Felony File (30 page)

"
She called you," said Mendoza.

"
That's right. She didn't sound young, but hell,
neither am I. The years catch up. They slide by, and all of a sudden
.... Well, I met her for a drink. We looked each other over. And—"

"You thought she'd do?" said Mendoza.

Clifford smiled slightly. "No, sir. I felt
damned sorry for her. You see, she'd never had anything else. Than
just the sex." He was silent; he got out a pack of cigarettes,
lighted one, and said to it, "There was a girl in London in
nineteen fifty-three, a special thing and we'd be together
forever—only she got herself killed by a damn stupid drunk driver.
I felt sorry for the woman. And don't tell me I just obliged her. I
liked her too."

"
All right, we'll take that as understood and go
on to specifics. That Friday. November the sixth," said Mendoza.
"She called you about eight o'clock."

Clifford raised his eyebrows. "You've been doing
some detective work. That's right. We'd always used my place—I told
you I never knew her full name, where she lived. She said she was
coming over, and hung up before I could tell her not to. You see, my
sister and brother-in-law were staying with me, they'd flown out from
Chicago three days before, they'd be there for a week or so. They
just left last Saturday. And they had my car. I hadn't felt like
going sightseeing with them that day. I expected them back any time,
nine, ten o'clock.

"
Well, she came, and she was annoyed when I told
her that, that she couldn't stay. I said, come on, we'll go out and
have a drink anyway, and we went to a place down on Beverly. It was
raining like hell."

"
She had two daiquiris," said Mendoza.

"
That's right. She was restless and she was
annoyed with me. Hell, I hadn't wanted to come out at all, and I was
annoyed with her. I was driving. When we got back in the car I went
down Beverly looking for some dark side street and I ended up on
Lafayette. I said 0.K. if she was so hot, I took hold of her maybe a
little rough—and she was insulted, she wasn't going to do it in the
car like a slut, and there we were in all the God-damned rain and I'd
rather the hell be home where it's warm, waiting for Allie and Chuck
to come in—I swear I didn't know I was going to do it, I just
backhanded her one and revved the motor at the same time, and she was
thrown against the dash—" He passed a hand over his mouth.

"Oh, yes, I see," said Mendoza.

"She fell off the seat. I—she was limp. I put
the brake on, I— Well I never meant anything like that," said
Clifford. "And just then there was a police car passed six feet
away from the Buick, and I was sitting there shaking, half off the
seat where I'd been feeling for her pulse—and I was thinking of
Allie and Chuck coming back and wondering where the hell I was, out
in the rain—and cops asking how I happened to be with her when I
didn't even know her name, and everybody she knew saying I was a
liar, she'd never be up to anything like that.

"
I don't excuse myself. It was maybe a damn
cowardly thing to do. But she was out of it, she wouldn't feel
anything. I just got her out of the car quick and drove off. It was
ten minutes to ten. I was damned sorry about the rain—hell of a
place to leave her—"

"
But it stopped."

"
Yes, by the time I got back to Hollywood it had
stopped. I thought if I left the car in the hospital parking lot it'd
be found sooner or later."

"
Sooner or later—how right you were,"
said Mendoza darkly.

"I walked home. Allie and Chuck had just got in,
wondered where I was. I said I'd just gone up to the drugstore for
cigarettes." Clifford sat back and reached for another
cigarette.

"
That's very much the kind of story I expected
to hear," said Mendoza.

"Which means you don't believe it."

"
Luis—" said Hackett.

"
Now, Art, you should trust my instinct for
human nature. It's not an edifying story but it's an understandable
one, Mr. Clifford. It's the kind of thing I had a strong hunch was
what really happened?

"
God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," said Clifford
heavily.

"
That poor damned woman. It was all she
understood. The surface. You know?" And after a silence he
asked, "So where do we go from here?"

"
I think, to a simple
charge of involuntary manslaughter, and probably probation,"
said Mendoza. "You can't even say she invited trouble. She was
so cautious up to a point. But the accidents will happen."

* * *

They still hadn't picked up Doug Carpenter, but they
would sometime. It would be a moot point whether the D.A.'s office
decided to charge Myra Amberson along with him.

There were three heists still making legwork, and
there would probably be others coming along. But for the moment
Mendoza's mind was at rest; the really annoying little puzzles were
cleared up—until the next one happened.

And tomorrow was also a day.

He went home, to El Señor demanding his share of
rye, and Bast, Nefertite and Sheba circling under the dining-room
table demanding samples because it was fish, and Cedric coming in
proudly in the middle of dinner with a very dead bird.

"
Och, the creature—such a household this is—"
Mairi pursued him armed with a broom and dustpan.

Alison had been having discussions with the movers,
and everything, she said, was settled. "December tenth. Anything
we haven't sorted out by then will just have to come along, and we'll
sort it at the other end. That's a very useful word of Mairi's,
sorting things, it can mean such a variety of—"

The phone rang, and Mendoza went down the hall to
answer it. Dr. Robert Douthit the vet was on the other end. He said,
"Just a little favor, Mendoza. A friend of mine writes the
veterinary column for the biggest national cat magazine—you know
the one. The chief editor wants to do a one-page feature on your
rescuing that cat from the fire—that was quite a thing—and he
couldn't get through to you on long distance the other day. Knowing
this friend of mine had contacts here, he asked— Now look, Mendoza,
I know you don't go for the publicity, but it's a specialty
magazine—not too many people would see it. They can buy a copy of
the
Times
photo—all
they want is a shot of you and the cat in its new home. A sort of
before and after piece, you see. We've got it all set up with the new
owner, she's been very cooperative. It's entirely at your
convenience, whenever you're free in the next day or so. Look, it
won't take half an hour of your time—"

"
Oh, hell and damnation," said Mendoza,
"this is blackmail."

"Not at all." Dr. Douthit chuckled. He had
looked after the Mendoza animals for years, and unwillingly Mendoza
capitulated.

Knowing cats, he wasn't surprised at the outcome. He
showed up at the house on Portia Street on Wednesday morning; Douthit
was there with a local photographer who set up his outfit and got
everything arranged; he posed Mendoza against Mrs. Meeker's
living-room drapes, focused and set his lens, and said, "All
right, now let's get the cat."

Mrs. Meeker succeeded finally in coaxing Merlin down
from the refrigerator top (also a favorite brooding place for El
Señor, Mendoza reflected). "Come, pussin, nice pussin, we want
to take your picture with the nice man who saved your life-"

He should have known what would happen. Merlin was
placed in his arms tenderly, and at the exact moment the photographer
snapped the shutter, he spat in Mendoza's face, drove his hind legs
into Mendoza's chest, and departed rapidly from the scene.