His voice was expressionless, relaying that also to the Georgia Street Emergency Hospital and the General. All they needed, he thought, Hackett out of action. If Hackett- Well, don't expect the worst. He looked up the license-plate number and relayed that to Traffic. In that first ten minutes, Traffic hadn't any record to tell him about. Farrell came back and went a little white, hearing about this.
"Does anybody know where he was going tonight?"
Which was a question that would be asked again.
"It's a heavenly beach," said Alison, groping in the closet for her beach sandals. "And morning's the best time really. Aren't you going to get up today at all?"
Mendoza was sitting up in bed smoking moodily.
"What the British call coffee is no inducement. And I thought one point about taking a vacation is that you can sleep late. It's only seven-thirty." As a matter of fact he hadn't slept much. He'd lain awake worrying, coming a dozen times to the conclusion that he really couldn't ask Alison to cut the vacation short. And, damn it, they'd planned to stop off in Illinois and see the Lockharts on the way home
… "Furthermore," he added, "what's the point in my going to the beach with you? I can't swim. Am I supposed to enjoy myself watching every other male present ogling you? And if I wasn't the nice indulgent husband I am, I'd absolutely forbid you to wear that outrageous bathing suit."
"It's not a bikini, I wouldn't dare-it's a perfectly decent bathing suit," said Alison. "Well, at least get up and get dressed while I'm gone. Don't just sit there brooding."
She came up to the bed. "Luis, amado, it's senseless. I know you feel you ought to be there, hunting down the murderer. You're not the only competent officer on the force."
"I know, I know!" said Mendoza. "Don't fuss, amante. Run along for your swim."
"We can have a nice leisurely breakfast afterward," said Alison, picking up her beach robe. And that was when the knock fell on the door; she pulled the robe around her and opened the door to a smartly uniformed boy who smiled at her.
"Mendoza? Cablegram f'r you-"
"Oh," said Alison.
But Mendoza was out of bed, finding small change on the dresser top, ignoring the polite, " 'Kyou, sir." He had the yellow envelope ripped open before the door was shut.
"Luis-," said Alison, watching him. "What-"
He had gone white as death, and his mouth tightened to a grim line. He thrust the sheet at her, sat on the bed, and picked up the phone. "Travel service… When's the next plane out? I don't care where, Washington or New York, wherever I can get the quickest flight to Los if Angeles… Well, look it up, for God's sake, and make it snappy!"
"Oh, my God," said Alison. She read it twice before she took it in. Hackett attacked on critical list outlook bad hell of mess here can you fly soonest. It was signed by the captain of detectives. "Angel," said Alison. "She'll be-"
She stopped, looking at his face as he spoke impatiently into the phone. She opened the closet door, got out suitcases, began hastily to pack. Thirty-five hundred miles, she thought distractedly. Whyever did I say Bermuda? Not Art, she thought. Not Art-and Angel- "Can you get seats on it? All right. Two. Make sure of that right now, will you? Give me the desk again. Mendoza, room 284. We're checking out in an hour, I want the bill made up, please. Yes. N0. There'll be two tickets on the eight-forty plane to Washington, in my name, delivered at the desk. See they get into the right slot. I'll be down in twenty minutes." He flung off pajamas, started to dress.
"Luis-it'll be all right," she said, knowing how foolish that sounded. "Not Art-it couldn't be-"
"?Y como no? " said Mendoza hardly. "It's not the safest job there is. You get on with that-we've got an hour or so to wait. God-ought to have some breakfast, I suppose. There's a plane to New York at noon, but this one being earlier, we might get better connections, get there sooner. We'll see."
"I'll never say you aren't psychic again," said Alison.
She found she was folding clothes blindly, through a haze of tears. Not Art, Art mustn't- And Angel hadn't anybody, they had to get back.
It was the longest hour Mendoza had ever got through in his life. He ate an anonymous breakfast; they were at the airport by eight-fifteen, with twenty-five minutes to wait, but after several eternities the plane was there, and taking on passengers.
They hadn't talked much; there wasn't much to say. He sent a cable, and then they just waited. For the plane to take off, and then for the plane to land in Washington. There wasn't any use making idle speculations.
They landed in Washington a little before noon, and had all the nuisance of Customs to go through. There wasn't a flight direct west scheduled until nearly four, so they got the twelve-fifty flight to New York and landed there at one fifty-five. And then they waited some more, for the next flight scheduled to L.A., due to take off at three-ten.
"You ought to have something to eat, you didn't have any lunch," said Alison. "Coffee, anyway…"
He felt empty but not hungry; he got down a sandwich without tasting it, and a couple of cups of coffee. "At least with jet flights we can get back in a hurry. Ten years ago-"
No use in speculating. They'd know when they got there.
The three-ten flight from New York to Los Angeles was scheduled to land at International Airport at eight o'clock, but traveling east to west they gained three hours, and it was just five-thirty by L.A. time when they landed. "Can you cope with the luggage?" asked Mendoza.
"Of course, darling. Go and call right away."
He felt as tired as he'd ever felt in his life, and at the same time taut as a coiled spring. It was nearly six o'clock before they got to the taxi rank outside. Mendoza said to the cab driver, "Take all this stuff to 311 Rayo Grande Avenue in Hollywood." He passed over a bill and took the next cab in line from under the nose of an elderly dowager, thrust Alison in, and said, "White Memorial Hospital," to the driver. "Take the freeway for God's sake."
Alison held his hand tightly. "It's got to be all right," she said. "I don't mean to sound like a fool, Luis, but-whatever happened-they know so much more these days, and there's plasma, and-"
"Yes, querida. Wait and see."
It was six thirty-five when they got to the hospital. A brisk thin nurse directed them to the third floor, and a brisk fat nurse there directed them to a small waiting room at the end of a long corridor.
Angel was sitting there, dry-eyed, looking down at her clasped hands. She had dressed in haste, carelessly, and hadn't any make-up on; she looked as if she'd been sitting there, numbly, a long time. Hackett's older sister sat opposite her, and she'd been crying. Alison went to Angel at once. Mendoza went to find somebody who knew something, and ran into Scarne in the hall.
"Lieutenant-God, am I glad to see you! You must have made time back. They hadn't called in so long, I got chased up to see- They said they'd call if there was any change, but-"
"Let's find a doctor, for God's sake. What happened and when?" snapped Mendoza.
"It's a miracle he's still alive. He went down a cliff off Canyon Drive, in his car-the car's one sweet mess, you should-"
"?Vaya por Dios! How-"
"He was sent over, Lieutenant. He didn't get found until 2 AM. this morning, but then they got searchlights up there, the works, and you could see by the tracks. The car was aimed to go over-and he'd been tied up before-"
"?Dios! You've got casts of the tire marks, you've-"
Mendoza caught the arm of a white-smocked intern passing. "Doctor-"
"That one," said the intern when they'd identified themselves. "If he hadn't the constitution of an ox he wouldn't be still with us. I'm sorry, we aren't committing ourselves yet, he's still in a deep coma. There was an extensive skull fracture and internal injuries-broken pelvis, both legs, a couple of ribs, and one a bit nearer a lung than we liked… Dr. MacFarlane operated to relieve the pressure, but as I say he's still unconscious. We don't know when or whether he'll be conscious. All I can say is- Well, you can see him, but-"