talisman or something?"
"Could be. I don't know. I don't know anything
about anything," said Mendoza, regarding his coffee gloomily.
"And there's another funny little thing tied up to it that—
Maybe I'm getting old, Art. Losing my grip— "
"All come out in the wash," said Hackett.
"The trouble with you is, you've got what they call a tortuous
mind. You build up little picayune things to worry about, that don't
mean a damn. Like this Domokous thing. It's un
callejón sin salida , boy— a dead-end
street. Higgins checked in on Skyros just after you left. If he's
playing games with the exotic brunette, they haven't even got to Post
Office yet. He goes from home to office and vice versa, and that's
all. The brunette— I borrowed one of Galeano's men to check on her—
is staying at the Beverly-Hilton. She's one Madame Rafael Bouvardier,
of Paris, and she's apparently loaded. Has her own maid with her, and
a suite. No expense spared."
"That was the picture," agreed Mendoza.
“What's her first name and what's she doing here?"
"How should I know? She hasn't confided in the
hotel people. Just a pleasure trip, probably. Though why pick L.A. in
this season, God knows. She's been here about three weeks. Don't tell
me you want her tailed too. We just haven't got a man free."
"But I can think of unpleasanter jobs,"
said Mendoza. "I might even take it on myself— keep my hand
in, so to speak."
" ¡No hay más ,
that's all, brother!" said Hackett. "Since when do you need
practice chasing skirts? Just an excuse to take the afternoon off!"
NINE
Mendoza had said, no hunch; and he didn't have that
unreasonably sure conviction that this or that was so. It was more on
the order of that uneasy doubt as to whether one had left the gas
turned on or the faucet running.
He had the further guilty feeling that he was wasting
time, but he drove out to the Bever1y-Hilton, and was waiting his
turn at the desk clerk to frame some discreet questions about Madame
Bouvardier, when he saw her descending the nearest stair into the
lobby. No expense spared, that you could say again, he reflected:
very Parisian, very exotic— again the wide lace-brimmed hat,
another black-and-white printed silk gown, what at least looked like
diamonds, long gloves, fragile high heels.
And well met: so, wasting time, but might as well be
hanged for a sheep as a lamb. He abandoned the line at the desk and
strolled after her, with a vague idea of picking her up somehow, all
very gentlemanly and polite, and getting confidential over a drink—
as confidential as she could be persuaded, and at that he flattered
himself he was far more accomplished than any of his sergeants.
But she didn't establish herself conveniently in the
lobby, the adjacent lounge, or the bar; she walked purposefully out
the main door, and Mendoza drifted up in time to hear her ask the
doorman for Madame Bouvardier's car.
"Yes, madame, the chauffeur's just gone out,
he'll be here directly, madame."
Hell, thought Mendoza, and turned back for the side
door and sprinted for the Facel-Vega in the middle of the lot.
Hired car and driver, the chauffeur calling from the lobby to
announce arrival— he wouldn't be sixty seconds picking her up. He
thrust coins at the attendant and switched on the engine almost in
one motion.
But he was just in time, taking the wide curve out to
Wilshire, to catch a glimpse of the lace hat through the rear window
of a stately black middle-aged Chrysler. He was held up a couple of
cars behind, but the Chrysler wasn't hard to keep in view along here;
it went straight up Wilshire at a steady pace, heading back for
Hollywood. Before they got into town, Mendoza managed to pass the
cars ahead and fall in directly behind it.
A couple of blocks this side of La Brea, the Chrysler
turned left and went round the block, and Mendoza dropped back a
little, guessing at a stop. Middle of the block, and the chauffeur'd
gone round to drop her on the right side; he hopped out
"Could be. I don't know. I don't know anything
about anything," said Mendoza, regarding his coffee gloomily.
"And there's another funny little thing tied up to it that—
Maybe I'm getting old, Art. Losing my grip— "
"All come out in the wash," said Hackett.
"The trouble with you is, you've got what they call a tortuous
mind. You build up little picayune things to worry about, that don't
mean a damn. Like this Domokous thing. It's un
callejón sin salida , boy— a dead-end
street. Higgins checked in on Skyros just after you left. If he's
playing games with the exotic brunette, they haven't even got to Post
Office yet. He goes from home to office and vice versa, and that's
all. The brunette— I borrowed one of Galeano's men to check on her—
is staying at the Beverly-Hilton. She's one Madame Rafael Bouvardier,
of Paris, and she's apparently loaded. Has her own maid with her, and
a suite. No expense spared."
"That was the picture," agreed Mendoza.
“What's her first name and what's she doing here?"
"How should I know? She hasn't confided in the
hotel people. Just a pleasure trip, probably. Though why pick L.A. in
this season, God knows. She's been here about three weeks. Don't tell
me you want her tailed too. We just haven't got a man free."
"But I can think of unpleasanter jobs,"
said Mendoza. "I might even take it on myself— keep my hand
in, so to speak."
" ¡No hay más ,
that's all, brother!" said Hackett. "Since when do you need
practice chasing skirts? Just an excuse to take the afternoon off!"
NINE
Mendoza had said, no hunch; and he didn't have that
unreasonably sure conviction that this or that was so. It was more on
the order of that uneasy doubt as to whether one had left the gas
turned on or the faucet running.
He had the further guilty feeling that he was wasting
time, but he drove out to the Bever1y-Hilton, and was waiting his
turn at the desk clerk to frame some discreet questions about Madame
Bouvardier, when he saw her descending the nearest stair into the
lobby. No expense spared, that you could say again, he reflected:
very Parisian, very exotic— again the wide lace-brimmed hat,
another black-and-white printed silk gown, what at least looked like
diamonds, long gloves, fragile high heels.
And well met: so, wasting time, but might as well be
hanged for a sheep as a lamb. He abandoned the line at the desk and
strolled after her, with a vague idea of picking her up somehow, all
very gentlemanly and polite, and getting confidential over a drink—
as confidential as she could be persuaded, and at that he flattered
himself he was far more accomplished than any of his sergeants.
But she didn't establish herself conveniently in the
lobby, the adjacent lounge, or the bar; she walked purposefully out
the main door, and Mendoza drifted up in time to hear her ask the
doorman for Madame Bouvardier's car.
"Yes, madame, the chauffeur's just gone out,
he'll be here directly, madame."
Hell, thought Mendoza, and turned back for the side
door and sprinted for the Facel-Vega in the middle of the lot.
Hired car and driver, the chauffeur calling from the lobby to
announce arrival— he wouldn't be sixty seconds picking her up. He
thrust coins at the attendant and switched on the engine almost in
one motion.
But he was just in time, taking the wide curve out to
Wilshire, to catch a glimpse of the lace hat through the rear window
of a stately black middle-aged Chrysler. He was held up a couple of
cars behind, but the Chrysler wasn't hard to keep in view along here;
it went straight up Wilshire at a steady pace, heading back for
Hollywood. Before they got into town, Mendoza managed to pass the
cars ahead and fall in directly behind it.
A couple of blocks this side of La Brea, the Chrysler
turned left and went round the block, and Mendoza dropped back a
little, guessing at a stop. Middle of the block, and the chauffeur'd
gone round to drop her on the right side; he hopped out
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