Mark of Murder

THIRTEEN

Just after four o'clock a very angry man burst in on Sergeant Lake and demanded, "This is the murder office, where they hunt the murderers? I will sue you all! Every man in the police I will sue! Infame! You call me a murderer, and it's a lie! You slander my good name!" He waved a copy of the Times in one hand and shook his other fist under Lake's nose. He was a little fat man about fifty, with a few strands of black hair plastered across a round bald head, a round olive-skinned face, and a pair of luxurious braggadocio mustaches. "Scoundrels!" he said richly. "I denounce you!"

Every man in the office heard him and came to find out what was happening. Mendoza said, "What's this all about?" and the little man swung to face him.

"Who is the chief man here? It is an outrage! My name you publish in the paper, and say it is that of this madman who kills children! I will sue you all-"

"Now just quiet down and come into my office, and let's hear all about this, Mr…?"

"Oh, you pretend you don't know my name! I am Tosci as you very well know- Francesco Tosci-isn't it plain to see in my own writing here? And I'm a respectable man, never in my life have I killed anyone-it is infamous!" He glared at Mendoza. "In all the newspapers, plain to be read, my name!"

Mendoza exchanged a glance with Palliser. "Let's see what you're talking about," said Mendoza.

Mr. Tosci was more than willing. He flung down the Times and with a shaking finger pointed out the reproduced illegible signature from the Liverpool Arms register. "My signature, it is-this I admit-but I do not kill people! It is-"

Mendoza and Palliser got him soothed down between them, with elaborate apologies, and Mr. Tosci sat down, sizzling only gently. Mr. Tosci was, it appeared, a barber, with his own shop over on Flower Street, and he had never so much as had a moving-violation ticket. He had not seen the newspapers today until a customer left a Times behind and, in tidying up, Mr. Tosci had picked it up and to his horror recognized the reproduced signature on the front page. He had rushed straight out, leaving the shop in his assistant's charge, to come here and accuse them of slander. He- "Libel," murmured Palliser.

"Me!" said Mr. Tosci. "My name all over the papers, and saying I am this fiend who-"

Mendoza apologized again. "But you were at that hotel that night, Mr. Tosci? You signed the register when?"

The little barber calmed down enough to explain. They would understand as fellow men that these things happened, it was a great pity but one was only human. He had had a little argument with his wife, and there had been a few hot words, and in the end Mr. Tosci had stormed out of the house and decided to spend the night at a hotel. "Women," said Mr. Tosci with a sigh. "Always the one word more. I thought by the next day she would be cooled down." He had gone to the Liverpool Arms more or less at random, and been given a room, spent an innocent night in it, and gone to his shop at nine the next morning, after having breakfast at a Manning's coffee shop on the way.

"And why you are thinking-"

"Yes," said Mendoza. "I want Telfer, and I want him now. Somebody go and get him! Now, Mr. Tosci, if you'll just wait a little and let me explain-"

"Who is this Telfer? It is an outrage--"

But they got him to wait, with explanation. Scarne went out in a hurry to pick up Telfer, who was located in his shabby room at the hotel, reading a sports sheet and drinking port. Scarne hustled him into his clothes and brought him in.

"That's the man," said Tosci instantly as Telfer was ushered into Mendoza's office. "He will say, he was the man I paid for the room, and he gave me the key."

"Well, Telfer!" said Mendoza. "Did this man come into the hotel the same night the Slasher did?"

Telfer looked acutely uneasy. "I-guess he did. Sure."

"You don't remember, do you?" Mendoza's tone was cold. "You don't remember because you were drunk. You were so drunk you pulled a complete blank. You carry it fine, you look just a bit high, but it was the hell of a lot more than that, wasn't it?"

The man licked his lips. "No, it wasn't-I was all right-I wouldn't do a thing like that, I promised Mr. Morley-"

"Oh, so you'd been found drunk on duty before?"

"No, I-only once,” said Telfer sullenly.

"You're going to stay here until you admit it," said Mendoza. "You were drunk. When Mr. Tosci here came in- What time?" he broke off to ask Tosci.

"It would have been about ten o'clock, sir."

"-you were still competent enough to get him to sign the register, give him a key. But when the Slasher came in, some time later, you were blind drunk. My God, you don't even know whether he came alone, do you? You said so, but he might have brought that first victim with him. Yes. You handed him a key at random, and he never signed the register at all. Did he? Look at me! Did you remember that you'd handed out two keys that night, to two different men, or was it a complete blank? Well?"

"No- I--you got it all wrong. There wasn't-it was just him, I remember all right-"

"Stop trying to cover up and let's hear the truth for a change! Do you remember anything about that night? Do you remember what room number you gave Mr. Tosci?"

"No, it's too far back, I-"

"It was number 118," said Tosci.

"Yes," said Mendoza, suppressing rage. The room where the body had been found was 214. As that had been the last signature in the register they'd taken it for granted it belonged to the Slasher. On Telfer's word.

"Damn you," he said rigidly, "do you know how much you've delayed us on this? Those other four victims are your direct responsibility! If you'd been in your right mind you could have given us a full description that next day, and ten to one we'd have got him within hours. How does it feel, Telfer, to be responsible for four murders? Two women, one of them pregnant, and a man and a little boy? They'd probably all be alive now, Telfer, if you hadn't been drunk that night! Do you realize that?"

"You can't lay it on me!" gulped Telfer. "I-that's not so-"

"You were drunk, weren't you? If you go on denying it, you know, I'm going to begin to think that you knew the other man-the Slasher-and had some reason to let him have a room without registering. Did you?"

"Jesus, no, I- All right, if I got to tell you, I guess I was high. Only for God's sake don't go telling Morley, or he'd throw me out! I didn't mean to, and it was the first time since- I'd had an awful bad headache all that day, see, and I thought maybe a couple glasses o' wine'd settle it, that's-"

"Medicinal purposes," said Mendoza sardonically. "You'd had a good deal more than that by the time Mr. Tosci came in, hadn't you? Do you remember him at all?"

Telfer looked at Tosci and said, "Kind of. Listen, you won't go telling old Morley, will-"

"I wouldn't doubt he'll be finding out for himself. Do you remember anything about the man who came in later on? Anything at all? Such as a scar on his face?"

Telfer suddenly came apart. "I mighta never seen him, I pulled a real blank-see, first I knew about that at all, when they found the body, and it was 214, and 214'd been empty last I knew-and there was this name on the register I didn't remember so I figured I musta waited on him sorta automatic- I never-"

"Didn't you know that two rooms had been rented overnight? The maids-"

"I don't go talking with them," said Telfer sullenly. "How would I know? I'm only on the desk at night. If there wasn't no other name on the book-"

"You don't remember anything at all about the second man?"

"Mister, I pulled a blank, I said. I don't know if he was white or black. Listen, if old Morley-you won't go and give it out, will-"

"All right, that's all," said Mendoza. "You can go. But you might give some thought to what I told you, Telfer-if you hadn't been drunk that night those four people would probably still be alive today, and the Slasher would be in the County Jail instead of roaming around loose."

"I didn't have nothing to do-it was this real bad headache, see," whined Telfer.

"?Basta!" said Mendoza. "Get out of my sight-somebody else can take a statement from you."

Telfer shuffled out quickly, and Tosci, wholly soothed and friendly now, shook his head gravely and said that he had always believed it, foolishness caused more evil than wickedness.

"A profound remark," said Mendoza wearily. "We're very sorry you've been upset, but you can see how the mistake was made.”

"Naturally, naturally! If I had not been so outraged, sir, I would have realized that our fine smart policemen would not make such a mistake without reason-and I must apologize for anything I said when

I-"

"Yes, yes, quite all right, Mr. Tosci."

When they'd got rid of the little man Palliser said disgustedly, "It shows you how even what looks like solid evidence can be misleading. That damned old lush-my God, if he'd given us a description then!"

"Way the hand got dealt," said Mendoza.

Sergeant Lake looked in and said they'd finally picked up Larry Webster and he was here.

Mendoza said, "O.K., shoot him in." He felt very disinclined to talk to Larry Webster, and his head was aching slightly.

Palliser asked, "Anything wrong? You look-"

"Nothing. Nothing new," said Mendoza.

He had dropped in at the hospital after lunch, and for the first time got hold of the senior doctor on the case-MacFarlane, who had done the operation. MacFarlane, unlike some doctors, didn't mind explaining to laymen. He was a tall cadaverous old man with shrewd blue eyes.

"You understand," he had said, "that there's no certainty about such a case. He is holding his own, but I'm making no predictions as to whether he'll ever regain consciousness. If and when he does, it then remains to be seen whether there's any permanent brain damage."

"What effect might that take, Doctor?"

"Quite impossible to say. It would depend on what area of the brain was most severely damaged. We might find that his memory was entirely gone, for instance, or his speech. We're beginning to find out more about the brain, you know, and we do know that-in layman's terms-each section controls different functions. I have known of cases where the learned skills, such as reading and writing, were lost. I'll not minimize the situation, sir. At worst, if there's permanent damage, he could be a hopeless mental invalid, if he lives. At best, he could come out of this coma safe and sound with his mind intact. I was hoping to see his wife-"

"l don't think she should be told that," said Mendoza.

"I've always found that a policy of frankness is best. If the worst should occur, it would not be as great a shock."

"Well, I don't agree with you," said Mendoza bluntly. He remembered how his grandmother used to say, "Don't run to meet trouble. If she's got to be told sometime, I'll do it. I'll ask you not to tell her, Doctor. For one thing, she's expecting a child."

"Oh, I hadn't realized that. Well, perhaps in that case… And of course we'll hope that she need never know. It's quite possible that he'll recover entirely, though it was a massive fracture." MacFarlane shook his head.

"When will we know?"

"When and if he regains consciousness. Frankly, I'd be feeling much more hopeful if he wasn't keeping in such deep coma. It's been, what, around sixty hours now, and he's showing no signs of restlessness, which would be encouraging as a symptom of returning consciousness. When and if he should seem to be regaining consciousness we'll inform you at once, as I want someone who knows him, preferably not his wife, to be there when he does. That would be the immediate test, you see. Whether or not he would instantly recognize an old friend, understand what was said to him by such a friend."

"I see. Could you give me any idea how long it might be?"

"Sir," said MacFarlane sadly, "there are cases in a number of hospitals where a person has lived in a coma for months. He might regain consciousness tomorrow and recover quite normally, or he might lie like this for weeks-or he might die tonight. I don't know."

"That's frank anyway," said Mendoza evenly. "Thanks very much…

"

He looked at Larry Webster with dislike. The ordinary part-time, small-time pro, and looking it. A grown-up lout, with a graying crew cut, powerful shoulders; he had a rather stupid, weak face, with a loose mouth and small eyes. He was dressed neatly in working clothes, tan cord slacks and a shirt to match. You wouldn't have turned to look at him on the street, but Mendoza knew the type.

"Sit down, Webster," he said flatly.

Webster sat. "This is my day off, see, I din't know you fellows wanted to see me about anything, naturally, how could I? I been going straight ever since I got out last time, I got a good job at a garage, sir, the boss'll tell you. If I'd known you'd wanted to see me- I'm clean, you ask me anything you want-"

That type. Mendoza looked at him reflectively and then without speaking to him went out and told Sergeant Lake to put in a rush on a search warrant for Webster's living quarters.

"Where does he live, by the way?"

"Cheap apartment hotel out on Olive. They picked him up at a bowling alley."

Mendoza went back to his office. "You know Margaret Corliss, Webster."

"Sure, sure, I know Madge. Madge is a nice girl; we been, you know, going around some together."

"How long have you known her?"

"Oh, gee, quite a while, I guess."

"Make a guess."

"Well-four, five years maybe."

"So you knew her when she was working at the Sally-Ann Beauty Shoppe?"

"I guess that was the name of a place she worked once, yeah."

"Where the proprietors were running a little mill."

"The cops said so," said Webster. "I don't know anything about that, nor Madge didn't either. Madge never suspected such a thing, she told the cops all she knew and they saw she didn't know anything about-"

"Insufficient evidence," said Mendoza, and laughed. "Sure. Did you know about the mill Dr. Nestor was operating? The doctor she was working for until he got himself murdered last Tuesday night?"

"Well, I knew she was working for this doctor, but he wasn't up to anything like that, Madge wouldn't-"

"She was working as a beauty operator at that shop? She's a qualified operator?"

"Sure, I guess so. That's right"

"Then how come she took a job as an office nurse? Quite a switch."

"Oh well, she said she thought she'd like a change, kind of. I guess it was like that. And this doctor, he didn't need a regular trained nurse, it was just somebody to-you know, answer the phone and put down about appointments and-"

"She certainly did that," said Mendoza without a smile. "Where were you last Friday night?"

"Friday night-well, I'd have to think--"

"Then think," said Mendoza… Because, he thought, while the Corliss woman wouldn't have had any reason to murder Nestor, still there was something in that part of the puzzle. Art Hackett was no fool. He had started to suspect what was behind the Nestor setup, and maybe by Friday night he'd seen through it. And seen that possibly, if Nestor had kept any records of his illicit patients, that list would bear looking into. It could be that some frightened, ashamed young innocent had confessed to her parents, who had threatened Nestor with exposure-something like that. Hell, they didn't even know that the gun hadn't been Nestor's. Or there could have been an argument about money with a new patient's boy friend. Anyway, that list would be interesting: and if Hackett had seen through the Corliss woman's actions that Wednesday morning, he could have guessed that she'd have it. If, of course, there was one. And gone to see her…

"Think hard," he said. "Miss Corliss says you were at her apartment?

"Sure, that's right," said Webster. "I remember now. We had dinner together-"

"Where?"

"Uh-some grill out on Olympic. And we went back to her place and-and played cards-"

"?Damelo! " said Mendoza. "All very innocent. And how late did you stay, playing cards?"

"I don't know. Maybe midnight?

"Did anyone come calling on Miss Corliss that night while you were there?"

What looked like genuine surprise showed in Webster's eyes. "Why, no, sir."

"A sergeant of detectives? Sergeant Hackett?"

"No, sir. I never heard that name. Excuse me, why you asking all this, sir? Madge wouldn't be up to anything wrong, honest, sir. She was awful sorry about Dr. Nestor getting shot like that, it was some burglar broke in, wasn't it, and-"

"I'll bet she was sorry. Suddenly losing a profitable job. Do you know what cut he gave her?"

Webster shifted uneasily. "I dunno what you mean. Listen, we're both straight, Madge never-"

"That's fine," said Mendoza. "Then you won't object to my having your apartment searched, as we searched Miss Corliss'."

After a moment Webster said, "Why, I got no objection. I'm clean."

"Let's just see if the warrant's come through… Did Miss Corliss ever give you anything to keep for her?"

"No, sir."

"If she did, better tell me now," said Mendoza.

"No, she never. I don't know what you're getting at. I told you all I know, can I go now?"

"No," said Mendoza. "You'll stay right here until a couple of men have looked through your place." He looked at his watch; they'd be night-shift men. He took Webster out to the anteroom. The search warrant was on its way up; Sergeant Lake was just leaving. Mendoza told Sergeant Farrell, just coming on, about the warrant, to send out a couple of men.

He went back to his office and called Alison to tell her he'd be late. Possibly not home at all until God knew when.

"All right, darling, we won't expect you… Yes, she's fine, we've been so relieved ever since they called this morning? Alison laughed. "And, Luis, Mairi's taking all the credit for it-her solemn novena beginning to work, you know!”

"One good Christian soul to intercede for the heathen," he said. "Yes. Expect me when you see me, hermosa."

Time enough to tell them, if…

He put the phone down.

It was a definite headache now. He hadn't wanted much lunch, and come to think he hadn't had any breakfast. Ought to go out and get something.

Sixty hours, said Dr. MacFarlane. My God, thought Mendoza in vague surprise, is this still only Monday? These long, long days, since he'd ripped open that yellow envelope in the Bermuda hotel room…

It was seven-fifty, and he'd taken two aspirin Sergeant Farrell had found for him, which hadn't done much for the headache, when Glasser and Higgins came back from Larry Webster's apartment. Higgins said, "Sorry, we'd have been here before but we thought they ought to be checked for prints, just in case. Webster's are all over most of 'em-they checked Records." He laid a manila envelope on the desk; he was looking pleased.

Mendoza upended it and a dozen little glass ampoules rolled out. The kind containing one set dose each, for convenience in filling a hypodermic syringe. They were all neatly labeled. Morphine.

"?Que bello! " said Mendoza. "Where?"

Higgins smiled. "In the middle of a couple of pounds of sugar in a cannister in the kitchen. A lot of people don't realize we're halfway bright."

Mendoza said, "Fetch him in.”

Webster came in smiling ingratiatingly. "Now you found out I'm clean, I never-"

Mendoza crooked a finger at him. "Come here, friend. Where'd you get these pretty little things? Are you breaking in on the big time, with dope?"

Webster looked at the ampoules and said despondently,

"Oh hell. Hell and damnation. I never figured you'd fnd 'em where I hid 'em. But they're not mine. Honest, sir, I never- Madge asked me to hold 'em for her. I'm not taking no narco rap, not even for Madge. I'm leveling with you, they're hers, see-"

Mendoza said resignedly to Higgins, "Go bring her in, George. Fast. Tell Farrell to get the warrants, Webster and Corliss-narco possession. And he might send out for a sandwich and coffee."

"With pleasure," said Higgins, and went out.

"You can't hold me- I didn't have anything to do-it was Madge!

I-"

"Sit down, Larry," said Mendoza tiredly. "You're going nowhere for a while."