Mark of Murder

TEN

It wasn't much help because Hackett didn't keep consecutive notes; he had used separate sections of the notebook for separate inquiries and people. There wasn't any way to know what he'd last written down. In the section on Andrea Nestor, the last thing he'd written was, "Any overheard quarrels with husband? Ask neighbors?" There wasn't anything about the Elgers at all.

"But of course," said Palliser, "wherever he was attacked, whoever did it, if we're right he probably wouldn't have had a chance to write any notes about that interview."

Mendoza agreed. It was always better not to produce a notebook at the actual interview with a witness, if you could avoid it, but to write your notes afterward; that would be what Hackett would have done.

"The only other thing that struck me," said Palliser, "is that it would have been a lot easier to set up that fake accident if there were two people involved. Because that canyon road's pretty long and winding. The site was about a mile up from where the road starts, above the end of Bronson. It's steep, too. When X had sent the car over, he'd be on foot, unless somebody had driven another car along to pick him up. And look, how would he know that the crash wouldn't be heard right away, bring people swarming around? How's he going to explain himself, there on foot? I think there must-"

"You said the houses, and not many of them, are set back. And that there wasn't really any crash, the Ford didn't hit anything big. A mile's not really very far. Of course it'd be more than a mile, maybe a lot more, because we don't know where X lives, where it happened. It'd have been easier for two people, but it wasn't at all impossible for a single X. I think we can make a few deductions anyway." Mendoza produced a folded paper from his breast pocket. "This is what Erwin had to say-and the surgeon at the hospital. The most serious injury is the head wound-massive skull fracture. They don't think he was hit with a weapon of any kind, and they don't think the injury occurred during the fall over the cliff. They say it's too big an area, and on account of certain technicalities and measurements they come up with the opinion that he was knocked against some hard, broad, flat surface with great force. That's Erwin-‘with great force'. Thus adding his own weight to the force of the blow. Erwin suggests a cement wall, the side of a building, or a flat stone hearth. There's a slight bruise under the jaw too, which backs that up. They think that happened a little while before he incurred the other injuries-which was obviously when the car was sent over. Anything occur to you from that?"

"Not much. Except that it's likelier, isn't it, that it happened inside somewhere, not on the street? I don't suppose X had thought it all out beforehand-he probably struck that blow on impulse, and probably just after Hackett had let him see he'd given himself away somehow."

"I'll go along on that. We can deduce something else, John. Why did X have to take Art's own belt off to tie him up? Obviously, because he hadn't any rope or stout cord handy-or maybe only enough for either the wrists or ankles. What does that say? Possibly an apartment, instead of a house. A house can usually produce something of the sort-clothesline, et cetera-but people living in apartments, unless they habitually wrap a lot of parcels for mailing- Yes."

"Well, practically all of them do live in apart1nents," said Palliser. "The people we've come across so far."

"There'll be some of Nestor's friends living in houses, I suppose. All right. Say it was Corliss and her boy friend Larry-who I'd like to know more about too. We will. He was there. Suppose she somehow gave herself away to Art, or he spotted some evidence there while he was talking to her, and started to question her hard or even charge her-and the boy friend got mad and hit him, caught him off balance maybe and knocked him against that imitation marble hearth or even just the wall. I'll say this. I think we'll find that Larry is an amiable weak lout-Corliss' kind do pick up that type. Possibly he's had a few brushes with the law himself. So he'd be all too ready to help get rid of a cop."

"Um," said Palliser.

"And, if he is that type, it's a type that often comes apart fairly easily," said Mendoza. "I don't know but what I like the Elgers better, except that they look fairly normal -for their type-and there's nothing on them at all."

He told Palliser about the Elgers.

Palliser said, "You know-what Dr. Erwin said-that he was probably knocked against something. That sounds to me as if he was taken completely by surprise. Because, after all, it's second nature, isn't it?-you're questioning a suspect, a pretty hot suspect, even if you've just found that out-you're watching for any tricks. Aren't you? We've just had a reminder about that, last month-those two fellows stopped for speeding, who shot up the squadcar man. He never thought to check them for arms."

"Yes?"

"Well, what it might say," said Palliser, "is that it was somebody he'd never expect to attack him at all. Physically. Such as a woman or-or an eighty-year-old man, something like that. So he was off his guard entirely, and that was how he was caught off balance. And you know-"

"I rather like that," said Mendoza, "because in the ordinary way he would be taking care. Not being a fool, and having some experience. What you were going on to say was that obviously, if he'd had any reason to be suspicious of Cliff Elger, he'd have been taking double pains to be careful, a gorilla like that-bigger than Art himself."

"That's just what I was going to say."

"And you'd be right. And come to think," said Mendoza, "am I right about that belt? People living in apartments wouldn't have any clothesline lying around, but a good many people do keep cord for wrapping packages. For-for tying up things to put away, like Christmas decorations and winter clothes. I don't know. Maybe it was just the first thing X thought of. But maybe not too. Because-it wasn't a very cunningly faked accident, was it?"

Palliser shrugged. "The squad car first on the scene spotted it right away. By the tracks. No skid, no try at braking-the car was backed around deliberately to face the drop."

"Yes. Not a brain, whoever set it up. So he might not have realized that we'd spot how the belt had been used either. On the other hand, it must have made him a little more trouble. When he got up there he had to take the time to put it back on Art-rather an awkward little job, rolling a big heavy man around getting his belt through all the little loops. I think we're safe in saying that he used the belt in the first place because he couldn't lay hands on anything else in a hurry. And why tie him up at all? Yes, why? Here was a badly injured man, unconscious-he wouldn't be getting up and walking away anywhere."

"Well, so X didn't have any medical knowledge, to know that,"

"Yes, but also that says maybe he stashed Art away somewhere awhile, before he set up the accident… Oh hell," said Mendoza, and started the engine. "There's not much in all that. I don't know. Let's go back to the office and see if anything's come in."

"By the way, you said to the Corliss woman you thought she'd had the same bright idea Nestor had had. What was that?"

"Maybe something to check-if we had any way of knowing where to look." Mendoza smiled. "That scrapbook full of the doings of high society. When I looked at it, one thing struck me. Every single clipping, whatever it was about, included a photograph. And every single photograph included at least one young woman… I said I think Nestor was aiming at the moneyed women. He'd get others too, of course. Kinsey has alerted us to the fairly high incidence of abortion in unexpected places. And of course a lot of those customers would give false names. I think Nestor was keeping his scrapbook on the off-chance of recognizing former patients. I don't think he was above a little genteel blackmail."

"Oh," said Palliser, enlightened. "I get you. He recognizes Jane Smith, who came to him last year for a job, as being really a socialite debutante, and puts the bite on her-but how could he? Without giving himself away?"

"He couldn't, really, beyond threatening to tip off her parents, or boy friend, or husband for that matter, anonymously-but a lot of women in that position might not clearly realize that. I wonder if he'd found a victim yet, from all his diligent research? And, if he had, whether she'd paid up. Well, see what routine's turning up for us."

Routine had turned up a couple of interesting things. Sergeant Lake said, only half kidding, "I might have known things would start to move, Lieutenant, soon as you got home and had a hunch."

Landers, making the round of the bars in that downtown area asking whether silver dollars had been part of their take lately, had turned up two leads. A bartender at a hole-in-the-wall joint on Broadway remembered a fellow coming in several times who'd paid with silver dollars. He had made a statement, and if there wasn't much in it, there was something. He couldn't give any kind of description. "?Natuiralmente!" said Mendoza irritably. "They will keep bars so damn dark." All he remembered about the fellow was that he was very poorly dressed, in what looked like somebody else's clothes, and usually kept a hat pulled down low on his forehead. Maybe, oh, four, five times he'd been in. Always at night, and once or twice quite late, staying until the bar closed at 1 AM. He was, said the bartender vaguely, medium-sized and kind of thin. And he always ordered bourbon, straight.

The other bartender worked at a place on Main. It wasn't quite down into Skid Row, but on the fringes; and he was a tough customer, who didn't much care for cops and was reluctant to open up with any information. Landers had persuaded him, finally, to come out with what he knew. And that wasn't much either, but again, something. There was this old bat, he said, kind of a regular-probably a setup, also a lush. He wasn't admitting that she was working out of his bar, naturally, because he didn't want to lose his license; but that, said Landers, was what it sounded like. Anyway, her name was Rosie-that was all the bartender knew. And the last couple of times she'd been in, she'd paid him with a silver dollar. He gave a vague description of her; no, he'd never heard her last name, and of course he didn't know where she lived-he could do the hell of a lot better than that for himself.

"Well-something, but what?" said Mendoza. "Put out a call on Rosie. Trace it down, and probably find the customer she got the silver dollars from just blew in from Vegas and has nothing to do with our Slasher. However-”

Nothing had turned up on that search of hotel registers in the downtown area. Mendoza called the city editors of the Times, the Herald, the Hollywood Citizen, and the Glendale News-Press, and requested them to run cuts of that signature they had from the Liverpool Arms register: promised to send over prints. He sent a man down to get the prints and deliver them by hand. The first body had been found the day before he and Alison had left for New York; he hadn't heard many details on it. Now he settled down to reread all the reports on the five victims… He said to Lake, "That stuff we picked up in the hotel room-is it still around? Lab send it back?"

"I seem to remember it did--probably be in Art's desk." Lake looked, and brought him a shoe box containing a few odds and ends. "No prints, nothing suggestive."

Mendoza looked at it sadly. No guarantee either-the Liverpool Arms being what it was-that any of these things was connected with the Slasher, who had occupied that room such a short time. Found in the room with the body, but ten to one the rooms there weren't so thoroughly cleaned between tenants.

A half-empty packet of matches. A single penny, dark with age. An empty crumpled-up cigarette package, king-size Chesterfields. A dime-store handkerchief, soiled. A crumpled-up paper cup that had held bourbon at some time.

He picked up the matches idly and opened the cover. He looked at the dozen matches left in it and said to himself, "?Y que es esto? Somebody's slipping, either the lab or us. Jimmy!"

"What now?"

"This Mike. The first victim. I suppose you couldn't tell me whether he was left-handed?"

"Nor I don't know what color eyes his grandmother had either. Why the hell?"

"We can probably find out," said Mendoza. "He seems to have been known down on the Row. And I'd like to ask Bainbridge his opinion on this one too… Why? Have all of you so-called detectives gone blind? Look at this packet of matches. The ordinary right-handed person, tearing off a match, holds the book in his left hand and naturally reaches for the first match at the extreme right.?Como no? He gradually works his way through the book from right to left. All right. Whoever started to use this book of matches did it just the opposite-all the matches that have been torn out were at the extreme left. If Mike wasn't left-handed, there's a fair probability that these were the Slasher's matches and that he is left-handed."

"Oh," said Sergeant Lake. "That might narrow it down, sure. From about seven million to only two and a half."

"Well, it's another something," said Mendoza.

Dwyer came in at five-fifteen, Scarne and Glasser after him; Landers had just finished taking the second bartender's statement. All the people in Nestor's address book looked ordinary-other chiropractors who'd been in his graduating class, men around his own age, salesmen, clerks-some family men, some not. Of the women, a few looked like typical tramps, a few others were married; one of those women, a Mrs. Anita Sheldon, had been scared, said Glasser, and begged him not to drag her name in-nobody knew she'd known Nestor, her husband would kill her if he knew. "Husband's a truck driver," Glasser added. "National moving firm. Those guys are usually pretty hefty."

There wasn't much there. They'd look harder at the Sheldons.

Dwyer said he'd seen Elger's two associates in their office, and they'd given him names of a couple of others who knew him, another agent and a producer. The consensus was that Elger had the hell of a hot temper, was known to fly off the handle over any little thing. "The kind who gets mad quick and then cools down fast and it's all over, you know. But everybody seems to like him."

"Yes. And that kind sometimes cools down fast to find an unintended body around," said Mendoza. "Especially when they're as big as Cliff Elger. Well, boys-any of you feel like doing a little more leg work tonight?"

None of them minded.

When he got home Alison met him at the door. "What's wrong, querida?" he asked, seeing her eyes. He held her close. The hospital was still saying, No change.

"Oh, Luis," she said shakily. "Nothing now. But-I didn't tell Angel, I asked the nurse not to. We were at the hospital this afternoon, and the nurse told me. They they thought he was going, this morning. Then his pulse picked up, for no reason, and he-"

Mendoza put his head down on her shoulder for a minute. "Well, he's still here anyway," he said. "Maybe Adam was doing some extra earnest praying about then. I want to talk to Angel. Can she-"

"Yes, of course."

He went into the living room, where Bast greeted him loudly and El Senor contemplated him evilly through green slits, from the top of the phonograph. The record-cabinet doors were open and El Senor had dragged out four albums. Mendoza said absently, " Senor Molestial " and put them away

Mrs. MacTaggart came trotting in with a shot glass and a saucer. "I heard the car," she said. "You'll be needing a drink before dinner, and that unnatural cat giving you no peace unless he has his share." She set the saucer down for El Senor, who had an unaccountable taste for rye and lapped eagerly. "And the longer the man hangs on there, the better chance there is, as I needn't be reminding you. Mercy on us, what's-"

Pandemonium broke out in the hall. Mark Christopher staggered in clasping a wildly struggling Sheba around the middle. "Kitty-kitty!" he was announcing triumphantly. Miss Teresa Ann, still very uncertain on her small feet, staggered after him wailing loudly, and bringing up the procession came Master John Luis on all fours, also wailing.

"Now what is all this indeed? Like banshees the lot of you- Mark, put the kitty down now-" Mrs. MacTaggart hurried to Sheba's rescue.

El Senor finished the rye, thoughtfully licked his whiskers, and looking slightly cross-eyed jumped down to cuff Sheba, who was indignantly smoothing down her coat. She shrieked and spat at him.

"The happy home," said Mendoza resignedly to his drink. "Talk about the patter of little feet…"

When Angel came in with Alison he eyed her and said, "I think you could stand a small drink before dinner too."

"I'm all right," said Angel.

"Cocktails all made, waiting," said Alison with a show of briskness. "I thought we both could. I'll get them."

Mendoza sipped rye, looking at Angel. He and Art's nice domestic little wife had never appreciated each other to any extent; he couldn't say he knew her very well. He was rather surprised she wasn't weeping and fainting all over the place. She looked pale, but she'd put on make-up and combed her hair. Just another pretty dark-haired woman: but for the first time he noticed the firmness of her jaw and her steady eyes.

Alison came back with two glasses, and he waited until Angel had taken a sip. "Now, I expect Alison told you I want to hear every detail you remember, about what he said to you that night."

"Yes, of course," said Angel. "The worst of it is, I wasn't paying too much attention-of course I couldn't know it was important then. And what with coping with Mark pounding the table legs with one of his pull-toys-but I've tried to think back as well as I can. I know definitely he said he was going to see that hotel clerk." She sipped her cocktail; her voice was steady. "He was worried about this mass killer, on account of all the fuss the newspapers have been making, what they were saying about the force. He said something about Nestor's wife I too, and a woman named Corliss. And he mentioned somebody named Elger. That's all I remember, I'm sorry."

"That's fine," said Mendoza. "He said definitely he was going to see the clerk at the hotel?"

"Yes, that I remember. He-" She stopped, and finished her drink rather quickly. "He left about twenty past seven.

He kissed me at the door and said, ‘Think I'll try those Elgers first, or the Nestor woman-and, damn it, I'll be late because that clerk's not on until nine. Probably be home about ten-thirty.' That's-"

"O.K.," said Mendoza. "That's something. But he must have gone to see Mrs. Nestor first, and we know he was all right when he left there. Gives us a sort of terminus a quo, anyway." He stared into his nearly empty glass.

Suddenly she got up, came over to stand in front of him. "You'll find out, won't you?" she said.

Mendoza looked up at her. "We'll fond out. Whatever happens."

"Yes. I never-never liked you very much," said Angel. "It seems a little funny, but I guess now I can see I was a little jealous of you. Not just of you. All of them. The office. You because you're the important one there.

And he-thinks-so much-of you."

"Yes," said Mendoza. He stood up. "Yes, Angel. I know that."

"He thinks-you're so good," she said. Her eyes were very bright. "I never thought- But the way all of you have- They've all called me, you know, to say- There was even a letter from the chief. I never really understood how it is-with all of you. I-I used to resent the job, sometimes."

"As most cops' wives do,” said Mendoza. "Which just makes it all the tougher for the cops."

"Yes. I wouldn't feel that way any more," she said. "It's like-I see that-soldiers in line of d-duty. All together."

"And there is no discharge in that war," said Mendoza with a crooked smile.

"So you will find out who. You'll just go on until you do. Whatever happens. And I guess-maybe-he was right about you too. I didn't think you ever felt things much, that you were the kind of man who- But you do. I see."

"Now I'll tell you," he said gently, "I never thought much of you either, but you're a good girl, Angel. I wouldn't have thought you'd stand up to this so well. Whatever happens, we'll get him, I promise you."

After a moment Alison said with a little catch in her voice, "Well, if the mutual admiration society'll break up, I think dinner's about ready… I suppose it's silly to ask you if you're going out again."

" Tu debeas saberlo," said Mendoza. "I'm going out on what the British call a pub crawl"

"Bars?" said Alison. "Good heavens. You can't go into bars without drinking, and you know what three drinks do to you. You'll end up getting picked up for disturbing the peace, or assault and battery."

"?Dios me libre! ” said Mendoza. "I just hope to God we can turn up something useful."