Exploit of Death

FOUR

SATURDAY WAS Sergeant Lake's day off and Rory Farrell was sitting on the switchboard. Mendoza glanced over the night report and passed it on to Hackett. "So we'd better find out something about this Eberhart woman, in case it is a homicide. Wolf's coming in sometime today to make a statement, but there's damn all on that, we can file it and forget it."

Hackett said, "I wonder if they've got the air-conditioning back on at the jail. “We've still got to talk to Gerber. Of course, Bauman had the gun, it's likelier he did the shooting. Which reminds me-" He called the lab and talked to Horder.

He had dropped the gun off at the lab on Thursday.

Horder said, "Oh, yeah, that's the equalizer, O.K. Matched the slug out of the body."

So they could write a report after they got the statement from Gerber, if he'd say anything, and send in the evidence to the D.A.'s office and forget it. This time, Bauman might go up for a sizable stretch.

It was Landers' day off.

On the other heist last night, the pharmacist had given a fairly good description, volunteered to look at mug shots. He'd be in this morning. Hackett went over to the jail to talk to Gerber. Palliser said, looking over the night report, "I suppose this restaurant won't be open until ten or so. Has the warrant come through on Aguilar?" It hadn't, but would be showing up sometime today.

Bernard Wolf came in about nine and made a brief statement, and Wanda Larsen took him down to look at mug shots. But there could be a thousand walking around who conformed to that description.

And finally the coroner's office sent up the autopsy report on the supposed Ruth Hoffman. Mendoza read it over rapidly, one hip perched on a corner of Higgins' desk, and passed it over. "So, a few possibly suggestive things," he said.

The report said that the girl had died of a massive overdose of a common prescriptive sedative, a phenobarbitol base. Interestingly, there were indications that it had been accumulative over a brief period of time. There had been the equivalent of a couple of strong drinks in the stomach contents. The percentage rate was. 010, and. 014 was the rate for legal intoxication. The estimated time of death was between eight and midnight last Tuesday night. There were no bruises or other marks on the body. She had been a virgin. She had had a meal about six hours prior to death, consisting of some sort of fish, potatoes, green vegetables.

"This is your offbeat one," said Palliser.

"The wild blue yonder," said Higgins.

"Well, it says a little something.' ' Mendoza lit a cigarette with a snap of his lighter. "But there's a gap between Saturday and Tuesday. Where was she? That library card-this was set up awhile ago. If they, whoever, had arranged the killing, why not do it right away? Grandfather! Could she have been with Grandfather? I can't see any pattern to it at all, damn it."

"Have you heard anything about the possible missing reports?" asked Higgins.

Mendoza had sent out queries to every force in the country about that.

"Nothing's come in yet. Where the hell was she and why? We should be hearing something from the cab companies, if there's anything to get."

"Those Daggetts could tell us something," said Higgins.

"I wonder," said Mendoza. "They know something but maybe not that much. I haven't leaned on them because we haven't a damn thing to go on, for God's sake. There's no smell of legal proof that the girl was the Martin girl. And whoever primed the Daggetts with the Hoffman story, all they have to do is stick by it, we can't prove it's a lie. What the hell use would it be to lean on them, George? They're not big brains, but they understand that much. Grandfather, Grandfather! If only there was some way to find out where she was going, or thought she was going-" He brushed his mustache back and forth angrily.

"There's just no handle to any part of it," said Higgins.

Mendoza picked up the phone, asked Farrell to get Communications, asked if there was anything in, from any force, on a possible missing report on the girl. So far most of the police forces in the country had responded and none had any record of such a report.

"So what does that say?" Mendoza emitted a long angry stream of smoke. "Grandfather! " The phone buzzed at him and he picked it up.

"You've got a new body," said Farrell. "Hoover Street."

"Hell," said Mendoza and took down the address and passed it on to Higgins.

Palliser and Higgins went out on that and Mendoza wandered back to his office and sat staring out the window at the view of the Hollywood Hills, chain-smoking, until Farrell rang him and said he had somebody from the Yellow Cab Company on the line. "Put him through," said Mendoza.

The man on the line was a Mr. Meyers, sounding efficient. "You wanted to know about any passengers picked up at International Airport a week ago today. I've got a list for you from the dispatcher. There were only nine."

"Fine," said Mendoza. "We can cut corners here and save some time. I'd like all those drivers to come in to headquarters to look at a photograph."

"Oh, my God," said Meyers. "What a hell of a nuisance, but we do have to cooperate with the police. All right, where are they supposed to come?"

THE ADDRESS on Hoover Street, a secondary main drag, was in the middle of half a dozen little shops, all in an old building stretching for half a block. There was a shoe-repair place, a women's dress shop, a little variety store, a photographer. Three of the shops were empty, with for rent signs, and there was a dingy independent drugstore on the corner. The squad and the uniformed patrolman were in front of the little variety store. Higgins slid the Pontiac into the curb behind the squad and they got out.

There was a woman with the patrolman, a stout middle-aged black woman. She looked neat and respectable in a dowdy blue cotton housedress, but her round face still wore a shocked expression.

"There are the detectives, ma'am. This is Mrs. Sadler, she found the body."

"That's right," she said. "It's just awful, the poor soul lying there dead, it's terrible the things happen nowadays, all these criminals running around. Mrs. Coffey was such a nice woman, she wouldn't have hurt a fly. To think of a thing like that happening to her-"

The faded sign over the front door said VERNNS VARIETY.

"Mrs. Verna Coffey?" asked Palliser. She nodded. "Just tell us what happened, Mrs. Sadler."

"We1l, I'd run out of green thread. I'm making a dress for myself for my daughter's wedding next week, and I just stepped over here to get some thread. Mrs. Coffey's store is real handy for lots of little things. I just live up the block on Twenty-fourth, it's only a step, and she's always open by eight. The door was open and I went in, but she wasn't there and I waited a few minutes but I didn't hear her in the back. She lives in the back of the store, has a little apartment there, you see. And I called her name and then I went back and just looked in the door and-Oh!" She put her hands to her mouth. "Oh, just terrible! The poor soul, her head all bloody and the place in a mess, I could see she was dead and I called the police on the phone there-"

So they'd have to get her prints for comparison with any others the lab might pick up. But the honest citizens didn't know much about scientific investigation.

There were a few curious bystanders out now, from the shoe-repair shop, the drugstore. Palliser and Higgins went into the little store, dim without lights on, past double counters stocked with the cheap cosmetics, shoelaces, sewing materials, plastic dishes, all the odds and ends of variety goods, to the door at the rear. It led into a small living room, crowded with old furniture-couch, two upholstered chairs, end tables, a T.V. on a metal stand. One of the tables had been knocked over, the drawer from the other one dumped on the floor, three pictures pulled off the wall and thrown facedown. The body was sprawled between the T.V. and the couch, the body of a fat black woman. There was a faded pink nylon housecoat rucked up around her legs. Under it she'd been wearing a pink nylon nightgown. There was dried blood on one temple and the white of the skull showed where one blow had landed on vulnerable thin bone. On the floor beside her was an ordinary hammer with black tape on the handle. On the other side of the body, in front of a side window, a big potted plant on a metal stand had been knocked over and spilled wet earth and leaves over the thin carpet.

"No sign of a break-in in front," said Palliser.

"No. She was undressed for bed, she could've done that early in the evening, but it was after she'd closed the store," said Higgins. "Somebody knocked at the door-somebody she knew?"

They looked through the rest of the small shabby apartment. There was a tiny bedroom with a single bed neatly turned down for the night but showing no signs of having been occupied. The bedroom had been ransacked too. There was a tiny kitchen with a clean sink and counter tops. There was a back door giving on an alley that ran behind this block of shops, and that door was locked and bolted.

"Somebody she knew," said Palliser. "Which could be anybody around here. But she probably wouldn't have opened the door to a stranger. Living alone, she'd keep the doors locked after dark." The dumped drawers, the pictures pulled off the wall, were the earmarks of the pro burglar.

They went back out to the street and Palliser used the radio in the squad to call the lab. Higgins asked Mrs. Sadler,

"Do you know anything about Mrs. Coffey's family?"

"Well, I know she had a married daughter in Pasadena. She had another daughter who died. Her husband, I guess he died quite awhile back."

There had been an address book beside the phone. They would find out.

"Do you know if she kept much money here'?"

"I don't know at all. I don't suppose she got an awful lot from the store-enough to get by on-but I don't know."

Higgins started to explain to her why they'd have to take her prints. She just nodded dumbly. This looked like the crude attack, and there might be prints. It might get unraveled rather easily, or never.

"She was such a nice woman," said Mrs. Sadler. "It's just awful, a thing like that happening."

The mobile lab truck came and later the morgue wagon. Higgins and Palliser waited while Horder dusted the address book, and took it to look at. There was a phone number listed simply under JULIA at a Pasadena exchange and they tried it, but there wasn't any answer.

NICK GALEANO got to McClintock's Restaurant on Sunset at eleven o'clock. It was an old place, but good middle-class, middle-priced. He talked to the manager, Don Whitney, who was shocked to hear about Rose Eberhart.

He said, "What a hell of a thing. I tried to call her when she didn't show up. Thought maybe she was sick. What the hell was it?- I don't think that she was more than in the forties. She was a good waitress-reliable. She'd worked here for nearly ten years. What the hell happened to her?"

"We're not sure yet, Mr. Whitney. She was here yesterday?"

"Sure, just as usual. She was on from ten to six. She'd been on the evening shift up to last month. All the girls would rather work that because you get better tips through the dinner hour, but we change around-give all of them a chance at it."

"She left about six?" By the night report, Eberhart's car had been at its usual slot at the apartment, an old two-door Ford.

"That's right. My God, this shakes me. Like it says-in the midst of life."

"Had she had any trouble with anybody lately, would you know?"

"My God, not that I know of. Rose was an easygoing girl, got along with everybody fine. I can't get over her being dead."

"Well, I'd like to talk to some of the other waitresses, if you don't mind," said Galeano.

"Sure, sure, anything we can do to help you find out about it. There's not much trade in until noon. You can use this booth, let me get you a cup of coffee. I'll send the girls over."

There were four waitresses, only one of them under forty. They were all upset to hear about Rose. Apparently they'd all been friendly with her but not close, they were just surprised and sorry. The one who seemed to have known her best-the two of them had worked here longer than the others-was Marie Boyce. She was a plain-faced thin dark woman about forty.

"Was she a widow, divorced, or what?" asked Galeano. "Did she have any family?"

"She was divorced. Second time about three years back. Yes, she had a daughter from her first husband, she lives back East somewhere-I think it's Cleveland."

"Could you say if she was much of a drinker, I don't mean on the job, but just to relax at home?"

She looked indignant. "She sure wasn't. Not that I do much of it, either, but I don't feel as strong as she did about it. Rose was just death on liquor. She wouldn't take a drink on a bet. She'd seen too much of that with her first husband, he was a lush."

"Well," said Galeano. "Do you know any of her other friends? Did you see much of her aside from on the job?"

She shook her head. "I only saw her at work, but Rose wasn't one to socialize much. She always said she was just glad to get home at the end of the day and put her feet up. This job can be tough on a person's feet, you know."

So Eberhart hadn't been drunk and fallen down. Galeano came out and got into the car, automatically switching on the air-conditioning, and drove down to Rosemont Avenue.

The manager, Peterson, wasn't home. His wife said the police had asked him to go down to headquarters to make a statement. Galeano went down the hall and looked at the door to Rose Eberhart's apartment. The lab men had put a seal on it when they finished work. She'd been right in the open doorway-the door was open-that's how the manager had spotted her when he came past with the trash. The door just opposite bore the name KOLHER the name slot beside the bell. He pushed the bell and faced an elderly little woman with gray hair and glasses. She looked at the. badge and started to talk without any questioning.

"Oh, about Mrs. Eberhart, it's an awful thing. The police were here when we got home and Mr. Peterson told us. Was it a heart attack? She wasn't all that old."

"We don't know yet, Mrs. Kohler. You were out last night?"

"Yes, at our daughter's place in Glendale. It was my birthday, we had an early dinner about five-thirty and played bridge all evening, we didn't get home until eleven."

Galeano reflected, so there had been nobody close enough to overhear any argument in the hall, with that apartment door open. He talked to her another few moments, but she hadn't any more to tell him. They hadn't known Rose Eberhart except casually, exchanged the occasional hellos and that was all.

Galeano came back to the car and decided it was time for lunch. He stopped at a cafe on Silver Lake Boulevard and after debate ordered the chef 's salad. Marta was too good a cook, he'd put on a few pounds lately and he'd better watch it. And this Eberhart thing now looked definitely like a homicide. See what the lab turned up, but before that, have a look through the apartment for addresses and phone numbers, talk to everybody she'd known. In fact, the usual legwork.

THE CAB DRIVERS had been trooping in most of Saturday afternoon, from two cab companies-Yellow and Checker. Among them, fourteen drivers had picked up fares at International Airport between noon and one o'clock last Saturday. They all had a look at the close-up photos. One of them said, "In the usual way I wouldn't be sure. You're only looking at the fare for just a minute, but I think for damn sure I'd have remembered this girl. She's a real beaut." And several of the other cabbies echoed that in different words.

Only one of them, who came in at about four o'clock, shook his head at the enlargement. "I'm not sure. It could be, it couldn't be. The fare I picked up at International, as far as I recall, was a girl about this age, I guess."

Cab drivers got around and saw a lot of people and he didn't remember where he'd taken her, but the dispatcher had the record. It was an address in West Hollywood, Norma Place. Mendoza could guess what the fare had been from Inglewood. Most people flying in here, to any airport in a big city, would be met by friends or relatives, or rent a car at the airport. Nobody took a cab here unless it was necessary.

When the last driver went out, he looked into the detective office and beckoned to Hackett. Higgins was on the phone, Palliser typing a report. Nobody else was there.

"A possible lead on Grandfather," said Mendoza. By now all the various police forces had reported in, and nobody had received any missing report on Juliette Martin. They drove out to West Hollywood in the Ferrari. The address was a dignified old Spanish house with a red-tiled roof and neat green lawn, a well-tended rose bed in front. In a quiet way it said Money. Mendoza shoved the doorbell and after a moment the door opened and they faced a nice-looking middle-aged woman with dark brown hair, intelligent eyes; she was very smartly dressed in a beige sheath and high-heeled sandals, She looked at the badges in surprise.

"Police-what's it about? Not an accident! My husband?"I

"Nothing like that, no, ma'am," said Hackett hastily.

"But then, what is it?"

"Someone took a cab to this address from International Airport last Saturday, Mrs.-" Mendoza waited, watching her.

"Lucas, I'm Mrs. Lucas, Mrs. Timothy Lucas. Do you want to see Linda? What on earth about?"

"Linda who?" asked Hackett.

"Well, for heaven's sake, Linda Barlow, my niece, she's not here right now, she's at the college, and what the police want with her I can't imagine. Yes, she got in from Chicago last Saturday, and my car was in the garage and Tim had to drive up to San Francisco on business, so I told her to take a cab at the airport and I'd pay the fare."

Mendoza asked, "She's visiting you, or does she live here?"

"Well, you could say she lives here now. She's starting out at U.S. C, the semester begins on Monday. Her home is in Bloomington, Illinois, but she'll be staying with us during the college year."

"She's at the college now?"

"Yes, she had to finish up registering for classes. My husband got her a good used car for transportation. But what on earth is this all about? Police asking about Linda?"

She was indignant now.

"Sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Lucas. It was just a little mistake in the name."

She was still looking bewildered as they turned back down the front walk. ln the Ferrari, Mendoza automatically switched on the air-conditioning, but made no move to pull out into the street. The powerful engine purred in a low voice. He lit a cigarette.

"Dead end, Arturo. But, Grandfather, where the hell and who the hell is Grandfather? Damn it, Grandfather's got to be mixed in somehow."

"I don't exactly see how you make that out," said Hackett dubiously. "The little she said, it sounds as if it was a, well, a friendly relationship, if she hadn't ever met the man before. She was coming to stay with him, presumably, and now we can assume that he or somebody met her at the airport with a car."

"And took her where? To Grandfather's? And subsequently to the apartment. When? Monday? Tuesday? That place all stocked and set up to be the plausible background for the nonexistent Ruth Hoffman. I don't think Juliette ever saw it unti1 she was drugged far enough that she wouldn't care where she was. By the autopsy, it's a distinct possibility that she'd been kept under sedatives for several days, since Saturday."

"Yes," said Hackett. "But it's so damn shapeless, Luis. No rhyme or reason."

"And," said Mendoza savagely, "Grandfather knew all about it."

"You're picking him for the arch-villain again?"

"Read it, for God's sake. He was expecting her. He knew which plane she'd be on. She was met at the airport by somebody. If she didn't reach Grandfather's and he doesn't know anything about all this, why hasn't he been making waves? Reported her unaccountably missing? Two plus two. But I'll tell you something else. There's more than one X. Somebody besides Grandfather. Because a woman applied for that library card in the Hoffman name."

"Yes," said Hackett. "Yes, it seems to add up that way. But there's nowhere else to go on it, now. There's only one more thing I can see. The answers are in France and we'll have to wait for them. She told Alison she'd be here about three weeks. Well, somebody in France, the boyfriend, any girlfriends, her employer, knows when she'd be coming home. They wouldn't expect to hear from her while she's here and I think airmail takes about a week to get to Europe anyway. They'll be assuming she's all right for another couple of weeks, but when she doesn't turn up and they don't hear anything, somebody will report it to the French police and they'll ask us some questions, and they'll be able to tell us who Grandfather is."

"That's a bunch of ifs, Arturo," said Mendoza. "Or am I being pessimistic? Yes, surely to God, her fiance, her best girlfriends knew where she'd be staying here. You're probably right, we'll have to wait for it. But whoever took her off, for whatever reason, they'd know that too. That it was only a question of time before we found out that Juliette was missing and could trace her to Grandfather and ferret out the substitution."

"Well, I wonder," said Hackett. He hunched his wide shoulders in the low bucket seat. "Is there a Grandfather?"

Mendoza turned to stare at him. "That's a new hare-brained notion. You're saying she told a tale, as an excuse to fly to Los Angeles, maybe? Por la gracia de Dios, that was a perfectly respectable honest girl. But more to the point, if the story was a lie, why should she come out with it voluntarily to a stranger in a plane?"

"True," admitted Hackett. "But so, somebody tells us about Grandfather and we go to ask and he says I thought she changed her mind about coming. What's to prove different? And as far as Hoffman goes, you said it yourself, if you hadn't been the one to look at the corpse, it's on the cards we'd have bought that suicide at face value and written it off. Asked Chicago to do a little checking for a family, but with such a common name we wouldn't have been surprised when they couldn't find any. There was enough money left on her to pay for a funeral-and adidos. A month, two months later, what's to connect her with a Juliette Martin reported missing from France? Even if they wired photos, how many bodies per week do we see?"

"More than most divisions," said Mendoza.

"I still think we ought to bring the Daggetts in and grill them, hot and heavy."

Mendoza laughed sharply. "And on two counts I don't think it'd be any use, Art. In the first place, unless we could show them proof that we know they're lying, they'll stick to their story. But more important, I don't think they know much to tell. That was such a-what's the word I want-a very crafty little operation."

"How do you mean?"

"So simple, so plausible, but showing the ultimate cunning. I think all X wanted of the Daggetts was that convenient apartment, the key to it, the nice rent receipts, and the story. Somehow I don't think this particular X would lay himself open to possible blackmail from the Daggetts."

"There is that. All I say is we'll have to wait for any answers. Eventually, somebody will miss her and ask questions."

Mendoza stabbed out his cigarette and at last released the parking brake and pulled the Ferrari out to the street.

GALEANO HAD ROPED Jason Grace into helping on the legwork. They had broken the seal on the door and gone through the Eberhart apartment. There was an address book with not many names in it, but among them was an Alice Bickerstaff, an address and phone number in Cleveland, Ohio. Galeano let Grace do the calling. Grace's soft voice was always reassuring to witnesses.

It was the daughter. And of course she reacted expectably. When Grace got her talking coherently, she couldn't tell him anything useful. She hadn't heard from her mother since last week, and the letter hadn't said anything about any trouble, any worry, just how hot it was and how tired the job made her. Her mother hadn't had any really close friends. She didn't go out much. About her best friend was a Mrs. Cora Delaney. "But, of course, it must have been a burglar. The crime rate is so high and that wasn't a very nice part of town, only it's anywhere these days-and it's awful to say, but we couldn't afford anything for a funeral, my husband's been out of work-"

Grace assured her that there seemed to be nearly a thousand dollars in her mother's checking account. They had found the bankbook. He told her about the mandatory autopsy. "Would you like an undertaker here to arrange a funeral, Mrs. Bickerstaff? We can give you a couple of names."

"Oh, it's just awful to say-" But she sounded relieved. "Oh would you'? I guess that'd be the easiest thing to do, thank you."

There were still a couple of hours till the end of shift. They drove up to Hollywood to locate the only man who figured in the address book-a Pete Openshaw, at an address on Kingsley. It was an apartment house very much like the one Rose Eberhart had lived in, and Openshaw was sitting in a shabby living room with the door and all the windows open and an electric fan going three feet away. He'd been reading a paperback western. He was a nondescript fellow, about fifty, partly bald, with a snub nose and friendly blue eyes. He was astonished and grieved to hear the news. ‘

"Say, that's a hell of a terrible thing, Rose dead. An attack of some kind? My God, I'm sorry to hear it."

They asked questions and he answered quite openly.

"Well, she always brought her car into the station where I work down on Alvarado. That's how we got to know each other. And since I lost my wife, I didn't fancy getting hooked up again and neither did Rose, she'd had two marriages go sour on her-but sometimes it's nice to have somebody to go out with, know what I mean? Neither of us had the money to go to fancy restaurants or shows, but we went to a movie now and then or to some place for Sunday breakfast. You know, like that." The last time he had seen her was last Sunday. They had gone to a movie in Hollywood.

"Did she mention anything about any trouble with anybody? Any argument?"

Openshaw said, "Nothing like that, Rose was easygoing. She wasn't one for arguments or to go fault-finding. She never said nothing about any trouble."

"Wou1d you know who her closest woman friend was?"

"I guess I'd say Cora Delaney. They'd known each other a long time."

That address had been in the book too, Beachwood Drive. They found it, a modest frame house, but the open garage was empty and nobody answered the bell.

"Anyway," said Grace, "we'd better see what the autopsy report says so we know what we're talking about."

They drove back to Parker Center and called it a day.

HACKETT WAS LATE getting home. The traffic on the freeway was murder at this hour. It was farther to drive, to the rambling old house on a dead-end street high in Altadena, but it was just slightly cooler up there. He came out of the garage to head for the back door, and Mark and Sheila came shrieking a greeting with the monstrous mongrel, Laddie, bounding after them. Hackett hugged the children and was nearly knocked down by Laddie, who seemed to be getting bigger by the day. Fifty-seven varieties all right, and the new higher fence had cost a bundle, but he was good with the children. The only member of the household who didn't appreciate Laddie was the dignified great Persian, Silver Boy, who was a middle-aged cat and resistant to change. After a few indignant claws had connected, Laddie had learned to keep his distance, wistfully. There was nothing Laddie loved more than new friends.

Hackett went in the back door to blessed air-conditioning. Angel was setting the table. "I was just starting to worry about you," she said.

"Traffic," said Hackett, bending to kiss her.

"Murder, I know. Good day, darling‘?"

"Unproductive," said Hackett. "It got up to a hundred, by the radio."

"I know. Thank God I didn't have to go out anywhere, and I've kept the kids in until it started to cool off about an hour ago. Do you want a drink before dinner?"

SATURDAY NIGHT on the Central beat could be busy. But if the heat stirred up the violent emotions, it also kept people ready to stay inside. The night watch got called out only twice the whole shift. The first call was a hit-run on Beverly with a young woman D.O. A, and there had been plenty of witnesses to say the car had run a light and was going about forty, but no one had got the plate number and there was confusion about a description of the car. The consensus was that it had been a medium-sized sedan, not very old, not very new.

Traffic was probably busy writing tickets and dealing with drunks, but the night watch sat and waited until the second call came in at just on midnight. Piggott had finished the report on the hit-run. Schenke was reading a paperback historical novel. Conway was just sitting. When the desk called, it didn't sound like much. A body in the street. Conway went out to look, expecting the drunken derelict, and that was almost what it was. On a quiet, run-down side street, just up from Venice Boulevard, the man dead in the gutter wasn't more than twenty-five. He hadn't been dead long and the minute Conway laid eyes on him in the glare of the squad-car headlights he knew what the autopsy report would say.

"Christ," he said disgustedly to the uniformed man.

"These stupid damn punks. Rotting what brains they have on the dope."

The uniformed man said succinctly, "They've got no brains to start with or they wouldn't."

Conway went over him. There wasn't any I.D., but in one of his pantspockets was a cardboard box with about fifty Quaaludes in it. "My God," said Conway, "if the dope hadn't got him, he might've got taken off for this. Let's have that light closer." The patrolman shifted the flashlight. "I thought so. More of the fake stuff. It's coming in by the ton, by what Narco says. Mostly from South America."

"It isn't the real stuff?" The patrolman was interested.

"Oh, it's the real stuff. It'll kill you as quick as the bona fide American-made, but look at the little stamp mark."

The pills were slightly smaller than a dime and in the beam of the flashlight they could make out the tiny legend stamped on each. LEMMON 74. "The real pharmaceutical company doesn't use that mark, but it looks like a guarantee that these are American-made. Real Quaaludes."

"I'll be damned," said the patrolman. "I suppose we want the morgue wagon?"

"What else?" said Conway. "I'll see these get handed over to Narco, as if they needed any more."

AT ELEVEN-THIRTY, one of the sergeants sitting on the central switchboard at Hollywood Division got a call from a frightened citizen. At first she was rather incoherent, but he calmed her down and got her talking straight. "Now, have I got your name right, Frances Holzer? Yes, Mrs. Holzer. Start out again, it's about your mother?"

"Miss," she said. "Miss Holzer. Yes, I'm just worried to death because she should've been home hours ago, she's a good driver, but an accident-but she's carrying identification, I would've heard about it, somebody would've called. And she was only going to stay a little while, Mrs. Lincoln's been pretty sick and visitors aren't supposed to stay long-"

"Just let me have your address, Miss. 0. K, Del Mar Avenue. What's your mother's name?"

"Mrs. Edna Holzer. She was going to the French Hospital to see Mrs. Lincoln. She left about seven and she should've been home by at least eight-thirty, I've been worried to death. She was coming straight home, she said so, and-"

The sergeant thought rapidly. That was a pretty classy address, up above Los Feliz, and the girl sounded straight.

"What's she driving?"

"A Chrysler Newport-two years old-navy-blue." She was more businesslike now, reassured by the solid masculine voice. "Wait a minute, I've got the license number. It's one-E-D-seven-four hundred."

It passed fleetingly across the sergeant's mind that these seven-digit plate numbers, issued since the state ran out of different six-digit ones, made life a little complicated. He wrote it down. "I'd like a description of her, please."

"Of M-mother?- She's f-forty nine, five six, a hundred and t-t-twenty," and the girl burst out crying.

"Now, Miss Holzer, try to get hold of yourself. Miss Holzer?"

She hiccupped and sobbed once more and said, "I'm sorry. I don't want to sound stupid, but it's just, she was so p-p-proud of herself, she'd been on a diet and lost twenty pounds-she's got brown hair and blue eyes and she's wearing a sleeveless blue nylon dress and bone sandals."

"All right, Miss Holzer. That's fine. We'll have a look around. Check the hospitals, and so on. I'll get back to you.".

He did the obvious things on it. Called the emergency rooms, the Highway Patrol. If the woman had been heading for Hollywood from downtown she'd likely have been on the freeway and the Highway Patrol handled freeway accidents. He drew a blank. So then he called Central Traffic, explained and asked them to look around that area for the car. The woman could have had a heart attack, a lot of things could have happened.

At twelve-fifty, Central Traffic called back. A squad had checked the parking lot at the French Hospital. The Chrysler wasn't there. The squad had looked all around side streets there and it wasn't anywhere. Funny, thought the sergeant. What could have happened to the woman? Of course, without knowing anything but what the girl said she could have stopped for a drink, she could have gone to see a friend and lost track of time, she could have-

He called the girl back. "No, she hasn't come home. What have you found out?"

"I'm sorry, I haven't a thing to tell you. But we'll keep looking. Miss Holzer, have you checked with any of her friends? She could have stopped in to see someone. She could have-"

"At nearly one A.M.?" she said. "She told Mr. Shepherd she'd be in the office at nine, she's his secretary. Mr. Lynn Shepherd, he's the head of the firm-Shepherd, Lynch, and Morse. Mother's been his secretary for twenty years, and there was this important tax case, there has to be a deposition and the witness could only come in on Sunday. She said she'd be home by eight-thirty."

They both sounded like responsible citizens, but of course even that kind came all sorts. The sergeant said, passing the buck, "Well, we've done all we can do, Miss Holzer. I tell you, if your mother hasn't come home by morning, you can file a missing report with Central Headquarters."

"And what would they do?" she asked wildly.

The sergeant wasn't too sure. He said stolidly, "Well, that's what you'd better do. All I can tell you, your mother hasn't been involved in an accident in the last six hours."

"That's all you know?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Holzer. That's all."

"Well, thank you," she said.

THE MISSING REPORT on Edna Holzer got filed at nine A.M. on Sunday morning, but that was not a busy office, Missing Persons. Their business was quiet and slow, and Lieutenant Carey was off on Sunday. The sergeant in that office filed the report without thinking much about it. Carey didn't see it until Monday morning.

On Sunday morning there was another cable from the Surete. They had turned up Juliette Martin's passport number. She had applied for it on the first of August. It had been issued on the nineteenth. No information was required for a passport except evidence of citizenship. There was no address available. No further information.

"?Diez milliones de demonios desde infierno! " said Mendoza.