Mark of Murder

TWELVE

"A real break," he said. "Something more than definite-it might lead us to him in the next twelve hours. Evidently a bad scarring, from an old burn-red scar-tissue and the skin puckered, you know what I mean. God, if we'd had this before-"

"My fault,” groaned Palliser. "Damn it, if I'd had the sense to press the kid more-"

"You couldn't know. It was just one of those last-resort hopes that paid off. And of course it's not a hundred per cent sure, but damn near, that that fellow Roberto stopped to talk to was the Slasher. We'll get this on the wires right now-tell everybody. Yes, and no wonder it wasn't spotted in those bars, you can't see your hand in front of your face-"

"But why the hell didn't that desk clerk spot it?" said Dwyer.

"Telfer didn't spot it," said Mendoza exasperatedly, "because that night he was probably so full of cheap port when the Slasher came in, he wouldn't have noticed if the man had been painted bright green with red polka dots. I dropped in on him last night. I'd have a guess that, with cops all around, maybe last night's the first time he's dared risk drinking on the job again. It's not a very high-class place but all the same, if the owner or manager found out, Telfer would get fired safe enough. He's the kind who can carry it off-he looked just a little high, you know, and probably if I'd asked for a room he'd have assigned me one and found the right key, automatically. The way they say sleepwalkers never fall over anything. But he'd seen me before and didn't recognize me. I don't think he'd remember now that I came in last night."

"Tight enough to pull a blank, in other words. That's something all right," said Palliser. "I'll be damned. And of course that's why he was so cagey about giving a description. But at least he didn't mislead us by making up some description, and now we've got this-"

"You think he hasn't misled us?" said Dwyer. "So maybe last night wasn't the first time he'd taken the chance since. Maybe he was carrying a load on Friday night and doesn't know whether Art came in or not."

"?Que demonio!" said Mendoza. "I hadn't got that far. My God, that could be so. And we'll have to tackle him on it to make sure… Hell. Jimmy, get this news about the Slasher's scar relayed out-with every cop in town looking for something as noticeable as that, we ought to lay hands on him inside twenty-four hours anyway."

"I've only got one head and two hands," complained Sergeant Lake. "Sure, that's urgent, I'll get it out, but could somebody give me a hand on this damn appointment book? I've been phoning for two days and haven't made a dent in it."

Which was understandable. Building up the fictitious large practice for Nestor, the Corliss woman had scribbled down nearly a hundred names throughout the book.

Under the circumstances, most of them had been very common names, and throughout the county area the same names made up long lists in all five phone books. And every name had to be checked out, that its owner had never been a patient of Dr. Nestor's, if they were going to prove that on her. It was, in fact, one hell of a job. Mendoza suggested that Dwyer lend a hand, and Dwyer groaned.

But as he started downstairs Mendoza felt a great relief at this new break: something as glaringly obvious as that disfigurement ought to mean that they'd pick up the Slasher within hours. Not too many people, even in a city as big as this, would possess such a disfigurement; and he seemed to be keeping inside the one area. Check every rooming house, every flophouse-run extra cars… With any luck, and God knew they were due for some luck, they should get him now. And before he used his knife again…

He found Lieutenant Andrews just arriving and followed him in. "When did you get back?" asked Andrews. "I thought-oh, sure, they'd let you know about Hackett. How is he?… Hell of a thing. Do I come into it?" He yawned and sat down.

"Late night?”

"I sometimes wish I was down in Traffic or somewhere," said Andrews. "Or Records-that must be a nice peaceful place. I never used to believe it, but I'm beginning to-that sins don't get committed until after midnight. I didn't get home until five."

"Too bad. Well, what I want to know is, Percy, do you remember a woman named Margaret Corliss? I don't know whether she was calling herself that then, but an unspecified while ago you evidently had her in for questioning? He described her in detail.

Andrews leaned back and shut his eyes. "It rings a bell," he said. "It definitely rings a bell. Wait a minute, now. Traces of a Cockney accent, you said? What the hell was it on? Oh, my God, yes, sure, it was that Sally-Ann thing. Pierce"-he raised his voice to the sergeant outside-"look up the records on that beauty salon thing-two, three years back-you know, the Finn sisters."

"Have to dig for it," said Pierce. "O.K."

"Twin sisters," said Andrews, "named Finn. Ran this Sally-Ann Beauty Shoppe. Which was a blind for an abortion mill. The Corliss woman was an employee-the only employee. It comes back to me-"

"Very nice, very nice," said Mendoza. "You couldn't prove she was in on the deal?"

"We tried, but no. She is, if I remember rightly, a very canny customer. Kept her head, registered shocked indignation all the way, and there wasn't a thing to tie her in. Just the strong probability, you know."

"That's my girl," said Mendoza. "I think, with luck, we'll get her this time."

"They will go and do it once too often," said Andrews. "She tried it on her own and got involved in a homicide, I take it."

"Not exactly that way," said Mendoza. He was outlining his ideas about that when the sergeant came in with a manila folder. "Dates," said Mendoza. "Let's look at some dates."

Vice had got interested in the Sally-Ann Beauty Shoppe in May of 1961, three years and two months ago. The sisters had been arrested in mid-June, and investigation had continued for a week or so.

"Yes," said Mendoza. "How nice. Frank Nestor graduated from his chiropractic course that very June. He also had a legacy about that time-a little earlier-only it wasn't a legacy. Five thousand bucks. I do wonder, now, if that doesn't represent his first job in this line."

Andrews made an incredulous sound. "Five G's? For a lock-picking job? I've run into a lot in that trade, but I never heard of prices like that."

"No, it does seem a bit steep. Well, anyway, for whatever reason, he's thinking it might be very profitable to set himself up in that trade. He's inexperienced, and he sees right away that the main difficulty is publicity. The right kind of publicity. And-I suppose the Sally-Ann business got press coverage-one morning he opens his paper, and lo, here's mention of a woman who's recently been involved in such a business, and reading between the lines he could make out that it's only for lack of evidence you're not holding her. Very likely her address was given-it usually is. I'll have to check with the papers. But, yes, I can see him waiting for the all-clear until he saw she'd been released without charges, and then going to see her and propositioning her. Another little piece of the puzzle, explaining how they could have got together. Well, this fills in a little, thanks very much."

"Good luck on it," said Andrews through another yawn.

He got back to his office just in time to take Alison's call. When he heard her voice he found he was gripping the phone too hard, and felt a sudden constriction in his chest. "Luis-Luis darling-they just called, the hospital I mean-"

"Yes, amada."

"They think he's just a little better! Oh, the nurse was awfully cautious and-you know-roundabout, and said it didn't mean he'll be all right, he could easily have a relapse-you know how they are-but his blood pressure's up a little and his pulse is better. I didn't know if they'd call you, and I- But it's got to mean-"

"Yes," he said. "Good news. We don't know whether it meansThanks, querida… "

He'd just put the phone down when Palliser came in, smiling. "The hospital just called, he's better, his pulse-"

"I know. But they're still not waving any flags. And there's the other question."

"Yes, there's that. But it's something."

"Something," said Mendoza. "And the more I think about that, the more-confusing-it looks. How the hell did it happen, let alone why? I don't know-" He passed a hand over his forehead. "Like to take a little ride with me before lunch?"

The first difficulty about it was, he thought, how had Art been put down~and out? If it had been Elger, no question there; so, on one like Elger, if he'd had reason to suspect him, Hackett would have been watchful-but Elger was enough bigger to have taken him.

But anybody else they knew of in either case would scarcely be a match for Hackett. Larry Webster was big, and he might be tough, but the women… Of course there was that truck-driver husband of one of Nestor's girl friends; he ought to go and see her, get what details on that he could.

And he hadn't asked the Elgers where they'd been on Tuesday night.

Cliff Elger, who had the hell of a temper. And also a reputation and a good business, which he'd want to protect.

"Just ahead," said Palliser beside him. "Stop here."

Mendoza pulled up the Ferrari and they got out. "We can probably see some traces," said Palliser. He led Mendoza up thirty feet and pointed silently.

This road wound up into the hills above Hollywood, through one of many little canyons. The lots were cut out of the hillside, and many of the houses looked down on the road from twenty or thirty feet up; a good many of them were set back, behind trees, fifty or sixty feet. Here and there the hill at one side or the other fell away, and dropped rather abruptly down to a tiny box canyon. There had been a cycle of dry winters, and the underbrush looked scrubby and brown-tall wild grass, a little sage, wild flowering shrubs. Few trees; these foothills didn't grow many trees except those deliberately planted.

At the roadside here, above a steep drop of several hundred feet, there were still traces in the loose earth where they'd taken casts of the tire marks. Some of the marks still showed. Palliser led him across the road and showed him others-the wheel marks of a car pointed straight across the road toward that drop. There had been a two-bar post and rail fence, and about ten feet of it was carried away. It had never been intended as a barrier, being only a couple of feet high; white-painted, it was meant for a guideline at night. No street lights up here, and not every house had a light by its drive.

Where the Ford had gone over, a great swath was cut in the underbrush, ending about two hundred feet down where a young pepper tree had been violently uprooted. "If that hadn't stopped him," said Palliser, "he'd have gone on down another hundred feet. God. And the ignition on-it could have gone up like--"

"Yes. Maybe that was intended," said Mendoza. "X wouldn't have noticed that tree in the dark." He looked around. The nearest house was just a glimpsed roofline about fifty yards away. "We've been very glib about this," he said slowly.

"I don't get you."

"Well, _in the first place, this is something very damned unusual," said Mendoza. "Not a cop getting attacked, but getting attacked in this way. Why did it happen?"

"He found out something on--"

"Yes, I know we said that. But, so he did, and X somehow managed to put him down and out. Why did X go to some trouble to fake this accident?"

"Because, obviously-"

"How much easier it would have been simply to-well, for instance, bash him again until X was sure he was dead, and leave him in the handiest dark street. Or-well, the point is, to start with, this is probably a long way from wherever the first attack happened-"

"Which is probably why," Palliser pointed out.

"Yes, that could be. What's in my mind," said Mendoza, "is a funny little discrepancy. Look, John. After the initial attack, wherever and whyever and however it was made, X could have disassociated himself in several much easier ways. He didn't need to make it look like an accident in order to disassociate himself. As I say, he could have bashed Art's head in, left him in an alley, to make it look like a mugger. But he went to all this trouble instead. What does that say?"

"He's overcautious?" guessed Palliser, following slowly.

"I don't see what-"

"We said, to disassociate himself, he set up this faked accident. lf he was working alone, he went to quite a little trouble on it. Another thing, was there any reason he picked this particular road? Was he familiar with it, for some reason? It'd be lonely and dark, but I don't think it's the kind of road to appeal to neckers, somehow… Quite a little trouble. He'd have to drive up here, from wherever it happened. Stage the accident. Then he'd have to walk down, in the dark, to where he could pick up a bus-because he wouldn't have risked a cab, he might be remembered if we ever did ask-though at that he might have, considering. And you know, John, if it was after ten-thirty or so, there wouldn't be any buses running. Except a very occasional one to L.A.-I'll look it up-only about two between midnight and 6 AM., I think."

"Well…" said Palliser. He didn't get what was bothering Mendoza. Mendoza with quite a reputation as the smart boy, but for the first time Palliser got what Hackett meant when he said that Mendoza had a tortuous mind, looked for complexities and imagined subtleties where they didn't exist.

Mendoza got out a cigarette and lit it, carefully stepping on the match to bury it in loose earth. "I will grant you," he said, "that anybody wanting to set up a fake accident around here would be likely to think right off of a car going over a cliff. Brakes failing, or a moment's inattention, on a lot of roads around here… My own first thought would be, somewhere up in Griffith Park. But it's the summer season, the Greek Theater's open, and there'd be crowds up there, maybe to notice something. Or maybe, as I say, he knew this road for some reason."

"Yes," said Palliser patiently.

"Anyway, he was taking pains at it. Some effort and time spent.? Conforme?"

"Yes, sure."

"And then," said Mendoza, "when he came to the actual faking of the accident, our clever, cautious X did it in the damnedest silliest way possible. As if he thought we'd take one casual look, and say, ‘Too bad, the poor fellow must have missed that bend in the road,' and never take a second look. As if he hadn't any idea that the Ford would leave tire marks for us to see, that we can take casts of-that we'd obviously look for skid marks and not find any. He'd used Art's own belt to tie him up, and he took a little trouble putting it back on him. It wouldn't have taken another thirty seconds to get Art's prints on the wheel and gear selector, but instead, he just wiped them both clean, and of course that told the story right there. He had heard of fingerprinting. But apart from that-"

"I don't see what you're getting at," said Palliser.

"Apart from that," said Mendoza, "either he didn't know that police forces are quite bright these days, with scientific labs and all the rest of it. Or he didn't care."

"I don't-"

"We built up a nice theory here," said Mendoza, and he was looking tired, a little sad, a little grim. "We said, wishful thinking maybe, it must have been that Art had found out something definite on one of these cases, and whoever he'd dropped on managed to jump him, put him out of action. And set up this fake accident so he couldn't pass on the information… You've been a cop long enough to know that the obvious thing is generally what happened. just look at the surface facts here and tell me whether we weren't reaching a little far out, toward the detective-story plot."

"Well, it's damned offbeat, sure, but-"

"He meant to see Telfer," said Mendoza. "We don't know whether he did. But that's not a very savory district around there. And didn't we say, not many men could put Art down and out just so easy. I'll tell you what's in my mind. just a little easier than I can see that offbeat, implausible plot, I can see him-maybe on the way back to his car-getting jumped by three or four or five louts. Juvenile louts, maybe riding high on liquor or H. And the louts, rolling him, finding out he's a cop, and saying, ‘Hey, let's have some fun with the cop.' And talking it over, forgetting about his wallet-I know he wasn't robbed-looking for his car, finding it. Tying him up in case he came to, while they argued about how to have fun with the big cop- Maybe riding around in both cars awhile, talking it over. And finally- And by that time so high they didn't take any special care about it. They'd have been disappointed the gas didn't explode. Can you see that?"

Palliser said, "Damnation. That's a story. Looking at it like that-just as a separate thing, I mean- Hell, I've got to say it'd be just a little more likely- I mean, well, expectable, if that's the word for it. But there's nothing to say-"

"We're like lawyers," said Mendoza. "We have to go by precedent. The obvious is usually just what happened… I'll just say, let's keep open minds. It could be the way we thought-but it could be something altogether different too." He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it carefully. "Let's get back and see if they've picked up Webster."

At about the same time, Sergeant Nesbitt of the Wilcox Street detective bureau was feeling pleased with himself. There'd been quite a spate of break-ins lately, with practically nothing to go looking on, and it was gratifying to have enough to make a charge on one of them. Three young punks just starting to accumulate records; a good many cops would be seeing a good deal of them from now on. He just thought about that in passing; he wasn't a particularly imaginative man, and crooks were just crooks to him. It was his job to deal with them. He dealt with them very efficiently.

These particular crooks had had a couple of weapons on them-tvvo guns and a switch-blade knife.

He finished writing up his notes on it and said casually on his way out to lunch, "Oh, Bill. You better send those cannisters down to headquarters Ballistics. They're so damn fussy about checking everything. just in case."

"O.K., will do," said Bill, and subsequently sent them, by way of an annoyed plainclothesman who had hoped to finish the Times crossword puzzle before anything came up.

The man full of hate was feeling something new and pleasant now.

He was important. He was the Goddamnedest most important guy in