"I'm not just a hundred percent sure myself yet,” said Mendoza. They left Mr. Stuart brooding over the possibility of occupying the witness stand, and Laidlaw gazing serenely at the office ceiling.
In the car, before he switched on lights or ignition, Mendoza suddenly pulled Alison into his arms and spent several minutes kissing her thoroughly. "Well, and what prompted that?" she asked breathlessly. "You always say a car, of all places-"
"Just general exuberance. I got so much more than I expected, and I think there's more to come yet."
"I see. You seemed to know what those two had been talking about-was it criminal slang? And is a translation fit for my ladylike ears?"
Mendoza laughed. "Yes to both questions. Twelvetrees said to this Whalen that he didn't think Whalen's boss would like hearing that Whalen had done a five-to-fifteen stretch-that's a taxi-back in Pennsylvania. To which Whalen retorted that maybe Twelvetrees wouldn't like it known he'd done one year-that's a sleep-for enticing minors to enter houses of prostitution-that's what a cadet does. And later on Twelvetrees told him not to be such an old grouch, that's a ringtail. But one of the interesting things is that last reported remark of Whalen's, when he said Twelvetrees had better take it easy unless he was looking for a South Gate discharge. That's what the cons call it when a man dies, in or out of jail."
"Oh, I see. So maybe this Whalen is the one."
"Maybe, maybe. No, it doesn't surprise me that Twelvetrees had done time-not much, and he wasn't deep in yet-it's on the cards he was smart enough, after one experience, to intend staying inside the law, in one of the rackets that isn't illegal. But a man's past has a way of catching him up sometimes… " He let that trail off, and Alison, knowing his silences, forbore to interrupt his thoughts.
It was two in the morning when he eased the Facel-Vega into the curb just past the entrance to the Voodoo Club's parking lot. The lot was emptying rapidly, the last customer just chased out. He locked the car and walked up through the lot to the narrow space directly behind li the buildings which would be reserved for employees' parking.
There were eight cars nosed in there. He peered in the drivers' windows, one by one, with his pencil flash; the fifth one down, a six-year-old Ford two-door, had its registration card wrapped around the steering post, old style, and the name on it was John S. Laidlaw. Mendoza leaned on the fender and lit a cigarette.
He had smoked that and another one-retreating to cover half a dozen times as men came out to their cars-before the rear door, thirty feet away, opened to silhouette briefly a big broad figure he thought was his quarry. The man came down toward the Ford jingling his keys and whistling The St. Louis Blues under his breath.
Mendoza had no desire for any violent exercise, and when the man was ten feet off he stepped out of the shadow of the car to show himself. Laidlaw checked for one moment and then laughed very softly.
"You had me scared there a minute, Lieutenant, thinking I'd slipped up on something," he said just above a whisper. "So I didn't put it across you."
"For a few minutes," said Mendoza. "Who belongs to the Buick?" It was the only other car left in the lot.
"Stuart. He won't be out for a while, he's working on the books."
" Muy bien, then we can talk here." They got into the car; in the little flare of the match Laidlaw lit for their cigarettes they looked at each other. "Fox knows fox," said Mendoza dryly. "Though you put up a nice front. But aren't you getting on a bit for a medical student?"
"Yes, that one won't do much longer. Just second cover anyway."
"I liked the artistic way this nice honest well-brought-up young fellow puzzled over that talk and finally made it out pro slang. It was about then I pinned you down in my own mind-if we stick to the slang-as a gazer, no es verdad? I suppose you figured to do me a good turn-having spotted me-by handing it to me on a platter. Many thanks."
"Tell you the truth, I'd be just as happy not to have you city boys sniffing around here too long or too close, which was the main reason. And I've got no credentials on me, on this job."
"Never mind. I've had enough to do with you Feds that I know lamb from wolf. What is it, dope or illegal liquor?"
"Some of both. I've been sitting on it for a year waiting for the real big boy-this is a drop, and a good safe one. We've left it that way."
"Whalen in it?"
"As a very minor errand boy. He did that stretch for armed robbery with violence-that's his style-a small timer."
"Well, your business doesn't come into mine, I don't think, so I won't ask you any questions about that-"
"Which is just as well," said Laidlaw imperturbably, "because I wouldn't answer them."
"Naturally. The customer who was getting his tabs picked up by Whalen is now dead, and I am, you can appreciate, interested in the fact that Whalen threatened him with a South Gate discharge."
"Is that a fact?" said Laidlaw. "Interesting. I see that. Now I'll open up enough to say this, Lieutenant. Obviously the customer didn't know what was going on here-in the way of my business-or that Whalen was in it, or he wouldn't have thought telling the tale about Whalen's past could get him fired. But it could have, indeed. Without giving you details, the owner is innocent as day, and so is Stuart. It's quite possible that Whalen was afraid his real bosses wouldn't like it much that someone knew about him, and also there's this aspect: he had a pretty good job a little higher in the organization than he'd been before, and that was largely due to his ostensible job as manager here. He wanted to protect that. It annoyed the boys operating the drop, just a little when he got fired. They've sized up Stuart since, and prudently refrained from sounding him out."
"Yes, I saw some of that-if Whalen's nominal boss wouldn't have cared, Whalen would never have picked up those tabs. Nice genteel way to blackmail somebody, wasn't it? No vulgar cash changing hands."
"So it was," agreed Laidlaw. "You understand that we weren't more than casually interested in Whalen as one of the boys, there wasn't any reason to follow up his private troubles with this fellow, as it was pretty clear that one was outside this particular racket. So you probably know more about your corpse than I do."
"Not as much as I'd like. What I came back for principally was to ask if you know where Whalen is."
"Sure I know where he is," said Laidlaw. "I read in the papers the other day, Lieutenant, that you L.A. boys got a pat on the back from some Washington office for being tops among the ten most efficient city forces in the country-but outside that category, we sort of fancy ourselves as pretty hot, you know. We're not much interested in Andy Whalen, but we looked to see where he went. He's driving a truck for Orange State Trucking, on the San Diego-L.A. run, and he lives in room number 312 at the Chester Hotel on Fourth."
"Thanks very much. Would it discommode you at all if I took him in for questioning?"
"I don't think so," said Laidlaw. "His bosses don't rate him any bigger-time than we do."
"What about the trucking outfit? Can I take it he's still on the payroll of the gang in another capacity?"
"Well, now, I don't think we'll go into that, if you don't mind. I'll just say, it's possible."
"You boys with your secrets," said Mendoza. "Well, I may and I may not, right away. All that rigmarole-your quotes from the cashier-gospel truth?"
"And nothing but."
"Mmh. Yes, a couple of little things that occur to me aside from Whalen. But I want to look at him closer, of course. Thanks very much, Laidlaw, and good luck on your business."