence of that sort, it's either very personal hate
or lunacy."

Morgan cleared his throat; he'd been waiting in
silence, a little apart, his case book out ready, if and when they
remembered him. "I don't want to butt in, you know more about
all this, but I can't help feeling you're on the wrong track here,
just for that reason. These people—well, after all—I don't
suppose you're thinking the woman did it, and a thirteen-year-old
kid—"

Again a short silence. Hackett leaned back in his
chair and said conversationally, "I picked up a
thirteen-year-old kid a couple of months ago who'd shot his mother in
the back while she was watching T.V. She'd told him he couldn't go to
the movies that night. You remember that Breckfield business last
year?—three kids, the oldest one thirteen, tied up two little girls
and set fire to them. One died, the other's still in the hospital. I
could take you places in this town where a lot of thirteen-year-old
kids carry switch-knives and pug off organized gang raids on each
other—and the neighborhood stores. And some of 'em aren't little
innocents, any other way, either. Juvenile had a couple in last
week—and not the first—with secondary stage V.D., and both on
heroin."

Morgan said helplessly, "But—this kid—he Is
not like that! He's just a kid, like any kid that age. You can tell,
you know."

"Something was said," cut in Mendoza,
"about his size, that he'd started to get his growth early. How
big is he?—how strong?"

"Almost as tall as I am—five-eight-and-a-half,
around there. Still childish-looking, in the face. But he's going to
be a big man, he's built that way—big bone structure."

"Weight?"

"Hell, I can't guess about all this," said
Morgan angrily. "As far as I can see you've got no reason at all
to suspect the Lindstroms of anything. I don't know what's in your
mind about this boy—you talk about lunatics and juvenile hoods, so
O.K., which is he? You can't have it both ways. The whole thing's
crazy."

Mendoza came a few steps toward him, stood there
hands in pockets looking down at him, a little cold, a little
annoyed. "I've got nothing in my mind about him right now. I
don't know. This is the hell of a low card, but I've got the hell of
a bad hand and it's the best play I've got at the moment. Carol
Brooks was killed on September twenty-first, and these people left
that neighborhood—unexpectedly, and in a hurry—within twenty-four
hours. The woman was working at night, so the boy was free to come
and go as he pleased. Shortly before Brooks was killed, the woman
showed interest in an article Brooks was buying on time, and it now
appears that the girl had this with her before she was killed and it
subsequently disappeared. I'm no psychiatrist and I don't know how
much what any psychiatrist'd say might be worth, here—the boy just
into adolescence, probably suffering some shock when his father
abandoned them. Let that go. But he's big enough and strong enough to
have done—the damage that was done. If. And I may take a jaundiced
view of the psychological doubletalk, the fact remains that sex can
play some funny tricks with young adolescents sometimes. All right.
These people are now living in the neighborhood where Elena Ramirez
was killed. I don't say they had anything to do with either death, or
even the theft. I'd just like to know a little more about them."

Morgan shrugged and flipped open his notebook.
"You're welcome to what I've got. Mrs. Lindstrom applied for
county relief six weeks ago, and was interviewed by a case worker
from that agency. She says her husband deserted her and the boy last
August, she has no idea where he is now, hasn't heard from him since.
She took a job between then and a week or so before she applied, says
she can't go on working on account of her health. She was referred to
a clinic, and there's a medical report here—various troubles adding
up to slight malnutrition and a general run-down condition. Approved
for county relief, and the case shoved on to us to see if we can find
Lindstrom, make him contribute support. He's a carpenter, good
record, age forty-four, description—and so on and so on—they both
came from a place called Fayetteville in Minnesota, so she said,"
and he glanced at Gunn.

"Yes," said Gunn thoughtfully, "and
what does that mean, either? Sometimes these husbands head for home
and mother, we usually query the home town first—and I have here a
reply from the vital records office in Fayetteville saying that no
such family has ever resided there."

"You don't tell me," said Mendoza.

"This I'll tell you," said Morgan, "because
we run into it a lot. Some of these women are ashamed to have the
folks at home know about it, and they don't realize we're going to
check on it—the same with former addresses here, and she gave me a
false one on that too, sure. It doesn't necessarily mean—"

"No. But it's another little something. What
have you got on the boy?"

"Nothing, why should I have? He exists, that's
all we have to know. He's normal, thirteen years old, name Martin
Eric Lindstrom, attends seventh grade at John C. Calhoun Junior
High."

Morgan shut the book.

"That's all? I'd like to know more about the
boy. We'll have a look round. No trace of the father yet?"

"It's early, we've only been on this a few days.
Routine inquiries out to every place in the area hiring carpenters—to
vital records and so on in other counties—and so on."

"Yes. Will you let me have a copy of all that
you've got, please—to my office. We'll keep an eye on them, see
what shows up, if anything. Thanks very much."

When the two men from Homicide had gone, Gunn said,
"Get one of the girls to type up that report, send it over by
hand."

"O.K.," said Morgan. "I suppose—"
He was half-turned to the door, not looking at Gunn. "I suppose
that means he'll have men watching that apartment."

"It's one of the basic moves. What's the matter,
Dick?"

"Nothing," said Morgan violently. "Nothing
at all. Oh, hell, it's just that— I guess Mendoza always rubs me
the wrong way, that's all. Always so damned sure of himself—and I
think he's way off the beam here."

"It doesn't look like much of anything,"
agreed Gunn. "But on the other hand, well, you never can be sure
until you check."
 

TEN

"I have the feeling," said
Mendoza-discreetly in Spanish, for the waiter who had seated them was
still within earshot—"that I'd better apologize for the meal
we're about to have."

"But why? Everything looks horribly impressive.
Including the prices. In fact, after that automatic glance at the
right-hand column," said Alison, putting down the immense menu
card, "I have the feeting I've been in the wrong business all my
life."

"I never can remember quite how it goes, about
fooling some of the people, etcetera." Mendoza glanced
thoughtfully around the main dining room of the Maison du Chat, which
was mostly magenta, underlighted, and decorated with would-be funny
murals of lascivious felines. "It's curious how many people are
ready to believe that the highest prices guarantee the best value."
The waiter came back and insinuated under their noses liquor lists
only slightly smaller than the menus. "What would you like to
drink?"

"Sherry," said Alison faintly, her eyes
wandering down the right column.

"And straight rye," he said to the waiter,
who looked shaken and took back the cards with a disappointed murmur.

"Not in character. I'd expected to find you
something of a gourmet."

"My God, I thought I'd made a better impression.
The less one thinks about one's stomach, the less trouble it's apt to
cause. And I know just enough about wine to call your attention to
those anonymous offerings you just looked at-port, muscatel, tokay,
and so on. At three dollars the half-bottle, and they'll be the
domestic product available at the nearest supermarket for what?—about
one-eighty-nine the gallon."

"They're not losing money on the imported ones
either."

"About a one hundred percent markup." He
looked around again casually, focused on something past her shoulder,
and began to smile slowly to himself. "Now isn't that
interesting . . . ."

"I couldn't agree more—I said I've always
found the subject fascinating. You're pleased about something, and it
can't be the prices."

"I just noticed an old friend. And what's more,
he noticed me. He isn't nearly so pleased about it." The waiter,
doing his best with pseudo-Gallic murmurs and deft gestures with
paper mats to invest these plebeian potions with glamour, served
them. Mendoza picked up his rye and sniffed it cautiously. "
¡Salud
y pesetas!
And if this costs them more than a
dollar a fifth wholesale, they're being cheated, which I doubt."

"Why did we come here? I gather it's new to
you too."

"We came because I'm interested in this place,
not as a restaurant—professionally. Of course I also wanted to
impress you."

"You have."

"And I'm gratified to find you see through these
spurious trappings of the merely expensive. Next time I'll take you
to a hamburger stand."

"You will not. I like an excuse to get really
dressed up occasionally." She had, after all, compromised with
his dictation: pearls, and a very modest
décolleté
,
but for the rest an oyster-silk sheath.

"I complimented you once, don't fish for more so
early," said Mendoza placidly. "And what I expected to
get by coming—besides rooked out of a little money—I don't know.
Mr. Torres-Domingo is an unexpected bonus. You see, the uncle of your
late pupil went out of his way to visit this place last night, which
seemed a little odd."

"Oh! I should think so. Who is the other
gentleman you mentioned?"

"I wouldn't say gentleman. He just barely
avoided an indictment for homicide about eighteen months ago—he was
then the proprietor of a bar on Third Avenue. Another gentleman
who later turned out to have been a small-time wholesaler of heroin
got himself shot full of holes by a third gentleman who subsequently
said that Mr.—the first gentleman—had offered him a substantial
sum of money to do the job. We didn't doubt his word—after what
showed—but unfortunately there just wasn't enough evidence. The
first gentleman retired modestly across the Mexican border, though he
is an American citizen, and it's interesting to know he's back home.
I don't want him for anything myself, but Lieutenant Patrick
Callaghan will be very interested to hear that he's now the
headwaiter at a fashionable restaurant."