Mark of Murder

SEVEN

The apartment building on Kenmore Avenue where the Nestors had lived was an old one but reasonably well maintained. According to the mail slots, they had the left-hand front ground-floor apartment. The small lobby was a little dusty; the whole place was very quiet.

He pushed the door button and heard the shrill buzz from beyond the door. After an interval he pushed it again. He wondered if she'd gone away somewhere. But presently the door opened, a cautious few inches on its chain. "Who is it? What do you want at this time of night?”

He brought out his badge. "Just a few questions, Mrs. Nestor. May I come in?"

"Well, I must say it's a peculiar hour to come bothering at me. But I suppose if you must, you must." She unhooked the chain, stood back ungraciously to let him in. "I haven't seen you before. There were two other officers-"

"Yes. Lieutenant Mendoza. You remember Sergeant Hackett, who questioned you on Wednesday? You saw him again?"

"Why, yes. I expect we can sit down." She sat on the edge of the couch. She had undressed and was wrapped in an aged and ugly striped flannel bathrobe, hugging it round her primly. She had put her hair up in curlers, covered it with a pink scarf, and her sallow face was bare of either make-up or vanishing cream. She had on a pair of old run-down black mules with little pompons on the toes.

The room said this and that. Old furniture, most of it belonging to the apartment, very little ornament-the two pictures probably had come with the apartment too. But everything very neat and clean. The one floor lamp she had switched on in the living room cast light into the visible corner of the kitchenette, and it caught reflections from newly waxed linoleum there. She was, without much doubt, one of those persnickety housekeepers. He didn't wonder that charming, easygoing Frank Nestor had sought diversion elsewhere. He had a suspicion that when she'd made up her mind that he'd married her for her expectations and nothing more she'd subtly-and maybe unconsciously-taken revenge by turning herself into the obvious martyr.

He sat down facing her. "Where have you been all day, Mrs. Nestor? We've been trying to get in touch with you." "Oh, have you? Well, I had to go up to Forest Lawn to make the arrangements about the funeral. They had the inquest yesterday, and then that other officer told me they'd released the body, so I could make the arrangements. And then I went to buy a black dress because I didn't have one, and it will look better at the funeral."

Her voice was quite flat, expressionless, and her shallow eyes were empty. "But I was meaning to get in touch with you too, because they told me at the bank that you'd been asking questions and they'd showed you all about Frank's account there. I shouldn't think that would be allowed. And I don't understand why I can't have that money-I'm his widow and he hadn't any other relations at all-at least I never heard of any. Do you know, he had nearly five thousand dollars in his account. I never suspected he'd saved up that much."

And it was another interesting thing, thought Mendoza. Considering that Nestor hadn't stinted himself in any direction-his star sapphire ring, the Buick convertible, the four-hundred-a-month office-he must have been raking it in from somewhere, all right. Just the marked-up vitamins?

"Did Sergeant Hackett come to see you last night, Mrs. Nestor?"

"Why, yes, he did. Just for a short time. Mr. Marlowe was here. Why?"

"Mr. Marlowe?"

"Mr. William Marlowe, he's a very fine man, he was an old friend of my father's."

"What time was Sergeant Hackett here?" He was watching her. She answered him readily, without hesitation, but without interest either.

"Why, let's see, it was early. About eight o'clock, I think. He asked me a lot of questions all over again, things he'd asked before. I must say it seemed very inefficient to me. And about Miss Corliss too. I don't know much about her, I never interfered in Frank's business. Come to think, it'd've been a little before eight, because I happened to notice the clock when Mr. Marlowe left and that was ten past."

"Mr. Marlowe was here when the sergeant came?"

"That's right. It was nice of him, he came to see if I might need a loan to pay for the funeral, you see. He's a very wealthy man." And all the while her expressionless eyes stayed fixed on him as if she was memorizing him.

"He left before Sergeant Hackett?"

"Oh yes. Mr. Marlowe said he knew I was tired and didn't want company, and he left, and Sergeant-whatever the name was-he took the hint finally and left too, about half an hour later."

"And that was the last you saw of either of them?"

"Well, yes," she said. She dabbed at her mouth with a wadded-up handkerchief. "Why do you want to know all that? I'm sure, you all ask the oddest questions-I should think you'd be out looking for whatever burglar it was shot Frank, instead of bothering me."

"We're wondering whether it was a burglar, Mrs. Nestor," he said casually. "Whether it wasn't someone your husband knew. Or someone you knew."

"I?" she said blankly. "Why on earth should you think that? I don't know any burglars, for heaven's sake. Of all the ridiculous ideas. And to come asking questions at this hour of night, when I'd already gone to bed-"

Essentially an ignorant woman? Concerned with the practical matters only? The self-made martyr so wrapped up in herself she was oblivious to anything outside? Or something a lot deeper?

The tiredness was catching up to him now. The long, long day, most of it spent in enforced inactivity in the planes, with the frantic worry gnawing at his mind.

Art… He got up, and he had to haul himself up by the arm of the chair.

"All right, thanks very much, Mrs. Nestor," he said. "We'll be in touch with you." He pulled the door open.

"I'm sure I don't know why," she said. "That's the queerest thing I've heard yet, thinking I might know the burglar. I don't know why you have to come bothering me.”

"Don't you?" said Mendoza, swinging around on her suddenly. "Was there a burglar at all? We don't think so, you know. Have you ever owned a gun, Mrs. Nestor?" She stepped back, but there wasn't any shock or fear in the shallow eyes. "Well, for heaven's sake," she said flatly.

"I should think anybody could see how Frank came to get murdered. Of course l've never owned a gun. I must say I don't see the point of all this. That sergeant getting me down there for some kind of test, now I think it over, it's nothing more or less than an insuIt. I'm a good Christian woman and-"

The cordite test. Negative, but it wasn't always reliable by any means.

"We'll be in touch with you," said Mendoza wearily, and went out. It was ten o'clock. He got into the car and drove back downtown to drop it at the garage. He called a cab and had himself driven home, to the house on Rayo Grande Avenue.

There were lights in the living room. It seemed years since he had last walked up this flagstoned path, opened the wide oak door to the square entry hall.

"You shouldn't have stayed up, amada," he said as he kissed Alison. Bast and her daughter Nefertite ran to meet him, talking loudly, and he bent to pick them up, stroking the sleek heads. He sat down heavily in the nearest chair.

"You'll not sleep without you have a bit of whiskey in you," said Mairi MacTaggart. "Wait up indeed. Would we be going off to bed and you not in, as long a day as we've all had even so? I'll fetch it." Her kind, wise blue eyes smiled a little; she trotted out.

"Luis-"

"Well, they're not saying one way or the other," said Mendoza. "The longer he hangs on, of course, the better his chances-I suppose. He could stay in a coma for days." He roused himself to tell her the details, briefly, and what they thought about it.

"Oh, God," said Alison tiredly. She had, probably, had a bath and was wearing her newest housecoat; she had probably also had a meal, if he knew Mrs. MacTaggart.

"We got Angel to bed-she'd been sitting there since three this morning, you know-and Mairi coaxed some hot broth and toast into her, and I got her to take three aspirins, I hadn't anything stronger. But if it's going to be that long before we know-" She wandered around the room distractedly, sat down on the couch to stroke Sheba, who was diligently applying herself to the last bath of the day. Bast and Nefertite purred on Mendoza's lap; dimly he realized that it was nice to be home again, with the cats, and presumably the twins safely asleep in their own beds.

Mrs. MacTaggart came trotting back, looking like a plump little lamb in her woolly white dressing gown, gray hair standing out in little curls; she handed him an overgenerous supply of rye in a juice glass.

"Get that down you, man," she said in her soft Scots burr. "You're doing nobody any good getting yourself fagged to death so you can't think proper. It's a caution, imagine you two traveling more than three thousand miles since this morning.

You'll get that down and you'll both be going to bed.

And," she added to Alison severely, "you will not be up at the crack of dawn worrying about that poor young thing in there, her man at death's door and her carrying. She'll sleep in, all the pills you gave her, and I'll see to her when she wakes."

Alison smiled at her wanly and said, "You're a tower of strength, Mairi. I don't know what we'd do without you. She even remembered Silver Boy, Luis-”

"Somebody's needed to keep a little common sense. Why wouldn't I? When Mrs. Dunne fetched the wee boy here and told me of it, of course I would think of Mrs. Hackett's cat. And that Bertha was here by then, so I just ran over in Miss Alison's car-knowing you wouldn't mind it, mo croidhe -and took him to Dr. Stocking's where he'll be safe until we can sort matters out. And you'd best take the man and put him into his bed, achara, or he'll fall to sleep where he sits."

It had been a long, long day. But he wouldn't sleep, not with Art

…

He shook his head muzzily. The rye had hit his empty stomach like a small bomb. He thought vaguely, Passing the love of women… He hauled himself up to his feet. "What would we do without you, Mairi? I haven't even said hello to you… The twins O.K.? That's good… Dejelo paras manana… It's got to be all right, hasn't it? Alison-"

"Come on, darling, bed. You look like death. Mairi-"

"You'll not be fussing. I'll see to everything. The wee boy's snug asleep in his cot by my own bed. You see to your man. They're troublesome creatures to love," said Mrs. MacTaggart, "and often enough bringing sorrow on us, but nought to do about that but the best we can."

In the big master bedroom Mendoza flung off his clothes carelessly. The whiskey-damn the whiskey-had turned his mind numb; he couldn't think.

El Senor, the miniature lion, had officially retired on the foot of the bed hours ago, and gave them a very cold green glare for disturbing him at this hour. "Senor Malevolencia!" said Mendoza sleepily. "Alison-"

"Here, let me help you."

"Don't be silly. Quite all right. Alison, you talk to Angel, tomorrow. Find out what he said before he left-anything he told her about those cases. Explain-"

"Yes, Luis. All right"

He wouldn't sleep, because there was Art… Passing the love of women… But he slept, his last conscious thought that it was good to be home, to feel Alison's warmth close, and to feel the warm heavy weight of four cats at the foot of the bed.

He was in his office at eight o'clock Sunday morning, shaved and tidy in gray Italian silk with the newest discreet dark tie, mustache newly trimmed, back to civilization and the job.

The hospital said, No change.

He had read Hackett's notes, and he had read Traffic's official report on the Ford. He was now listening to Palliser, who had found Margaret Corliss in her apartment last night.

"… said she'd been out shopping and visiting friends, and hunting a new job. Maybe natural. But there's something offbeat there, I can't put a finger on it but-"

"You haven't interpreted Art's notes. Maybe we can, with a little cerebration," said Mendoza. "I want to see that office. She said he hadn't been to see her?"

"That's right. She was home alone all that evening, nobody came to see her."

"Really. Poor girl. And she ought to be home alone at this hour too. Jimmy." He got up and went to the door. "Call that Corliss woman, tell her to be home at one-thirty, I'll drop by to see her then… Here's one thing," he added to Palliser. "His wife told Art that about the time Nestor graduated from his chiropractic course he had a legacy. Which he used to fit out his very classy new office. She said to me last night he hadn't any relatives. Suppose you check that out-where'd the legacy come from? Fond godfather maybe? I'd just like to know. I'd also like to know something about Andrea Nestor's background. And the background of that Telfer at the hotel."

"Well, all right," said Palliser. He sounded a little surprised. "My own thought was, if we can find out something definite about who Hackett did see Friday night-"

Mendoza stabbed out a cigarette, his tenth this morning, and laughed sharply. " Eso cae de su peso. Sure. But how do we pin it down for sure? Margaret Corliss says he didn't call on her-so if she's lying, how do we know? Ask the neighbors if they heard her doorbell ring? If they saw a 1957 Ford parked on the block?"

"Well, hell, I know, but-"

"We've committed ourselves," said Mendoza, "to the premise that he got something very definite on somebody-real evidence. Enough for an arrest right then, maybe. On the Slasher, or on the Nestor thing. And that X knew it and took steps right then to stop him passing it on. All right. Nobody involved is going to hand us the information for the asking. Anybody who says right away, ‘Why, yes, he was here'-like Mrs. Nestor-ten to one hadn't a thing to do with it. But we don't know how many places he'd been, because we don't know for certain what time he went over the cliff-or how long he'd been tied up before. ?Como no? The only definite thing we're going to get is by following both of these up hard and heavy-get the Slasher, find out all about Nestor's taking off-and then we can put the finger on who sent Art over that cliff and why. And don't tell me it's the long way round. We'll be looking everywhere, but that's how it looks to me right now."

"Sense," said Dwyer laconically; he had just come in. "What chores do I get?"

"You work through the rest of Nestor's address book. Split it with Glasser-Nestor knew the hell of a lot of people. John, you look for the legacy. I'll be seeing Corliss and the Elgers. Who's on day shift? Let Galeano check into Telfer. And why in hell didn't somebody spot the one clue on the Slasher you were handed free gratis? Jimmy can check that out-"

"What? What clue?" asked Palliser blankly.

"?Porvida! ” said Mendoza. "I caught that one as soon as I read the statements! I'm surprised Art didn't pick it up. Estupidos -the silver dollar! That bar where, evidently, the Slasher got talking to Number Three-Theodore Simms. He had two straight whiskeys and paid with a silver dollar and two dimes. How recently have any of you seen a silver dollar?"

"My God," said Palliser. "I never thought- Of course you don't much any more. Only-"

"Only!" said Mendoza. "Exactly. All this Goddamned inflation. We'd all be a damned sight smarter to feel like that, hard money or nothing. But the fact remains, where do you see silver dollars these days? Can any of you smart detectives tell me?" Glasser and Scarne had come in now, were listening silently.

"God's sake," said Dwyer. "Vegas. For the high-priced one-arm bandits."

"All right," said Mendoza. "Where else? I'll tell you. Up north. Through the gold country-anywhere from Sacramento down through the San Joaquin-inland. All those conservative rural types who like the feel of the hard money. So let's find out if any more bars down around Second and Third have taken in any silver dollars lately, and if anybody remembers anything about the fellow handed them over, if so. And let's also send out some inquiries in the direction of Vegas and up north."

"On what?" asked Glasser. "I don't see--"

"?Ignorante! " said Mendoza irritably. "Art saw that. It's in the cards our Slasher hasn't gone off the rails so sudden. That our Number One in that hotel wasn't his Number One. Let's ask, anyway. Whether Vegas, or any place up north, has had some mysterious knifings-lately, or last year, or any time. Just for fun."

"Oh," said Palliser. "Yes, I see that. But-"

"?Largo de aqui! Let's get busy and work this thing! Jimmy, get busy on all that-"8

"Will do," said Sergeant Lake.

"And the rest of you, out! John, where's Nestor's appointment book?"

"Far as I know, still in his office, why?"

"I want you to look at it. Meet me at Federico's at twelve-thirty for lunch." Mendoza got up, reached for his hat, and was out of the office ahead of them.