Mark of Murder

TWENTY

The impassive manservant blinked up at Mendoza. "I'm afraid Mr. Marlowe has just finished breakfast, sir, I don't know whether he'll see you-"

"Oh, he'll see me!" said Mendoza. He walked in past the man. "Where is he?"

His tone made the man blink again; a rather sly smile crept over his mouth. "In the library, sir."

Mendoza led Palliser down to that door and opened it. Marlowe, in a handsome tailored silk dressing gown, was sitting at the desk opening his mail. He glanced up, and his expression darkened. "What do you-"

"I've come for you, Marlowe," said Mendoza. "I've run across a lot of stupid killers before now, but you're one of the silliest. I want you on the charge of murdering Francis Nestor and assauly with intent to murder on Arthur Hackett. Will you wait for the warrant here or downtown?"

Marlowe went an ugly red. "You must be a lunatic, sir. I don't know what you're- That's quite absurd! Why should I have wanted-Paul! My servant can tell you that I was here all that evening, and I'm sure you must- Ah, Paul. Just-"

"I'll do the asking," said Mendoza. "Was Mr. Marlowe here, from about eight forty-five on, a week ago Tuesday night?"

The man said, wooden-faced, "He certainly came in around then, sir. He came to this room and said he didn't want to be disturbed. I didn't see Mr. Marlowe again that evening, sir."

"Interesting," said Mendoza.

"But of course you knew I was here, man! Why on earth-"

"I can tell you the whole story now," said Mendoza. "And I don't give a damn about Nestor, but for what you did to Hackett, we're going to get you but good. It's never very smart to try to kill a cop, Marlowe. First let me ask you if you own a gun?"

Marlowe said coldly, "You needn't think you'll get away with such highhanded- Yes, I own several guns, but-"

The manservant coughed. "There is a small amateur target-shooting range in the basement, sir, beside the recreation room. The young gentlemen-"

Marlowe said furiously, "You may go, Paul!"

Mendoza sat down on the arm of a chair. "And that just about puts the lid on your stupidity, doesn't it? You did get rid of the gun, and the way you did that wasn't such a bad idea either, but you never really expected to be connected to the case in any way. You stupid bastard, don't you realize we can dig all those slugs out of the sandbags or whatever your target backs up to down there, and find quite a few to match up to that gun that killed Nestor?"

Marlowe took a step back, and his mouth tightened. "I had no reason-"

"You had a couple of very good reasons. You want to know what I know? I'll tell you," said Mendoza. "A little over three years ago you found that your youngest daughter Susan had got herself, as they say, in trouble. You think the hell of a lot of your line old family name, don't you? Yes, so maybe you didn't think the young man was good enough for her-inconceivable that he wouldn't have jumped at marrying this kind of money! Well, you didn't have any contacts with an abortionist, and anyway you wanted to be sure of a good safe job. And you thought of Frank Nestor, the bright young man you'd staked to the chiropractic course. It's quite a serious training these days, and he'd know enough to do the job and do it nice and clean. And you didn't think he'd jib much at it. He didn't, did he? Maybe it wasn't that Easter weekend she was supposed to be yachting, but maybe it was too. Anyway, he obliged you-and Susan-for, I think, the cancellation of his debt and the nice round sum of five grand… How am I doing, Marlowe?"

Marlowe sat down again in the desk chair. "That's-no, I-"

"We'1l cut this short," said Mendoza abruptly. "That was that. I don't suppose you knew you'd put ideas in Nestor's head and he'd set up a profitable little abortion mill. But he did like the long green, didn't he, and when your daughter recently got engaged he saw how he might get some more out of you. For his silence." Mendoza smiled. "Has she, maybe, caused you a little trouble, Marlowe? The wild type? So you were only too pleased at the prospect of getting her respectably married? And in this one case Nestor could have told what he knew. Could have told the young man-or his parents-how he knew she'd once been in the market for an abortion, because you had asked him to do it, which of course he'd righteously refused to do. Not a thing a young man-or his parents-would like to hear about his fiancee, was it? Especially a young man named Baxter W. Stevens III. And you saw right then that if you paid him once-this time-every time Nestor ran a little short, or was in the mood, he was going to threaten that again. And, yes, you're very proud of your name and your social position, aren't you? You'd feel a lot happier if the one outsider who knew about that was-out of the way.

"So you agreed to pay, and you set up an appointment at his office, a week ago last night. But you didn't bring money-you brought a gun. You shot him, I think, almost as soon as you got into the office. And just before you fired, when he saw the gun, he tried to grab your arm. But you didn't know he'd got a loose button off your sleeve, did you? No. You didn't know that until- "You set up the fake burglary by breaking open the door, stealing the petty cash. And you came home satisfied that the dumb cops wouldn't look beyond the end of their noses. Oh, just in case there was any little investigation, you got rid of the gun-or did you do that hoping some shady character down there would pick it up and after his next arrest get charged with Nestor on the strength of the gun? Very possibly. You're only smart up to a point, Marlowe.

"Then on Friday night-"

"I won't listen to this--this rigmarole," said Marlowe rigidly. "Insulting me like this in my own-"

"You'll listen! On Friday night you played friend of the family, paid the little call on Andrea Nestor. It was just bad luck-and not all his, Marlowe!-that you were wearing the same suit, and that Sergeant Hackett came calling just after you… Yes, you were a little surprised yesterday when a man came to paw through your wardrobe, weren't you? And considerably upset. It was just chance again that it was your servant's day off and you could tell the dumb cop, no, you hadn't given away any clothes recently. I think I'd like to hear what your Paul has to say about that."

"No-" said Marlowe in a high frightened voice. Mendoza jerked open the door, which wasn't quite shut. As he'd expected, the manservant was just moving away from it. Mendoza spoke his name, crooked a finger at him.

"In."

"Yes, sir?" The man looked from him to Marlowe, bland and inquiring.

"You look after Mr. Marlowe's clothes?"

"Yes, sir, you could say so."

"Has he told you to give away any of his clothes recently, or have you noticed any missing?"

"Paul-"

"Why, yes, sir," said the man in a colorless tone. "The gray summer-weight tweed, sir. He told me it was getting too shabby, to give it to the salvage people. But as a matter of fact, sir"-he coughed gently-"as it had quite a lot of wear in it still, I gave it to my brother-in-law, who is much the same-er-build as Mr. Marlowe."

Marlowe said thickly, "You're fired! Get out of this house-damn you for a-"

The manservant looked at him thoughtfully, blinking, and faded silently from the room.

"More nice available evidence," said Mendoza, smiling. "Shall we go on with the story? On Friday night, at Mrs. Nestor's apartment, Sergeant Hackett spotted that button missing from your sleeve. And you noticed him staring at your sleeve, and for the first time realized you'd lost a button. And the fact that the sergeant looked interested in that more or less told you where you'd probably lost it, didn't it? Now, he didn't know it was anything but a coincidence, it didn't tell him right away that you were the X who had shot Nestor. But he wanted to ask you questions about it, and look at the other buttons on that jacket to see whether they matched. He'd have come to see you about that later-he let you go then. But you hung around there, waiting, after you'd ostensibly left, to go back and ask Mrs. Nestor whether the sergeant had asked any questions about you. Didn't you? And you didn't keep enough out of sight, and he spotted you when he came out, so he started questioning you then. Maybe more suspiciously than he would have before, because why were you hanging around? And you panicked, didn't you? You knew that that button would be very easy to trace to you, because of your British tailoring. All we had to do was look. And this big tough sergeant knew you had a button missing-but he was the only one of us who did know. And in panic and desperation, you were idiot enough to attack him."

"I-" said Marlowe. He was shaking and white. "Please, I don't understand-how you-"

"Ordinarily, of course, you'd have stood no remote chance of putting him down, far less out. But I can see just how that happened, too. He didn't know what he had, he didn't know its importance, and he wouldn't be expecting any physical trouble from one like you, he was off guard. Shall I tell you how it went? He was standing in the street, behind his car-maybe thinking he'd almost finished with you for the time being-and you were on the curb where you'd both been standing talking. Which brought you about level with him. You hit out as hard as you could for his jaw, and you hit hard enough to catch him off balance-maybe he slipped on some oil left there-and his feet went out from under him and he crashed down on the trunk of his own car.

"And when you found he was unconscious, a really desperate notion occurred to you. You'd done one murder. If the sergeant should, say, be killed in an accident, nobody would ever know about that missing button. You could get rid of the suit, cover up.

"Well, you acted at once. Kenmore's very dark and quiet along there, there wasn't a street light near, only the little light from the apartment entrance. Nobody had heard or seen. But a dog-walker or somebody might come along at any minute, and you hurried. He was a big, heavy man, and dead weight, but they do say"-Mendoza smiled-"needs must when the Devil drives. And you look to be in pretty good condition. You pulled him around and dragged him into the car somehow. The one thing you saw at all clearly right then, I think, is that you'd have to underline the fact that he'd driven off in his own car. So you found his keys, and you drove the Ford up a block or so, to another dark, lonely spot, and parked it. He was still out-but you didn't know how badly he was hurt, you had to-immobilize him. You hadn't any rope to do it with, so you used his belt and yours. And I think you also gagged him, just in case."

Marlowe was watching him, gray-faced, as if hypnotized.

"No, you can't do this to me," he muttered distractedly. "My name-my family-disgraced- I have influence with-"

"Nobody influences the cops in this town," said Mendoza coldly. "Which you'd know if you knew more about us. But you don't know much about us, do you?…

You tried in a clumsy sort of way to give yourself an alibi, but you never really thought anybody'd look at you, did you? You left him there, and you drove home, to set up your crude little alibi here. We've just seen how easily it went to pieces. When you were sure the servant was at the back of the house you slipped out, having left your car parked in the street, and you drove up to the vicinity of Bronson and Franklin and parked it. I wouldn't put it beyond you to have left it in a public lot with an attendant! And then you took a cab back to the vicinity of Kenmore where you'd left the Ford. We'll find the cab driver without much trouble. And into the Ford again and up to that steep canyon road-"

"No, please, I-" Marlowe gasped. "The disgrace-my wife would-" He turned suddenly, blindly, pulled open a drawer; Mendoza was on his feet in a flash, but Marlowe turned holding a small revolver in shaking hands.

"I hope you won't be silly enough to use that," said Mendoza. "But you seem to be silly enough 'for anything. Didn't you think we had any sense, Marlowe? To look at the tire marks, test the car for prints? You had heard of fingerprints-you wiped yours off everything a driver would touch. But that in itself looked very funny, you know… Why Canyon Drive? Maybe you know somebody who lives in that very classy section, and knew the road? Anyway, you"-he stopped, controlling his voice to steadiness-"set up your accident, and a very God-damned stupid way you did it too, and you walked down the mile or so to where you'd left your car. You knew the rest of the family would be out late-yes, there are probably quite a few prenuptial parties going on for Susan, aren't there?… For God's sake, do you really think we're all such fools, Marlowe? I think you really did put us down as a bunch of morons. The way you went to work at it. Well, as you see, we've got a lot of nice evidence on you now, and I'm taking you-"

"No,” said Marlowe. His eyes were wild, but his hand had steadied on the gun. "No-I can't face that-the disgrace, my wife, Susan-this can't be happening-there was no way for you to find out-"

"Give me that," said Mendoza softly, advancing on him. "Let me-"

"No!" shouted Marlowe in sudden savage desperation. He sprang up and plunged for the door, slammed it behind him before Mendoza could reach it. And before Mendoza could turn the knob there was the sharp crack of a shot in the hallway outside…

They looked at the sprawled body in silence for a moment. He had put the muzzle of the gun in his mouth, and there was a little mess. "God damn him to hell!" said Mendoza viciously. "So he does get away after all! I was looking forward to seeing him pulled down in the mud-"

"Vindictive," said Palliser wryly. "Not so good for the family

… How much of that was bluff, by the way?"

"Not much of it," said Mendoza, "really. Once I knew by the button it was Marlowe, there was only one logical motive. Only one way it could have happened. Damn him. Of course, if he hadn't caught Art off guard, he'd never have stood a chance of-but-"

The colorless manservant came quietly up the hall and looked down at the body. He said to Mendoza gravely, "I thought that was a shot. The rest of the family is all out, sir. I trust you'll be attending to the-er-formalities?"

"Quite right," said Mendoza. "Are you accustomed to your employers committing suicide?"

"Dear me, no, sir," said the man. "What a tragedy. I presume, sir, you'll be wanting that suit back from my brother-in-law?"

"You presume quite right," said Mendoza, and went back to the library to call the office and an ambulance… The bastard, slipping away from him at the last minute…

He left Palliser, Scarne, and Landers to go through the house, pick up any more desultory relevant facts. So, on this one, there'd be no publicity after all, just the relevant evidence quietly attested to and the file put away marked closed. A nice discreet verdict of the usual suicide while temporarily insane, and that was that.

God damn him. To protect his precious name and position…

Still filled with cold wrath, he came into the office. "Understand you've broken the Nestor thing. Who and how?" asked Sergeant Lake.

"Marlowe-damn him." He was in no mood for long explanations. He went into his office. Dwyer was still there, fiddling nervously with the cards. It was five minutes past one. Of this new long, long day.

"I keep expecting it to ring," said Dwyer. "Damn it, they said-"

And at that moment the outside phone rang. And Sergeant Lake called in to them, "Hospital, Lieutenant." Mendoza picked up the phone. His hand tightened on it, and his mouth drew to a grim line. "Yes, Doctor… Yes. I'll be there in ten minutes-"

"Let me go," said Dwyer.

"No.” Mendoza almost ran out, toward the elevators, and went all the way down to the garage; he commandeered a patrol car and had the siren going before he was off the ramp onto Temple Street. By God, he'd have one installed in the Ferrari tomorrow.

He made it in just over ten minutes. The doctor was waiting for him; they started for the elevators. "You understand, Lieutenant, if he doesn't recognize you, or seems mentally hazy in any way, it doesn't tell us definitely that he won't make a complete recovery. After all, he has been in a deep coma for something like five and a half days. And we know something about mental therapy, too, to help. But this will be a useful-ah-test."

"Yes," said Mendoza. The elevator landed; they walked down the corridor. The hospital atmosphere was thick all about them. No noise, only a faint hint of ether, of medicines, in the air; but the aura of professional busyness, of impersonal efficiency.

There were two nurses in the room, at the far side of the bed. The rails were up on each side. One of the nurses said, "I'm sorry, Doctor, we had to discontinue the I.V. He was so restless-"

"Quite all right," said McFarland absently.

Hackett's big bulk was moving uneasily on the bed; he had thrown off the sheet. His color was bad, an ashen gray, and all the bandages looked alarming. He was muttering incoherently. "His pulse is up to nearly ninety," said the other nurse.

"Yes," said MacFarlane. "I think it should be very soon now. I'm sorry, Lieutenant, we just have to wait-”

"Yes," said Mendoza.

"Mmh… mmh…" Hackett was mumbling; he sounded to be making a desperate effort.

"How is his wife standing up?"

"All right," said Mendoza, watching Hackett.

They watched in silence as Hackett tossed and muttered. Five minutes. Ten minutes. The nurse said, "His pulse is very fast, sir, I don't like-"

MacFarlane bent over the bed and used a stethoscope. "Constitution of an ox," he murmured. "His heart's sound enough. Don't worry."

Hackett quieted down and lay still for a little while, and then quite suddenly he opened his eyes. He stared vaguely up at the ceiling for a moment, and the doctor touched Mendoza's arm and mouthed, "Wait a minute."

"His pulse is down to normal, sir," said the nurse. Hackett turned his head weakly in her direction. Mendoza stepped closer to the bed. He had his mouth open to speak Hackett's name when Hackett said, "Nurse. You're a-"

"That's right," said the nurse, smiling at him.

"Marlowe," said Hackett with great effort. "Tell-”

"Art," said Mendoza. "Art?"

Very slowly Hackett turned his head on the pillow. His blue eyes looked slightly unfocused still, and his voice came weakly in little gasps. "Luis," he said. "They-hauled you back-off vacation. Sorry. Have-a nice-time?"

Mendoza managed a grin. "I never want another one like it, boy," he said. And then the doctor was leading him out, and he sat down rather suddenly on the bench along the corridor.

"Very satisfactory indeed, of course," the doctor was saying. "He'll probably make a quite normal recovery now. Say three months. Very gratifying indeed-such a deep coma, and that massive fracture-but that looks very conclusive, of course."

Mendoza thought, Ought to find the nearest phone: let the girls know, call the office. Everything O.K. He heard himself laugh, and belatedly realized why: Art could forget his diet for a while, anyway.

"-as I said, Lieutenant."

"Yes," said Mendoza. Lieutenant. It sounded a lot better than Mister: the hell of a lot better. He started to get up, to go and find that phone, and suddenly all the lack of sleep, the worry and strain, the long, long days had caught up with him, and he had to lean on the bench.

"Doctor," he said, "maybe you'd give me a shot of benzedrine or something? I might just manage to make it home… "

"I am not going to wake him up," said Alison's voice. "I should think you'd realize-"

Mendoza opened his eyes. He knew where he was at once. On the long sectional in the living room of the house on Rayo Grande Avenue. He'd just made it that far before it all caught up to him and he went dead out as if he'd been knocked on the head.

It was almost dark. A little past eight o'clock, he thought vaguely. Around there. Somebody had taken off his jacket and tie and shoes, and unbuttoned his collar. And there was a cat coiled up on his chest, and he thought another one near his feet.

"You know what he's been through," said Alison's voice. Alison trying to keep her voice low. Sounding annoyed.

Mendoza lifted his head an inch and squinted down at his chest. He identified El Senor by the blond mask and slitted green eyes. Automatically he lifted a hand and rubbed behind El Senor's ears.

"I absolutely refuse-" said Alison.

Mendoza yawned and sat up, bringing El Senor with him in one arm. Annoyed to have his position changed without his official consent, El Senor hissed at him and escaped to the far end of the sectional, where he sat down on top of Bast and began to smooth his ruffled coat.

Nearly dark, but light enough still to see Alison with her back to him, shoulders looking very stiff, at the telephone table across the room. And Angel in the entrance-hall doorway watching her. Somewhere in the distance one of the twins was wailing.

"He can't possibly-"

Mendoza yawned again. He felt, he decided, all right.

He got up and crossed the room, put one arm around Alison, and took the phone away from her. The twin stopped wailing abruptly.

"Oh!" said Alison. "Luis-"

"Mendoza here."

"Well, I'm sorry to wake you up," said Higgins, "but we've got a sort of funny one down here. Just turned up."

"Luis!" said Alison. "You are not--"

"Mmh?" said Mendoza. He felt, on the whole, pretty good, he thought.

"Woman strangled with her own belt, it's obviously murder, but there was the damnedest odd note left beside the body--"

"?Que interesante! " said Mendoza. "All right, I'll come down and look at it.” He put the phone down.

"Luis, no!" exploded Alison. "You ought to sleep the clock round-"

"But you've got," exclaimed Angel from the door, "to have something to eat before you-"

"With," said Mrs. MacTaggart firmly, coming up the hall, "a wee drop of whiskey to hearten you beforehand."

Mendoza kissed Alison and started toward the bedroom for tie, jacket, and shoes. "Get me a cup of coffee, that's all. I'm O.K."

And Alison and Angel sent one unanimous bitter comment after him.

"Cops!" they said.