Mark of Murder

FIVE

Hackett went back to headquarters to report in, see if anything had turned up that looked interesting. Something had, and how much was it worth?

"I happened to be in," said Palliser, "so I talked to her.

A Mrs. Constance Brundage. About fifty, too fat, nice motherly soul but not much in the way of brains. She made a statement. Your guess is as good as mine whether it's worth anything. She said she was waiting for a bus at the corner of Western and San Marino, last night about eight o'clock, when a man came up to her. She was alone on the corner. She said he looked ‘sinister' because he had a hat pulled down over his eyes and his jacket collar turned up, which looked funny on a warm night. Said he had a sinister voice too, like a gangster, she said."

"Yes," said Hackett. "Naturally.?Que mas? And how much of that is imagination?"

Palliser shrugged. "What with all this press hysteria-Anyway, she said he came and stood ‘too close' to her, and she got nervous, and then he said he needed bus fare and she looked like a nice kind lady, would she give him a dollar? And she said no, and backed away, and he followed her-and goodness knows," said Palliser in obvious quotation of Mrs. Brundage, "what would have happened, except that the bus came just then and she got into it in a hurry, and the sinister stranger didn't. But on thinking it over, she was sure it must have been this terrible Slasher, and it was just the Lord's mercy she hadn't been his fifth victim. And-”

"?Basta!" said Hackett. "Description?"

"Very vague-it was dark. Just one little thing made me think twice, and get a statement. She can't say anything about his features, and says vaguely he was about medium-sized. But she did say that his clothes didn't seem to fit, looked too big for him. And Miguel Garcia-who's a much better witness-said the same thing about the man Roberto stopped to talk to."

"So he did," said Hackett slowly. "Food for thought. I'll be damned. On the other hand, John, a lot of bums around town are wearing hand-me-down clothes that don't fit."

"True. I just mentioned it," said Palliser.

"And asking for money. Of course we don't know the hell of a lot about him. It could be. Corner of Western and San Marino-if so, out of the territory where he's been operating. Nice."

"You get anything new on Nestor?"

"This and that-maybe," said Hackett. "I don't know. I've got a funny little idea, but how the hell to prove anything? I want to see the wife again, and the people in his address book. And Ruth Elger's husband. I also want to have a heart-to-heart session with that desk clerk. He must have noticed something more than we've dragged out of him."

"I don't know," said Palliser. "It's not the kind of hotel where they give guests the eagle eye to see if they're respectable. And it was about ten o'clock at night."

"All the more reason for him to notice, damn it. Business'd be slow," said Hackett. "I want to talk to him again, anyway."

"Wish you luck," said Palliser, shrugging again. It had been a hot day, and he was tired. But he had a date with Roberta Silverman and was anxious to get away, to a cool shower and a shave and a clean shirt, and Roberta's dark eyes smiling at him across a table and a long cold drink. He didn't know then that this was an important conversation, that tomorrow he'd be racking his brains to remember just exactly what Hackett had said to him. 'The night shift was coming on. He told the night desk man where he'd be and went down to the lot for his car.

That night, at ten minutes past ten, the man full of hate took his pleasure in blood again. He had been with the old lush Rosie, but it hadn't lessened the taut violence in him. He had taken the half-empty bottle with him when he left, and on the street he stopped to drink from it. The raw spirit didn't seem to get to him, though he'd had four or five drinks before, with Rosie.

He walked on down the dark street, the vague hatred churning inside him. At the corner he turned; he had taken a room at a place on this street, just today. But he didn't feel like going there, to sleep.

There was a full moon, a great silver circle of serenity riding high above the city, casting clear silver light on the streets. He walked under it, hating.

At a corner two blocks up, a young and pretty Negro girl waited for her husband to pick her up. She had been visiting her sister and her sister's new baby, just home from the hospital; and her husband, Joe Lincoln, would pick her up here on his way home from work as a clerk at a local supermart. She was smiling, thinking about her new niece, for she was expecting her own first child in two months.

It was a nice warm night, and there was a bench here; Joe would be along in a few minutes. Besides the moon, there was a street light at the corner, it wasn't dark.

The man full of hate came up behind the bench and stopped to drink from the bottle again. She heard his steps and turned her head, and saw him clearly. Small shock registered in her eyes, and she turned quickly away. Another one, looking at him as if- And a nigger girl too. Everybody always- His hand closed on the knife in his pocket and he lurched toward the bench.

Most of the night shift were out on that one from ten-twenty on. The husband found her there-not fve minutes after she'd died, said the surgeon, in all probability, blood still flowing. She'd really been cut up, it was quite a mess, and they called every car in the vicinity to stop any and all pedestrians within six blocks. But again they drew blank-the Slasher seemed to have vanished into air. When they'd been that close, it was irritating to say the least. They'd go on hunting, but the longer he stayed loose the colder the trail.

Higgins came back off that at twelve forty-five, talking bitterly to himself about it. Really a mess. By all rights they should have picked him up as easy as- He couldn't have been more than a couple of blocks away when the husband found her. Of all the Goddamned bad luck.

Sergeant Farrell, on the night desk, welcomed him in and said he'd go off for a coffee break, then, somebody to mind the desk. Higgins sat down at the desk dispiritedly and lit a cigarette.

He was still sitting there three minutes later when the call came in.

He said, surprised, "Why, yes, Mrs. Hackett…

What?" As he listened to the distrait, carefully controlled voice, his hard-bitten face went grim. "I see. All right, we'll get on it. No, he hasn't been in tonight so far as I know… Yes, I see. We'll find out. I'll be in touch."

As a realist, he didn't tell her not to worry.

He put the phone down. He thought something had happened all right. Not like Art Hackett, not to call her if he was held up this late somewhere.

Ten minutes to one.

Accident.

The first thing to think about. He called down to Traffic. "Just check it out, will you? Put an Urgent on it…

He'd have had identification on him, but just in case-better take it down-yes. Arthur John Hackett, thirty-six, six three and a half, two hundred and thirty, medium-brown hair, eyes blue. He'd be driving a dark blue four-door Ford sedan, 1957 model… "

His voice was expressionless, relaying that also to the Georgia Street Emergency Hospital and the General. All they needed, he thought, Hackett out of action. If Hackett- Well, don't expect the worst. He looked up the license-plate number and relayed that to Traffic. In that first ten minutes, Traffic hadn't any record to tell him about. Farrell came back and went a little white, hearing about this.

"Does anybody know where he was going tonight?"

Which was a question that would be asked again.

"It's a heavenly beach," said Alison, groping in the closet for her beach sandals. "And morning's the best time really. Aren't you going to get up today at all?"

Mendoza was sitting up in bed smoking moodily.

"What the British call coffee is no inducement. And I thought one point about taking a vacation is that you can sleep late. It's only seven-thirty." As a matter of fact he hadn't slept much. He'd lain awake worrying, coming a dozen times to the conclusion that he really couldn't ask Alison to cut the vacation short. And, damn it, they'd planned to stop off in Illinois and see the Lockharts on the way home

… "Furthermore," he added, "what's the point in my going to the beach with you? I can't swim. Am I supposed to enjoy myself watching every other male present ogling you? And if I wasn't the nice indulgent husband I am, I'd absolutely forbid you to wear that outrageous bathing suit."

"It's not a bikini, I wouldn't dare-it's a perfectly decent bathing suit," said Alison. "Well, at least get up and get dressed while I'm gone. Don't just sit there brooding."

She came up to the bed. "Luis, amado, it's senseless. I know you feel you ought to be there, hunting down the murderer. You're not the only competent officer on the force."

"I know, I know!" said Mendoza. "Don't fuss, amante. Run along for your swim."

"We can have a nice leisurely breakfast afterward," said Alison, picking up her beach robe. And that was when the knock fell on the door; she pulled the robe around her and opened the door to a smartly uniformed boy who smiled at her.

"Mendoza? Cablegram f'r you-"

"Oh," said Alison.

But Mendoza was out of bed, finding small change on the dresser top, ignoring the polite, " 'Kyou, sir." He had the yellow envelope ripped open before the door was shut.

"Luis-," said Alison, watching him. "What-"

He had gone white as death, and his mouth tightened to a grim line. He thrust the sheet at her, sat on the bed, and picked up the phone. "Travel service… When's the next plane out? I don't care where, Washington or New York, wherever I can get the quickest flight to Los if Angeles… Well, look it up, for God's sake, and make it snappy!"

"Oh, my God," said Alison. She read it twice before she took it in. Hackett attacked on critical list outlook bad hell of mess here can you fly soonest. It was signed by the captain of detectives. "Angel," said Alison. "She'll be-"

She stopped, looking at his face as he spoke impatiently into the phone. She opened the closet door, got out suitcases, began hastily to pack. Thirty-five hundred miles, she thought distractedly. Whyever did I say Bermuda? Not Art, she thought. Not Art-and Angel- "Can you get seats on it? All right. Two. Make sure of that right now, will you? Give me the desk again. Mendoza, room 284. We're checking out in an hour, I want the bill made up, please. Yes. N0. There'll be two tickets on the eight-forty plane to Washington, in my name, delivered at the desk. See they get into the right slot. I'll be down in twenty minutes." He flung off pajamas, started to dress.

"Luis-it'll be all right," she said, knowing how foolish that sounded. "Not Art-it couldn't be-"

"?Y como no? " said Mendoza hardly. "It's not the safest job there is. You get on with that-we've got an hour or so to wait. God-ought to have some breakfast, I suppose. There's a plane to New York at noon, but this one being earlier, we might get better connections, get there sooner. We'll see."

"I'll never say you aren't psychic again," said Alison.

She found she was folding clothes blindly, through a haze of tears. Not Art, Art mustn't- And Angel hadn't anybody, they had to get back.

It was the longest hour Mendoza had ever got through in his life. He ate an anonymous breakfast; they were at the airport by eight-fifteen, with twenty-five minutes to wait, but after several eternities the plane was there, and taking on passengers.

They hadn't talked much; there wasn't much to say. He sent a cable, and then they just waited. For the plane to take off, and then for the plane to land in Washington. There wasn't any use making idle speculations.

They landed in Washington a little before noon, and had all the nuisance of Customs to go through. There wasn't a flight direct west scheduled until nearly four, so they got the twelve-fifty flight to New York and landed there at one fifty-five. And then they waited some more, for the next flight scheduled to L.A., due to take off at three-ten.

"You ought to have something to eat, you didn't have any lunch," said Alison. "Coffee, anyway…"

He felt empty but not hungry; he got down a sandwich without tasting it, and a couple of cups of coffee. "At least with jet flights we can get back in a hurry. Ten years ago-"

No use in speculating. They'd know when they got there.

The three-ten flight from New York to Los Angeles was scheduled to land at International Airport at eight o'clock, but traveling east to west they gained three hours, and it was just five-thirty by L.A. time when they landed. "Can you cope with the luggage?" asked Mendoza.

"Of course, darling. Go and call right away."

He felt as tired as he'd ever felt in his life, and at the same time taut as a coiled spring. It was nearly six o'clock before they got to the taxi rank outside. Mendoza said to the cab driver, "Take all this stuff to 311 Rayo Grande Avenue in Hollywood." He passed over a bill and took the next cab in line from under the nose of an elderly dowager, thrust Alison in, and said, "White Memorial Hospital," to the driver. "Take the freeway for God's sake."

Alison held his hand tightly. "It's got to be all right," she said. "I don't mean to sound like a fool, Luis, but-whatever happened-they know so much more these days, and there's plasma, and-"

"Yes, querida. Wait and see."

It was six thirty-five when they got to the hospital. A brisk thin nurse directed them to the third floor, and a brisk fat nurse there directed them to a small waiting room at the end of a long corridor.

Angel was sitting there, dry-eyed, looking down at her clasped hands. She had dressed in haste, carelessly, and hadn't any make-up on; she looked as if she'd been sitting there, numbly, a long time. Hackett's older sister sat opposite her, and she'd been crying. Alison went to Angel at once. Mendoza went to find somebody who knew something, and ran into Scarne in the hall.

"Lieutenant-God, am I glad to see you! You must have made time back. They hadn't called in so long, I got chased up to see- They said they'd call if there was any change, but-"

"Let's find a doctor, for God's sake. What happened and when?" snapped Mendoza.

"It's a miracle he's still alive. He went down a cliff off Canyon Drive, in his car-the car's one sweet mess, you should-"

"?Vaya por Dios! How-"

"He was sent over, Lieutenant. He didn't get found until 2 AM. this morning, but then they got searchlights up there, the works, and you could see by the tracks. The car was aimed to go over-and he'd been tied up before-"

"?Dios! You've got casts of the tire marks, you've-"

Mendoza caught the arm of a white-smocked intern passing. "Doctor-"

"That one," said the intern when they'd identified themselves. "If he hadn't the constitution of an ox he wouldn't be still with us. I'm sorry, we aren't committing ourselves yet, he's still in a deep coma. There was an extensive skull fracture and internal injuries-broken pelvis, both legs, a couple of ribs, and one a bit nearer a lung than we liked… Dr. MacFarlane operated to relieve the pressure, but as I say he's still unconscious. We don't know when or whether he'll be conscious. All I can say is- Well, you can see him, but-"

"Who've you got stationed here?" Mendoza asked Scarne. He knew there'd be somebody, to get whatever Hackett said when and if he regained consciousness.

"Fellow named Evans."

Mendoza knew Evans, a uniformed man bucking for rank. He nodded at him, installed in a chair beside the door not too far from the high bed. He stood over the bed and looked at Hackett. Hackett lay on his back, breathing slow and irregular. His face was drained of color; he looked gray. His head was bandaged, and one arm. A watchful nurse had a hand on his pulse, and they had an I.V. going.

"All I can tell you is we're doing everything we can," said the intern. "He's got a very sound constitution to help him fight. But we can't say one way or the other, not yet."

"Yes, Doctor. Will you please see that somebody calls in if there's any change? I know you've been briefed, but just remind the desk. You've got the headquarters number-ask them to call this number too, please." He scribbled their home number on the back of an envelope, handed it over. He looked at Hackett again and led Scarne out, to the little waiting room.

Angel was crying now. "I'm sorry, I don't mean- I c-couldn't, somehow, until you c-came in and I-"

"Yes, all right, darling." Alison looked at Mendoza and, seeing his expression, asked no questions.

"Angel said- I took the baby to your place, Mrs. Mendoza-your nurse-" Hackett's sister Elise Dunne looked at them helplessly.

"That's fine, Mrs. Dunne. Now, Angel-"

Mendoza came up and squatted down before Angel.

"You're doing no good sitting here, either of you. They're doing all they can, and they'll call when there's any change. I've asked them to call our number too, and"-he looked at Hackett's sister-"you can give them yours. Come on now." He urged Angel up. "Scarne, drive them to our place, will you? O.K. Alison, you look after her. God knows when you'll see me, but I'll be in touch."

"Yes, darling. Come on, Angel, it's only sensible-"

"And get back downtown as fast as you can," said Mendoza to Scarne. He kissed Alison, held her hard for a second, and went out and downstairs. He called a cab and waited for it impatiently. He had work to do.