in a wider sense, why Luis Mendoza was a lieutenant of detectives, and-most of the time-regarded fondly by his superiors.
There are people who enjoy solving puzzles: he was not one of them. But-probably, he told himself, because he was a great egotist, and his vanity was outraged to be confronted with something he did not know once a puzzle was presented to him he could not rest until he had ferreted out the last teasing secret. It was not often that he was faced with a complex mystery; the world would grow a great deal older before police detectives in everyday routine met with such bizarre and glamorous situations as those in fiction. Por desgracia, indeed: unfortunate: for complex problems inevitably had fewer possible solutions.
This thing now, this was the sort of puzzle (a much more difficult sort) that Mendoza, and all police detectives, met again and again: the shapeless crime that might have been done by anyone in the city-mostly impersonal crime, this sort, with destiny alone choosing the victim. The shopkeeper killed in the course of a robbery, the woman dead at the end of attack for robbery or rape, the casual mugging in an alley-nothing there of orderliness, the conveniently limited list of suspects, the tricky alibis, the complicated personal relationships to unravel: criminal and victim might never have met before. Or perhaps it might be an intimate business, a personal matter, and only all arranged to look otherwise-and if it were, so much the easier to find the truth, for one had then only a few places to look.
But so often it was the casual, shapeless thing. And there are always, in any efficient city police force, the policemen like Luis Mendoza, single-mindedly, even passion lately concerned to bring some order and reason, some ultimate shape, to the chaos. Not necessarily from any social conscientiousness-Mendoza cared little for humanity en masse, and was a complete cynic regarding the individual. Nor from any abstract love of truth or, certainly, of justice-for all too often the criminals he took for the law evaded punishment, this way or that way; and Mendoza sometimes swore and sometimes shrugged, but he did not lose any sleep over that. Being a realist, he said, Lo que no se puede remediar, se hade aguantar -what can't be cured must be endured.
Nor from ambition, to gain in rank and wages through zeal-Mendoza desired no authority over men, as he resented authority over himself, and his salary would not begin to maintain his wardrobe, or a few other personal interests. Nor even solely from earnest attention to doing one's job well.
The only reason for such men, the end goal, is the contemplation of the solved puzzle: the beautiful completeness of the last answer found. It is so with all these men, whatever kind of men they may be otherwise. Having the orderly mind, they must know where every last oddshaped small piece belongs in the puzzle, no matter if the picture comes out landscape or portrait or still life, so to speak.
Mendoza, in fact, forced to file away an unanswered question-as he had six months ago in the Brooks case- felt very much the way an overnice housewife would feel, forced to leave dinner dishes in the sink overnight. It worried him; it irritated him; and in every free moment his mind slid back to the thing left undone.
He said now absently to Hackett, ' Eso se sobre entiende, it's not so good that he's been loose for six months-one like that.' With only a few people he didn't watch his tongue, or even let it drift into the Spanish deliberately; and that (as Hackett was fully aware) was a mark of affection and trust.
'Oh, I don't know, Luis. One dame every six months, pretty damn moderate, come to think.' Hackett glanced at him sideways. 'So you think it's the same joker too.'
'That eye. It's a little psychological point, maybe-Mendoza tossed away his cigarette and paused with his hand on the shopdoor.
'Or am I being too subtle? In a fight with another man, anything goes-one of you may have an eye gouged out. But to do that to a woman, and a woman you have already made helpless-Well, what do we call insane? You and I have seen it, there are men just turns sadistic, and they're not legally insane. But I don't think this is one of those, Art. I didn't think so with Carol Brooks. Because of that eye business. And Bainbridge says to me, de paso, just what Dr. Victor says now-probably much of the damage is made after death. Only just after, but- Due para mi, it's a wild one, never mind the double-talk of the psychiatrists.
A real, hundred-percent, guaranteed genuine wild one- mucho loco .'
'Hell, I said the same thing. And you know what that means, chico -work or brains don't count in catching him. He's got no sane reason for picking this girl or that. It'll be luck, that's all, if we do. My God, he might not know himself what he's done, and a hundred to one the only way we'll ever put a name to him is if he happens to have a brain storm in front of witnesses next time. Probably he's living quiet as you please, an ordinary guy nobody'd look at twice, maybe going to work every day, comin' home prompt at six to kiss his wife and look at the sports page before dinner-goes to church every Sunday-never done a thing anybody'd think queer. It'll just be the way the cards fall, if and when and how soon we get him.'
'It isn't always,' said Mendoza, 'the hand dealt to you, so much as the way you play it.'
'You should know. How much do you average a year in poker winnings, anyway?'
'Sometimes enough to buy my shirts.'
'That ain't hay for you, at what, twelve bucks a throw…. You know something else? When we do catch up with him, he's going to be some guy who's got the reputation of being the kindest, mildest, sweetest-tempered hombre God ever put on earth. Everybody who knows him'll say, Oh, John couldn't be the one, he'd never do such a thing, officer! Want to bet?'
Mendoza laughed, abrupt and mirthless. 'Don't I know it! I only hope he doesn't have another brain storm before we catch up to him.
No one's ever accused me of being a sentimental man,?no, por Dios! but I don't care for his notions of how to treat women.' He swept the Hamburg off, passed a hand over the thick, Indian-straight black hair that grew to a widow's peak, and opened the door.
THREE
The girl who had found the body was nervous, too nervous. Not a nice experience, but it had been over an hour ago, and if she had nothing to do with it, why was she trembling and stammering and eying the policemen as if she expected the third degree? Mendoza was mildly curious.
She was a rather pretty girl, about twenty-seven, neat rounded figure, modest and dowdy in a clean cotton housedress. Fine olive-tan complexion, big brown eyes, minimum of make-up: a respectable girl. 'Her name was Elena Ramirez. I realize you wouldn't be likely to recognize anyone you knew under the circumstances-so, did you know Miss Ramirez?'
'Oh, no, sir, I never heard of her.' She twisted her hands together and her eyes shifted away. 'I'll be awful late for work, sir, I don't know nothing.'
Mendoza let her go. 'Sergeant Hackett will drive you to your job and explain why you're late'; and to Hackett, 'Conversation-find out what you can about her, and then see what you can pick up where she lives. I don't think she's got anything to do with it, but one never knows. I'll see the family. That takes us to an early lunch, maybe Federico's at twelve-thirty, O.K.?-we'll compare notes.'
' Est bien,' said Hackett, and joined Agnes Browne outside. The Italian grocer, hovering to get Mendoza's attention, asked excitedly if he had said Ramirez-the family Ramirez over on Liggitt Street, would that be? Sacred name of God, what a terrible thing-ah, yes, he knew them, only to nod to, the signor comprehended-sometimes the wife came in to buy, not often-God pity them, to lose a daughter so-no, no, the girl he did not know at all-she was assaulted, assassinated by some madman, then?
'So I think,' said Mendoza. The men from headquarters had dispersed; the ambulance was gone, the patrol car was gone. Across the street he saw Dwyer leave the first house next to the corner lot and head for the neighboring one. Mendoza crossed to his car and stopped to light a cigarette; he looked at the car thoughtfully, getting out his keys. He believed in buying the very best piece of merchandise obtainable of what one set out to buy, giving it loving care and using it until it fell to pieces. A thing like a car, that by this scheme was with you for years, you got acclimated to one another, it had personal individuality for you, it was more than a mere machine of transportation. The austerely elegant black Ferrari club-saloon was only thirteen years old, just into middle age for a Ferrari, and it would be mad, extravagant, to give it up: he had no intention of doing so: but there was no denying that with the increase of traffic and parking problems, its size was a disadvantage, not to say a nuisance. The trouble was, if he did buy a new car, it would be one with less than twelve cylinders-unless he should buy one of the
