Хал Эллсон - Mink Is for a Minx

Calder put the silent whistle in his mouth, checked his own position in the slow lane, well out of the imminent crash area, and blew a mighty blast, inaudible to human ears, but certain to reach those of Siegfried.

In the Buick the great Doberman reacted according to his grim conditioning. At the sound of that ominous keening, which always meant a searing agony at his throat, the dog went wild, thrashing about with all his weight of a hundred and sixty pounds. He was barking, clawing, and even snapping at his own flesh.

Through some saving remnant of affection for his master, even in that extremity, he did Tracy no direct harm. But the result otherwise was all too predictable. Benton lost control of the speeding car. It swerved into the stream of southbound traffic, meeting the truck head-on in a smashup that literally collapsed the vehicles.

Both men died instantly, and in the resulting pile up of seven cars, more than a dozen people were injured. Even Calder, on the fringe, escaped only because of his knowledge of what was coming. He slowed and jounced onto the shoulder of the road in time.

Suddenly he stiffened where he sat, his churning stomach tight from a new shock. From the tangle of crumpled, smoking steel, Siegfried had emerged. His muzzle was streaming blood from many cuts, and he limped badly. But by some miracle of tough bone and muscle, the dog was not severely injured. Now, frightened and bewildered, he must have scented a friend nearby, and was seeking him out. The Doberman headed unerringly towards Calder’s car.

Calder’s mind began to race. It wouldn’t do to be found so close. Who knew what connection the police might be clever enough to make? The damned whistle was still on his person.

Forgetting the pile-up he had just caused, Calder thought only of himself now. Hurriedly he tooled his MG back on the edge of the freeway, and inched past the nearest stalled car. Several drivers, trapped themselves, yelled at him angrily, but there were no patrol cars on the scene yet, so he made it to the next turn-off.

Later, on a side road, he flung the whistle into a patch of weeds. What was done, was done; nobody could pin anything on Martin Calder. Elsie would be dependent on him again, and he’d take good care she didn’t meet any more hungry bachelors.

At the funeral, three days later, Elsie was nearly hysterical in spite of two tranquilizers. Calder managed to look sorrowful, but internally he couldn’t help smiling. Most of the pleasure he felt was at the success of his brilliant stratagem. The rest was due to the ludicrous appearance of Siegfried, held well back from the grave by a friendly neighbor, and looking, with that mass of bandages, like a freakish human on all fours, rather than a dog.

Standing at the foot of the grave, Calder heard the minister drone on; beside him, Elsie was whimpering again. Now they were lowering the coffin into the deep recess. Soon the whole messy business would be over, and things back to normal at home. His sister was basically shallow; she’d get over her loss easily enough. Control of a quarter of a million dollars was changing hands.

A jet flew over, drowning out the minister’s final platitude; some of the mourners looked up in annoyance. And at that moment Siegfried went mad again. Yelping, whining, and writhing in an attempt to escape the invisible torment he was expecting, the dog tore free from his leash.

In the extremity of his fear, he sought comfort where it had always been found after the ordeal of high voltage. He raced to Martin Calder, whimpering, and sprang into the man’s arms. Taken by surprise, off balance at the edge of the open grave, Calder tottered under the sudden impact, then with a choked cry fell backwards into the pit. The loud snap as his neck broke was audible some feet away, even to human ears.

Everybody was staring at the dog; he was shaking himself, and seemed quite calm again. They could never know how the jet plane, as it hurtled over them at six hundred miles an hour had, at one point in its passage, generated a typical supersonic wave on the frequency of Calder’s whistle.

The coffin was a plain one, finished in the shop of Carlos Martinez, without frills, stark naked wood of soft pine. Harsh sunlight splintered off it as the men carried it through the miserable street, treading its dust, stones, and the scattered fire of tangerine peels withering in the heat.

It was a day of flame but, in this land of perpetual sun, not unseasonable. No more than death. The poor in their shacks and crumbling adobes knew its ghastly visits all too frequently. Funerals were commonplace and all of a kind. A plain pine box for the deceased, four men to carry it and a small group of mourners following.

A vast crowd followed the coffin of Rosa Belmonte, the third young girl in the city to die by violation in a brief period of three months. Half-starved dogs with ribs showing, children, toddlers, and beggars amidst the crowd lent it a pseudo air of carnival that was diluted by the sombre faces of adults and a muffled silence under which anger awaited eruption.

The police felt it, a news photographer sighted it in his camera. Detective Fiala was aware of the same phenomenon, but unconcerned with the crowd as such. His eyes sought only one man — the murderer who, through guilt or morbid disposition, might be lurking here.

No face riveted his attention till Fiala noticed the limousine, with the crowd breaking round it and the Chief of Police, Jose Santiago. He was sitting beside his chauffeur, face bloated and dark, tinted glasses concealing incongruous blue eyes that resembled twin stones and reflected the basic nature of the man.

Without the uniform he might be the one I’m looking for, Fiala thought, turning away and moving on with the sullen crowd that refused to acknowledge the naked violence of the sun.

The funeral went off without incident, the police were relieved, Chief Santiago satisfied. His chauffeur returned him to the Municipal Building, the location of police headquarters.

As he entered his office with Captain Torres, the phone rang. He picked it up, listened, then dismissed Captain Torres with a wave of his hand. Frowning now, he spoke to his caller, Victor Quevedo, mayor of the city and the one who had “made” him. These two were friends of a sort, but the conversation that ensued between them now was strictly business.

The murder of Rosa Belmonte, with the killer not apprehended, as in both previous murders, had created grave criticism of the police that, in turn, reflected upon Quevedo, exposing him to the machinations of his political enemies. This was the gist of Quevedo’s complaint, along with his sharp demand that Santiago do something and do it fast.

“Do what?” said Santiago.

“Get the killer before midnight.”

Astounded, Santiago hesitated, stuttered inanely, and finally managed to say, “But Victor—”

Quevedo cut him off sharply. “I am being embarrassed politically and otherwise,” he snapped. “If you wish to continue as Chief of Police, find the killer. Don’t — and you’re finished.”

Sweating profusely, Santiago dropped the phone and sat back. Slowly with trembling hands he lit a cigarette and dispersed a cloud of smoke. His thoughts were in chaos, dark face swollen to bursting. Slowly the agitation within him receded. Behind his tinted glasses his cold eyes lit up as a face focused in his mind.

He crushed his cigarette, arose, opened the door, called Captain Torres into the office, and gave him his orders: “Pick up Manuel Domingo for the murder of Rosa Belmonte.”

Manuel Domingo’s criminal activities were long known to the police — but murder? Captain Torres raised his brows in surprise.