Mark of Murder

ELEVEN

They were out in force down there tonight, most of the night shift and some of the day men, wandering in and out of the bars in the Slasher's territory. Palliser was stationed in the bar where the bartender said the lush Rosie dropped in; he'd stay until ten-thirty when Higgins would take over. The bartender didn't like it, but agreed to point her out if she came in. Piggott was sitting in the bar on Flower Street where the bartender remembered the fellow who had paid him with a silver dollar and walked out with Theodore Simms, The rest of the men had only a very vague description to work from, but they'd be checking on anybody who matched it, getting names and addresses. That was the kind of dogged routine that often got you there in the end, especially on one like this. Mendoza went first to the bar on Main, the bar Rosie frequented. Palliser was sitting in the rear booth, and getting surly looks from the bartender for occupying a whole booth instead of a stool. He didn't come over to take Mendoza's order right away.

"Nothing yet," said Palliser.

"Couldn't expect it," said Mendoza. "Too early. If she's working tonight at all, she's still fixing herself up in her room… No wonder nobody could offer any descriptions. I can hardly see you, let alone anybody across the room. 'These damn places-" He looked up as the bartender slouched over and said, "Nothing for me, thanks."

The bartender almost snarled at him. Palliser was taking an occasional small sip of a highball.

Mendoza drifted over to the bar on Flower Street, to have a word with Piggott. Piggott was the day tail on Margaret Corliss, and he greeted Mendoza with something like excitement. "I was just wondering was it worth while calling in, Lieutenant. See, I-"

"Something?… Straight rye," said Mendoza to the bartender, sliding into the opposite side of the booth.

"Not on this, no. It's that Corliss dame. You know I got a pretty good memory for faces. Well, when I first laid eyes on her today I thought right off I'd seen her before. Only I couldn't place where. I been thinking about it on and off all day, you know how a thing like that bothers you. Like some name you can't remember, but it's right on the tip of your tongue. It kept bothering me something awful, because I got to thinking it might be important. Well, I said to myself, lay it at the Lord's door and ask for help on it." Piggott looked at him earnestly over his glass of plain water; Piggott was a pillar of the Free Methodist Church and wouldn't have dreamed of touching the jigger of whiskey at his elbow. "And just five minutes ago, as I was sitting here not really thinking about it, the Lord came through and I remembered. I saw that woman down at headquarters once, Lieutenant. I couldn't tell you when, but I can tell you where-it was in the corridor right outside the Vice office. I'd been down there, some reason, and I saw Lieutenant Andrews with her-he had her by one arm, they were just going into his office."

"?No me diga! " said Mendoza. "That's very interesting. That all you remember? Well, we know it wasn't a charge because her prints aren't on file, but if she was brought in for questioning even once, maybe Percy will remember something about it. Probably be somewhere in his records anyway. I'll ask him in the morning. That's very interesting indeed… "

From there he wandered over, looking around several other joints on the way, to the bar on Broadway where the barkeep remembered the fellow with the silver dollars. He found Higgins sitting on the end stool there, over a nearly empty glass, watching the crowd. "He said he'd give me a signal if the guy came in, but he's not very sure he'd know him again."

The bartender came up, but only to take Mendoza's order and suggest a refill. Higgins shoved over his glass and Mendoza said, "You'd better nurse them along slower, George, it's still early."

Higgins laughed. "My God, place like this gets about sixty-five highballs out of a fifth, and only eighty proof to start with… You sure see the types in these joints. Makes you wonder about people, how they get this far down.”

Presently Glasser and Scarne came in, and took a good look at all the customers. There was a man alone, round the horseshoe curve of the bar, who matched what there was of their vague description: medium height; thin, in. rather loose-fitting old clothes. Glasser went up to him, they exchanged a few words, and the man, looking very frightened, went out with Glasser. Five minutes later he came back in, looking shaken, and ordered a new drink. Glasser would have his name and address.

Routine. It usually got you there in the end. Sooner or later…

About ten forty-live Mendoza stepped into the lobby of the Liverpool Arms. The armchair behind the counter was empty; the inner door stood open.

Suddenly he felt that small cold bite up the spine that told him he was onto something, a new card was about to be handed him; and though he hadn't the remotest idea what it might be, he obeyed instinct blindly and stood still, making no move toward the counter.

The old shabby building was very silent at this time of night. From what he could see through the half-open door, the small room behind the counter was a storeroom of some kind; he had a glimpse of dusty shelves.

He heard the glassy clink of bottle on glass, and something was set down with a thud. A minute later Telfer the clerk came out and shut the door behind him. He moved with exaggerated care, and he was wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

Mendoza walked up to the counter. Telfer noticed him then and stood swaying only a little, smiling his yellow-snagged smile. " 'D evening, sir," he said. His eyes were glassy and there was the saccharine-sweet smell of port wine about him. "Do for you?" He didn't seem to recognize Mendoza at all.

"Never mind," said Mendoza, and turned and went out. For God's sake! he thought. Every little lead they had turning out to be useless. Telfer a wino, and the odds were that was why he couldn't tell them anything about the man who'd taken that room. Probably so high he didn't remember a single damn thing about him. Of all the Goddamned bad luck…

But, damn it, was he going senile, not to have tried that? Like Art walking off and leaving that office wide open-sometimes you caught yourself forgetting the most elementary things.

Where was the Slasher sleeping? He hadn't signed into any other hotel in this area. He could be staying in a different flophouse every night, the fifty-cents-a-night, men-only places on the Row. Nobody asked for signatures in those places. But he could also have taken a room in some cheap rooming house. What was he living on, too? Did he have a job-or an unlimited supply of those silver dollars? Well, cover the rooming houses, anyway; ask about recent arrivals.

And the ordinary citizen might think that one like the Slasher would be easy to spot, that he'd behave so queerly or look so different that anybody could spot him at a glance. Unfortunately not so. As Higgins said, you ran into some funny ones down here, and a lot of them looked odd.

At eleven-thirty he wandered back to the bar on Main and found Higgins where Palliser had been sitting. Higgins had probably, of necessity, drunk four or five highballs this evening, and he looked and acted as sober as the proverbial judge. Mendoza, who had ordered five drinks and contrived to empty three of them inconspicuously on the floor, ordered a sixth and said, "You can drink it for me."

"I don't like rye," said Higgins.

"But I've already had two," said Mendoza. "You know what it does to me. We're on a job, damn it."

Higgins looked at him benevolently and said he'd look after him if he started picking a fight with the bouncer. The bartender came back with the rye and jerked an ungracious shoulder.

"You want Rosie, she just come in. There by the juke box."

Higgins got up. "I'll bring her," he said.

Thirty seconds later he ushered her into his side of the booth and slid in after her. "You said you'd buy me a drink, honey,” said Rosie.

"Sure.” She wasn't very high yet; she could probably take a good deal more. "You like rye? You can have this."

He reached and set Mendoza's glass in front of her. "Cigarette?"

"Thanks lots," she said. She put the rye down in one swallow and leaned to Higgins' lighter. "You just buy drinks for Rosie 'n' Rosie'll be nice to you. Both of you," she added, discovering Mendoza across the table. She beamed at them muzzily. "You're cute," she said to Mendoza.

"We'd just like to talk to you awhile, Rosie," said Higgins. He looked at Mendoza and they exchanged a silent opinion. They'd both seen about all there was to see, down here and elsewhere, of the bottom of things; but nobody ever quite got used to it.

She might have been pretty once, a shallow-eyed little blonde with the pert figure, out for the fun times and the romance. There were a thousand reasons for it, for the Rosies; this was a long time later.

She giggled up at Higgins a little foolishly. "Order me another drink, honey." Mendoza signaled the bartender, who shrugged and began to build a highball.

She might be no more than in her forties, but she looked sixty. That was a long time of too much careless make-up and too little washing. She was too thin, shoulder bones standing out sharply, her wrists and ankles like a child's. She hadn't much on under the old, mended, cheap black rayon evening dress, and the thin breasts pushed relentlessly out by the padded bra, the too thin body, were hardly provocative: only a little pathetic. Her hair, bleached too often and washed too seldom, was diy and uncurled, hanging untidily to her shoulders. She smelled of old sweat and cheap cologne and whiskey, and the coy painted smile was somehow a little obscene, as if a death's head had winked at them.

"We just want to talk to you," said Mendoza. The bartender came up and slapped a highball in front of her.

"Sure. That's what they all say," said Rosie, and giggled again. She drank thirstily.

"About silver dollars," said Higgins. "You've been spending a few lately. Don't often see silver dollars any more."

Rosie didn't say anything. She looked at him, setting her glass down, and small fright was in her eyes.

"Where'd you get them?" asked Higgins casually.

"H-how d'you know I had any silver dollars?" Suddenly she read them; Rosie would have had this and that to do with cops in the course of her misspent life; and she gasped and shoved violently against Higgins. "You're fuzz-you leave me be, I haven't done nothing-let me go!" She made no impression whatever on Higgins' solid bulk; but her voice rose, and the bartender came over in a hurry.

"I said no disturbance in here, bloodhounds! Listen-"

"We don't want you, Rosie," said Higgins. "Quiet down, you stupid little- We just want you to answer some questions, damn it. We've got nothing on you, see? Take it easy-here, drink your drink."

She shrank into the corner of the booth. "I haven't done nothing,” she said sullenly.

"You've spent a few silver dollars, Rosie," said Mendoza. "That's all we want to know about. Where'd you get them?"

"Why's it matter to you, anyways?" She reached for her glass.

"It matters. Where?"

"From a friend o' mine," she said.

They could translate that. A customer. "What's his name, where'd you meet him?" asked Mendoza.

"I don't have to-it's no damn business of yours-"

"We'll go on sitting here," said Mendoza, "until you tell us, Rosie." Sharp savage irritation rose in him: obstructed every small step of the way! And Art- Don't think about Art. "All we want to know is what he looks like."

"None o' your business. I didn't mean nobody gave 'em to me, I-l got this friend o' mine to change 'em for bills, see-" She was still busy defending herself on the obvious vice count.

"I don't care how you came by them," said Mendoza.

"Who did you get them from? Do you know his name?"

"What the hell are you insin-sinuating about me?" she flared up. "I know lotsa people, no reason I shouldn't-I'm a model, see, I got a good job all lined up, you guys can't-”

"Sure, honey," said Higgins, "we can see you're a real high-class girl. We just want to know which friend gave you the silver dollars." He sounded patient.

Mendoza wasn't. He leaned across the stained, scarred old table. "Listen to me, you stupid female! I don't give a single damn who you go to bed with, how often or for what price. There's the hell of a good chance that the man you got those silver dollars from is this killer, the Slasher. You can tell us what he looks like, and that's all I want from you, if you can get that much through your-"

It didn't penetrate at once, and then when it did she half screamed, "The- Oh, my Christ! No-I never saw him, I don't know whoLet me outta here for God's sake! Jesus, you don't-"

"I told you what I mean," said Mendoza coldly. "We think that man's the Slasher. Now will you tell me all about him or shall we take a little ride to headquarters?"

She made one sudden, convulsive effort to squeeze past Higgins again; she looked almost witless with fright. Then she said faintly, "O.K., O.K., you take me in and I tell you. Please take me in, mister-on account of if he knew I told--"

"Whichever way you want," said Mendoza. He dropped a couple of bills on the table and slid out of the booth. Higgins took her by the arm and followed.

They went single file down the narrow aisle to the door, the woman between and Higgins' hand on her arm. They came out to clean fresh night air, and Mendoza said, "Where's your car?"

"Up the block to your right- God damn!" said Higgins. Rosie was out of his grip like an eel, leaving a torn edge of her tawdry dress behind; she fled up the block wildly, dodged around the corner there, and was gone. They ran after her, swearing, and turned into the darker side street. They heard the clatter of her high heels, sharp on the sidewalk ahead, and then lost them.

"Go call up a car," panted Mendoza. "God damn the little-"

She was gone. He stood there waiting for the car, to start the futile block-by-block hunt. She'd be diving into whatever cheap rented room she called home, bundling her few possessions together to run on-maybe out of L.A.-thinking of her own skin, Rosie. The Rosies did that. And, being Rosie, she'd know how to go to ground, anonymous, in some other Skid Row.

Damn her, damn her. She might have given them a very damn definite description-if that was the Slasher-and he knew they'd never pick her up.

But he set up the routine hunt. You had to try.

That night he didn't sleep much. He lay and stared into the darkness and, senselessly, his mind went back over every detail of every case he and Art had worked together. A lot of cases. You got to know a man pretty well in that length of time.

No way to be certain… permanent brain damage…

He was still lying there at five-thirty when light out-lined the window, and El Senor got up, yawned and stretched, trampled over Bast and went to sit on the window seat and make chattering noises at the early sparrows in the tree outside. Bast sent a disgusted glare after him, wrapped her tail round her nose, and went to sleep again. Alison was heavily asleep still, lying motionless. He got up, shaved, and dressed. Went out to the living room. Hospitals were always awake. At six-fifteen he called. No change. They had said it could be days. And no way to be certain…

When he heard faint sounds from the kitchen he wandered out there, and the brisk little Scotswoman smiled at him. "Coffee in five minutes. And it's a senseless sort of thing to be saying to you, but it's never any bit of good worrying over a thing that's out of your hands entirely."

"I know, Mairi,', he said. "I know that."

"It's a great pity you've no religion to depend on. I don't know," said Mrs. MacTaggart, "but what I haven't stayed in this heathen household with the hope of reconverting you, my gallant man. And I'm making a novena for the sergeant, so you'll have to find your own breakfast if you want any… I've taken the wee boy into his mother, and our two are fast asleep still and likely'll stay so until I'm home."

"Yes," said Mendoza… He drank the coffee too hot. He watched her hurry off to the garage for Alison's car. Damned ridiculous, he thought. Superstitious… On her knees at the nearest one, the Church of Our Lady of Good Counsel, obeying the ancient meaningless ritual. What happened or didn't happen, to Art or Luis Mendoza or anybody else, it was just according to how the hands got dealt round.

They hadn't picked up Rosie.

The reproduced signature had made the front page of the Times, blown up twice life size. It was certainly an odd signature, almost totally illegible. Fred, Frank, something like that, and whether the second name started with a T or an L was hard to say, or what the rest of it might be. Anyway, there it was. See if anybody recognized it. It'd be in the afternoon and evening papers too.

Routine was chuming out background information, the kind of thing you collected automatically; none of it was at all suggestive.

William Marlowe was fifty-nine, and a Harvard graduate. He'd inherited an estimated ten or twelve million from his father; there'd been money in the family for some time. Oil money and other interests. They came originally from Connecticut, where the family had been since preRevolutionary days. He was married-his wife was a D.A.R. member-and had one son and two daughters. Andrea Nestor's father had been a self-made man. Self-made by gambling on the stock market. He'd died broke six and a half years ago. She had attended local private schools. No close friends had shown up; the neighbors hadn't known much about the Nestors. She seemed to be a neutral sort of woman-nothing to get hold of, good or bad.

Frank Nestor had come here from New Jersey about ten years back. No background showed at all before that; he never mentioned any relations, wrote no letters back home.

The only interesting thing turned up overnight was Larry Webster. Corliss had met him at a bar and grill on Grand Avenue for dinner, and they'd gone back to her apartment. The tail had got his name and address from the registration in his car, and called in.

Webster had a record. Mendoza rather liked the record. Lawrence Richard Webster, forty-four, Caucasian, six feet one, one ninety-five, complexion medium, eyes blue, no distinguishing marks. He'd served six months for aggravated assault in 1947, been picked up three times on a D.-and-D., and done a one-to-three for burglary.

Very nice, thought Mendoza. Just the boy friend for Corliss. And she said he'd been at her apartment on Friday night… He thought he'd like to have a little talk with Larry Webster. He put out a call on him.

He phoned down to Vice. Lieutenant Andrews had been out on a stake-out last night and wasn't expected in until about eleven. "O.K., tell him I want to see him-I'll be there."

That damned-that Goddamned stupid lush Rosie.

Who could have given them a description.

A description… You just had to try everywhere. Mendoza stood up abruptly. Palliser was a good man, but… He said to Lake, "If they pick up Webster, hold him for me. I probably won't be long."

"I know it was almost dark," he said to Miguel Garcia. It was nine-thirty. Miguel was attending summer school; he'd talked to the public-school principal, who had called Miguel out of class for him. They sat here in an empty classroom, Mendoza uncomfortably perched on the edge of a too small desk, and Miguel looked at him with round solemn eyes. "Maybe it's easier for you to tell it better in the Spanish, Miguel? I-”

"It doesn't matter, sir." They were speaking English. "My dad says we got to know English real good, to get on, see. So we do good at school and all. Well, I mean. Get a good kind of job, see. My dad works for the city, for the parks department, keeping it all nice and the grass watered, see."

"WelI, I suppose you could say I work for the city too," said Mendoza.

Miguel gave him an uncertain grin. "Yes, sir. You carry a gun?"

"Well, no," said Mendoza. "I'm afraid not. Now look, Miguel. You saw this man-the one who probably killed Roberto. He's killed other people too, and we'd like to catch him."

"I sure hope you do, sir. That was just an awful thing, Roberto. My dad said I should help the cops-oh, gee, excuse me, he said you shouldn't say cops, you don't like it-the policemen all I can, and I told that other one-"

"Well, we're cops, like it or not," said Mendoza, smiling.

"I told him all I knew, sir. All I remembered."

"Try again, Miguel. Think back, hard. He said something to you, and for some reason you felt seared of him, and walked on past-"

"Yes, sir. I don't know why I got scared. He just stood so kind of still-and then stepped out and said something like, ‘Hey, kids.' Like that. I-"

"You told the other officer he was thin and had on clothes that looked too big for him, and had a red face."

"Yes, sir."

"How did you see that, Miguel? It was nearly dark, and the man had a hat on. You said there wasn't a street-light near. And what exactly did you mean, his face was red? Like a drunk?" Miguel, living down here, would know about that: the broken red veins of a lush.

"No, it was-gee," said the boy, "I don't know how to say about it, sir. It wasn't very light, almost dark, sure, but there was some light, from the drugstore on the corner-and he- Well, I guess it was that sort of scared me. It was silly. I could see-it was red all over his face, and-sort of puckered, like. Like Pokey."

"Pokey?" said Mendoza softly.

"Yes, sir. My dad says you shouldn't make like you don't like looking at him, it isn't polite," said Miguel. "It's not his fault he got burned so awful bad like that, one time, on his face. He looks real awful, sir, one side of his face all drawed up like, and all red. But this was even worse, see, it was all over the middle of his face, and I guess it was that sort of scared me, it was silly."

"Who's Pokey?"

"Oh, he sells papers at Figueroa and Third, sir. I guess my dad's right, but-well, anyway, this guy was worse, see. I told the other policeman. Red all over his face, and-”

"Thanks very much, Miguel," said Mendoza fervently.