The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon (4 page)

"That's right. The laborer worthy of his hire,
you know," said Mendoza, beaming at him. "So you do
positively identify the body as that of Stevan Domokous. We're very
glad to know who he is. Have you any more information about him we
ought to know?"

"I am afraid I have, gentlemen. A terrible
thing. I know the law says those who take drugs, dope you say, are
guilty of offense too, but so many of them,"— he spread fat
hands— "only victims of those who sell! Domokous, as I have
said to Mr.— Lieutenant?— Carey, he's been in this country only
less than a year. I don't think any family back home, all dead in the
wars maybe, you know?— and he's lonely. Me, I know him only, let's
see, three months— it was the last June he comes to work for me.
He's been in New York, but somebody tells him— he says to me—
that California, it's like Greece a little, down south, the climate
you know, and vineyards— olive trees, isn't it? He thinks he likes
it better. But he's a very shy, what's a good word, diffident young
man— he doesn't make friends easy— and for the girls, oh, God
help us!— a pretty girl looks at him, he runs!" Skyros rumbled
a laugh.

"You surprise me," said Mendoza. "A
handsome young fellow like that?"

"Oh, well, people, queer. Another one without
his looks, the girls crazy for him because he's got the charm.
Domokous, maybe he never knew he was good-looking, isn't it, and it
don't mean so much without the, as we say, personality."

"How true," said Mendoza. "That's very
well put. He was lonely. No hobbies, not many acquaintances? '

"Like I say. Of course, I don't know him except
as one of the fellows works for me— he helps unpack things
sometimes, keeps the record books in the stockroom— but you
gentlemen know, you make a success in business, you got to keep a
personal eye on it, isn't it? So I'm out there in back, coming and
going, I see the fellows there, talk to them, try to be a little
friendly— you know. So I know Domokous like that. And yes, he's
lonely. Don't know what to do with himself out of working hours, he
tells me. And I must tell you, gentlemen, I've been suspicious maybe
he's been up to something like this, the last month it is. At first I
think he's maybe drinking a little too much, he's not so quick at his
work and so on, a couple times I'm there I see him— you know—
stumble against things, like he's as we say tight. But now it seems
it was this dope. Now I know, I say to Lieutenant Carey, he's not the
kind go off getting drunk somewhere, that's why I wonder when he goes
off sudden, like this, say nothing about quitting. But a little
difference, you see— way he's been, that I see, it's not that he's
bad drunk, to fall down— just unsteady, you know?— like he's
drinking a little all the time. I've read in the papers, isn't it,
how these men selling this dope, they act friendly, talk you into
trying it once only, to make more customers? Gentlemen, I see it
could happen so with Domokous— anybody acted friendly with him—
you know? He'd want to keep new friends."

"I see," said Mendoza interestedly. "Yes,
that's very plausible. Tell me, Mr. Skyros, did you ever— mmh—
remonstrate with him, over not doing his work properly— ask him
about the reason? Did he ever say anything to you about such a
hypothetical new friend?"

"That's what I come to," said Skyros,
leaning forward earnestly.

"And I don't know does it help you at all,
gentlemen. But these terrible men, this terrible business— and so
many unhappy young people they get, I read, like Domokous— anything
we can do to help, we must. Yes, I have spoken to Domokous, I ask if
he's maybe taking a little too much wine, and he says— now I see,
he knew better than to confess the truth— he says maybe so, he's
got acquainted with a couple of nice jolly fellows who like to drink
more than he's used, and just to be friendly, you know, he goes
along. But he says he knows it isn't good, and don't mean to go on.
He says, like to himself, you know, 'I just tell Bratty, I can't
afford it no ways!' "

"Bratty," said Mendoza. "When was
this, Mr. Skyros?"

"I got to think. It'd be about three weeks
back."

"Ah. Now, of course, when there's no family to
claim the body, the city'll take care of the burial— but perhaps
you'd like to arrange for a little something extra? The morgue
authorities— "

"I been thinking," said Skyros, nodding.
"It's a sad thing. And a long while since I come from the old
country, but he came from there too— young man, try to do better
for himself— ambitious. Sad to end so. If it's O.K. with the law,
gentlemen, I claim the body and see there's a little kind of service,
nice and respectful, you know."

"That's very good of you, sir," said
Lieutenant Carey.

"Well, we got to be charitable sometimes. Thank
you very much, gentlemen, and I hope I help you a little."

Carey got up on Skyros' departure. "Well, I
guess that's that. My part of the job cleared up anyway, and I
suppose you'll be turning this over to Callaghan in Narcotics?

Mendoza leaned back and shut his eyes, and Hackett
looked at him in wary exasperation as Carey went out. "Whenever
you're that genial and polished, I suspect you. If that amiable Greek
knew you better he'd suspect you too, like hell. What didn't you like
about him?"

"
Un cuestión insensato
.
He tells us Domokous had been wearing a monkey on his shoulder for
some time. We know— or are pretty sure— he hadn't."

"We don't know he hadn't been drinking. The kind
that ends up on foolish powder is the kind ripe for other sorts of
what the head-doctors call escape methods too. Liquor as well as
other dope. Nine times out of ten they've tried 'em all before they
get to the bottom."

"
Es verdad
.
Granted."

"Well? What's in your mind?"

"I wonder," said Mendoza dreamily, "how
much Mr. Skyros will report on his income tax that this charitable
funeral cost him— and how much he'll actually lay out .... Go and
brief somebody to pick him up, will you— home or office— we'll
run a tail on him awhile."

"And why, for God's sake?"

"¡
Y0 he hablado
—
I have spoken!"

"O.K., O.K.," said Hackett, and went to
dispatch the tail.

When he came back Mendoza said, "You've
forgotten the nymph and the dolphin. Sure, look at it once, it might
be just the run-of-the-mill thing. Domokous inveigled into trying a
jolt just for kicks, he gives himself too big a one— after being so
nervous about it he makes a couple of dozen tries at getting the
needle in— and passes out. The dirty hypo, obviously used— maybe
the pusher sold that to him too. But look at it twice. How does that
kind of thing usually go? You don't need to be told, the pusher
either superintends the Erst jolt, to see the mark gets just the
right kick to make him want another, or he hands out precise
instructions. Even if it was his first shot, Domokous ought to have
known better than to give himself such a dose. And he had a room. He
must have known a little something about the effect to expect— that
he'd probably be incapable for a while— and he wouldn't want to get
picked up on the street full of heroin. Why go down that alley, like
any vagrant drifter, instead of home? A mainliner, sure— you get
that— when they've just bought a deck, they can't wait for a
pick-up, they'll hit the nearest semi-private spot. But apparently it
was his first experiment. Much more natural for him to have secluded
himself in his hotel room."

"Why do you suppose he didn't?"

"I don't know, but it could be because he never
intended to experiment with heroin at all. And because even a cheap
hotel on Second Street is an awkward place to smuggle a body into."
Mendoza took up the phone again and asked for Lieutenant Callaghan in
Narcotics ....

"Patrick,
mi amigo bueno
,
does the name Bratty ring any bells in your head?"

"Bratti," said Callaghan. "Mr.
Giuseppi Bratti. It does indeed. Like a whole cathedral full of
bells, all playing tunes. And I'm committing slander to say it,
because we've got no evidence at all. You know how that goes— damn
legal red tape— you got to have a bookful of witnessed statements
to make a charge, and how the hell d'you get a user to tell all when
he knows damn well it means a charge on him too?— or another kind
of witness when he knows some loyal friend in the pusher's gang'll
see he gets beaten up but good some night? Bratti runs a stable of
pushers. Probably about a dozen. One of six or seven fairly big-time
boys— local, that is— operating wholesale hereabouts. He'll do
his own wholesale buying from some syndicate agent, but who and which
I couldn't say. Eventually we hope to be able to. Probably the same
agent who supplies other local runners. Naturally we have an eye on
Bratti, but nothing yet to take to court."

"Difficult, I know. And an eye on all the
others?"

"Those we think we've spotted. Kind of like
batting at mosquitoes, of course— you get one, there's another one
right there to carry on."

"Would you know whether Bratti has offended
anybody 1ately?"

"It's very damn likely," said Callaghan.
"He offends me every time I think about him. But I wouldn't
know, specifically .... Oh, quite the respectable merchant on the
surface— he owns three restaurants— lives in an apartment over by
Silver Lake. And now, why?"

"I couldn't say, right now. It's this new
corpse, the one full of heroin— "

"I noticed it, Hackett sent me a memo as maybe
an interested party. Bratti cropped up behind it, I hope?"

"Away out in left field. I'll let you know if
anything more definite comes up,
un millón de
gracias
. . ."

Mendoza relayed that to Hackett. "Now. Just file
this in our minds, and let's get back to the corpse. I want to see
all his possessions, but I don't suppose there's much interesting
there— "

"If you're not just making up fairy tales,"
agreed Hackett, "it'd be a lot easier to ransack a hotel room
than bring a body back to it."

"— In fact, I think the only thing of real
interest we've got is this little scrap of paper. I think it may have
been the one thing they missed, down in the bottom of his pocket—
such a little thing. Just take another look at it. Torn off the right
top corner of the page— doesn't that say a little something to us?
Stapled: you find people who work in offices, businesslike people,
writing personal letters on the typewriter and stapling the sheets
together— but at the left top corner. Since his was stapled at the
right, I'm inclined to think it was also stapled at the left, and who
does that to a letter— and a letter, or anything, of only a few
sheets? I don't think that scrap came from a letter. I think it came
from a list of some kind, a list containing a good many pages stapled
like that across the top. A nymph and a dolphin, it says. So, I'm
reaching for it maybe, but Skyros— who employed the corpse— is an
import-export dealer. And among the various items imported from
abroad these days are, as usual, a lot of bric-a-brac ornaments for
the gracious home— porcelain and alabaster and bronze figurines,
vases, and so on. The kind of thing you might reasonably expect to
find decorated with nymphs and dolphins."

"Yes, I see what you're driving at. It's a
nebulous sort of connection, but could be. How do you read it, maybe
he found out something funny about Skyros' business and got taken off
to prevent his talking? But how and why heroin?"

"I'm not reading it any way yet," said
Mendoza. "I want to know a lot more about everything first.
About Skyros, most of all. Business, private life, the works."

"And as usual I'm the office boy to do all the
finding out," said Hackett. "O.K., I'll get busy and we'll
see what turns up.
 

FOUR

Alison got home as usual about half past four that
afternoon; classes at her school were over at four, and she hadn't
any errands to do. She was feeling irritable and out of sorts—
principally the weather, she reflected, stripping off her clothes and
heading for the shower— why on earth she'd ever settled in this
climate! Scarcely from ignorance, either, after having been mostly
brought up in Mexico, which could be even worse. Doubtless from an
unconscious love of martyrdom, she told herself savagely, emerging
from the shower shuddering: and not only the climate. So, if she
hadn't settled down in L.A. and opened this damned charm school, she
wouldn't be saddled with these little morons who paid her to tell
them to take a bath occasionally and not pluck out all their eyebrows
or wear lace to a picnic. Also, of course, she wouldn't have met
Lieutenant Luis Mendoza, which might have been another good thing.

She sat at her dressing table and was annoyed at its
clutter, result of a series of mornings of hasty dressing: she tidied
it automatically, and of course that reminded her of him all over
again— Luis rearranging things all neat on the coffee table, the
desk, anywhere in reach of him, and apologizing— "My
grandmother says I'd get up off my deathbed to straighten a picture
on the wall." Way he was built: one of those tidy-minded people.
Luis. Just as well she was somewhat the same way, because, if—