The Knave of Hearts (17 page)

God, he thought. Another teaser. A little gossamer
thread-end leading into the skein, that might so easily break oil, or
just lead nowhere at all.

He got out his notebook. He said, "Now, Mrs.
Andrews, I’d like you to try hard to remember the names of the men
living here twenty months ago. And if possible, what they looked like
.... "
 

TWELVE

When he got home, he found his mind was still busy on
it, refused to be switched off. And that was bad, that was the way to
get to that exhausted state where you couldn’t think straight about
anything. He had to make a deliberate effort to shove it aside; and
then over dinner Angel reminded him of it, indirectly.

"Art—does he seem any, oh, different, or
anything, since? . . . The great Mendoza, of course .... Oh, well, I
just wondered. If he has any conscience at all, if he thought enough
of her—as a person—to miss her a little. You know .... Well, we
went shopping together today and she’s still taking it awfully
hard, I think—you know how she is, she’d die before she let
anyone— I don’t know what she sees in— But that’s a silly
thing to say, of course. You can’t pick and choose about who you
love."

"I suppose a lot of people have said the same
thing about you," agreed Hackett, and she laughed.

"Don’t fish for compliments—I’m not ready
to give you any testimonials yet! Only spoil you .... I don’t know.
I had rather thought of having a little party, and inviting them
both—he’s really quite nice, you know, there’s no reason she
shouldn’t— But she didn’t seem to think much of him."

"Who’s this, what are you talking about?"

"Oh, goodness, Art, don’t be so slow! Somebody
else for Alison, of course—somebody really nice and dependable ....
Well, it isn’t so easy to find a single man, I’ll admit to you he
isn’t exactly the average maiden’s dream, but he’s presentable,
and not at all bad-looking, and—and he means so well, and I should
think he’d be awfully kind—"

"To dogs and children and his old mother? You
ever know one that kind that stirred a single heartbeat? Who is this
Romeo?" And, damn, there it was in his mind again.

"Bruce Norwood, you must have met him—that
thing at Janet’s, wasn’t it? He’s a wholesale candy salesman—"

Hackett reflected, vaguely remembered Norwood, and
let out a sudden bellow of laughter. "My Angel! If he’s the
one I remember, good God, you expect her to take any interest in him?
A damp coddsh. With," he added, remembering more, "such
ladylike manners."

"I suppose you couldn’t be expected to
appreciate really cultivated people, associating with all these low
types—" But her mouth trembled a little and she began to
giggle. "Oh, dear, I guess he is a bit like that, but—but if
she could find someone . . ."

"Darling, maybe she doesn’t want to. You can’t
manage people’s lives for them."

"I know, I suppose not," she sighed. "But
I am so sorry for her."

"What I know of Alison Weir, she’d feel awful
annoyed at you if you said so right out.”

"I know that too," said Angel, brooding
with her chin in her hands. And Hackett, thoughtfully stirring sugar
into his coffee, reflected that there was a little something
different about Mendoza these days. He was more irritable, more
nervous. Put it down to all the worry and work on this case, the
needling from the press—but they’d had as troublesome cases
before, they’d withstood other press onslaughts, and come through,
and Mendoza hadn’t . . .

"Well, none of our business," he said. "You
women. Of course I understand what it is—you’ve got such a
paragon of a husband yourself you want every other woman to get
married too, just to compare and envy you."

"You’re getting as egotistical as your boss,"
said Angel, making a very attractive grimace at him. "The worst
of it is, this Norwood man seems to have been quite impressed with
Alison—the once he’s met her—and wouldn’t need much
encouragement. Oh, well, I suppose it isn’t any good. Just one of
those things .... Did you like the salad dressing? You didn’t say,
and it’s something different—"

"Very nice," he
said, a little somnolently, sliding a couple of fingers under his
belt. And Mendoza was sometimes wrong, but he hadn’t been about
that extra five pounds. Hackett ruminated on them somewhat uneasily,
and wondered if he could learn to do without sugar in his coffee . .
.

* * *

When he came into the office, a little late because
it was Sunday morning, Mendoza was sitting at his desk studying
yesterday’s reports. He had shaved, but his collar looked slightly
wilted and his suit was the same one he’d had on yesterday. For the
average citizen he looked well dressed; for Mendoza, rather raffish.

"
¿Well, amigo, qué hay
de nuevo
, what’s new?” asked Hackett.

"The odds are down—about even—that we can
count in Anderson. I think." Mendoza handed over Madge Parrott’s
statement, and Hackett I read it.

"Isn’t that nice," he commented
thoughtfully. "Just like all the others, nothing to say he’s
the one killed her, nothing to say who he is, and nothing to point
which direction to look for him. I’ve got a little more of the
same," and he told Mendoza about Mrs. Andrews’ roomers.

Mendoza cast his eyes to heaven and said, "
¡Por
mi vida!
People. Dear me, Sergeant, nobody
here could be your killer—they’ve all been to college and wear
neckties at work. And yes, of course, another batch of maybes to
locate and look over .... Yes, indeed .... On second thought, I
rather like your Mrs. Andrews."

"You have any bright ideas about short cuts?"

"I’m full of bright ideas," said Mendoza.
He leaned back and shut his eyes. "I’ll take half an hour to
tell you about them, and then I’m going home to have a bath and a
couple of hours’ sleep. I didn’t get any last night—"

"These motels, sometimes pretty bad."

"I believe there were some motels roundabout—I
didn’t investigate. I sat up until three this morning playing draw
with the sheriff and some of his boys, and then headed for home. I
did stop for a cat nap in the car somewhere around Riverside, but—"

"Look, friend," said Hackett. "Peace
officers are supposed to be all buddies together, and cooperate, and
so on. You want Riverside County startin’ a feud with us? How much
did you take those innocent country boys for? Of all the dirty
tricks—and on a legitimate errand you’ll claim mileage for, too!"

Mendoza opened his eyes and smiled. "But they
were so contemptuous of the city fop, Arturo—and so transparently
hopeful of taking him for a ride! Not to be resisted, I swear. The
stakes were the hell of a lot lower than I usually stoop to. And none
of them were smart gamblers, to quit when losing high—they would go
on, to get the best of me in the next deal, you know. Disastrous
logic. Only ninety-three dollars. . . And I said I left at once and
didn’t stop until I got to Riverside. And I don’t suppose I’ll
ever have occasion to visit Murrietta again."

"Let’s hope to God you don’t," said
Hackett piously, “or you might get lynched. Let’s hear the bright
ideas."

"I would like to know," said Mendoza, "what
day of the week Jane Piper was killed. Also Pauline McCandless. I’m
offering modest odds that Piper was killed on a weekend and
McCandless in the middle of the week."

"Why?"

"You see what Madge Parrott says, they had this
fellow figured for a weekender. It just suddenly occurred to me that
a few facts do point vaguely to the beach. Jane Piper was found in
Topanga Canyon. Celestine Teitel—who was last seen on a Sunday,
remember—was both killed and found on the beach. Julie Anderson
lived at the beach, was probably killed there, and was buried there."

"So what?” Hackett shrugged. "I see what
you mean, but the latest of those in time is Piper, and that’s nine
months, ten now, back. If he ever lived or week-ended there, he might
not have for most of that time."

"
De veras.
But I don’t know, a number of little things occur to me—just
nothing over what Madge said, and also—yes—the dates. The dates.
Let’s think about them consecutively a minute. We’ve just found
Julie Anderson, but she’s the earliest to be killed we know of.
Yet. Nearly twenty-eight months ago, now. Then we get Mary Ellen,
nine and a half months later—and,
de paso
,
inland, while a later one was again at the coast. Just keep that in
mind. Then a gap of only two and a half months, and Celestine Teitel.
Six months later, Piper. And another nine months later, McCandless.
Think about those women, and think about what Madge said. You know
what I come up with, Art? He’s changed a 1ittle."

Mendoza lit a cigarette and smoked it dreamily,eyes
shut. "Bear with my romantic imagination for a few minutes—let’s
build him up from the few scattered bones we have .... You know, a
lot of people who come here from somewhere inland, they like the
beach—one of the first places they go to look at, and quite often
they settle down there, or go back as often as possible.
¿De
veras?
"

"This is woolgathering," said Hackett.
"Sure, but that’s a very general observation."

"So it is. Anyway, somewhere around thirty
months ago, here’s this fellow hanging around that particular
beach—a few times, at least, whether his normal beach spot was
Malibu or Zuma or anywhere down to Playa del Rey. This fellow who was
so smitten with the pseudo-blonde Julie. Gawking at her, as Madge
says, like a yokel getting his first eyeful of burleycue. Expressive
phrase. Not dry behind the ears. 

No—mmh—address with a girl, not knowing what to
say to one. Awkward. And he didn’t need to have known other men
around there to have known Julie’s reputation, what kind of girl
she was—any man with any sophistication at all, he’d know or
guess that pretty accurately after meeting and talking with her."

"Well, maybe. It isn’t always so obvious. To
everybody—I don’t count you and your invisible radar."

"O.K. Just file that to remember. Julie wasn’t
interested in him because of that, he doesn’t seem to have got very
far with her—until, of course, he picked her up in his car—if he
did—and assaulted and killed her—if he did. But nine months later
or so, he’d acquired a little more  sophistication. Just a
little more—because I don’t think he’d have had to be an
accomplished gigolo to strike Mary Ellen Wood as ‘smooth. She was
comparing him to boys her own age, boys who use a lot of slang, make
it a point of honor never to dress up much, boys who are used to
informal manners and a little uncertain about any other kind. A
somewhat older man who, maybe, had been raised with rather
old-fashioned standards of manners—and don’t you find that in
small towns, Art?—a man who, shades of Mrs. Andrews, had the kind
of job in where he wore a suit, a white shirt, a tie—he’d impress
Mary Ellen, as a contrast to the boys she knew in slacks and sport
shirts, their loutish humor. Don’t you think? I can see that. And
then look at Celestine Teitel, so soon after. She was thirty, and she
was an educated woman but—don’t we gather?—not a very
sophisticated one. A teacher, and she was enough like Miss Evelyn
Reeder that they were friends and shared an apartment. I mark
Celestine as one of those shy, serious women, much younger than her
age when it came to anything to do with that old devil sex—you know
the kind. Maybe raised strictly. She wouldn’t be much of a judge of
male sophistication, and what she’d notice and admire in a man
would be lack of brashness, crudeness as she’d have called
it—somebody with quiet manners, polite to a lady—what was it
Edith Wood said?—
courtly
.
Somebody like the charming Mark Hamilton she met that day at that
record shop. You hear the word ‘charming,’ it conjures up visions
of sophistication, but it wouldn’t necessarily have meant that to
Celestine."

Hackett lit another cigarette. "You’re always
so good at this kind of thing, I admit. And it is Sunday morning—we
can’t be expected to work at full speed all the time."

No interrumpir
, I’m
deducing, which is hard work .... Six months later, Piper. And there
was a woman who must have been out and about a little anyway, had a
moderate degree of—sorry to overwork it, but it’s really the only
word—sophistication. True, I think some of the attraction she may
have felt for him, the reason she might have unhesitatingly gone with
him somewhere, just might have been—mmh—maternal. A university
graduate, a trained legal secretary—twenty-eight and without a man.
Permanent. Not at all bad-looking, but she had one of those
determined-looking noses, you know, and a chin. Like Sally Haines. A
little bossy in a nice way? Nevertheless, between the time Romeo
acted so inept with Julie and seventeen or eighteen months later when
he met Jane Piper, he’d taken on a little polish. Can we say, city
polish? Inevitably, from rubbing elbows with sophisticated city
people at his job, in the course of ordinary life. A little more
polish than he’d had when he came here—about three years ago—from
some inland country place."

"All of which is very nice deducing,"
nodded Hackett. "And you know as well as me that not one word of
it might be true. Say it’s our boy all the way through, count
Anderson in. O.K. Julie had knocked around some—she wasn’t used
to really nice boys with genteel manners. Maybe that one was a little
less self-confident than he’d show normally because he did know
Julie’s reputation and he’d never had anything to do with a bad
girl like that—"