Mark of Murder

EIGHT

He stopped to have a few words with the captain-Wiley, who had got that desk when Holmes retired last year. Wiley was always a little on the defensive with Mendoza; he thought it should have been Mendoza's promotion; Wiley had been a fixture in the Forgery office for years. As a matter of fact Mendoza had been as pleased to stay where he was; as captain he'd have had an even more sedentary job, and he always hated to delegate authority.

"I hated like hell to call you back," said Wiley, "but I knew you'd want to come anyway when you heard about Hackett-the hell of a thing-and, damn it, I'm a delegate to this Peace Officers' convention in Denver, flying out tonight." He turned the whole mess over to Mendoza with undisguised relief.

Mendoza went to look at Frank Nestor's office. Hackett, the trained and experienced man, was also by nature a careful man. He remembered lessons and precedents. Unlike some others, he had it always at the back of his mind that through accident or some other cause another man might be taking over a case he was working; and sometimes you got asked tricky questions in court, too. Hackett took carefully detailed notes, not just cryptic jottings as self-reminders.

Sitting at Frank Nestor's desk, Mendoza opened Hackett's notebook again and reread two filled pages. He found the appointment book on the desk and looked through it thoughtfully. Quite an artistic job, he thought. He put it in his pocket and made a tour of the office.

The whole place had been searched, and the boys were usually thorough; but that was before Art had been sent over the cliff-maybe in connection with this thing. If they were doing it over now, they might take the place apart a bit more. Just in case, Mendoza looked. He upended the soiled-clothes hamper in the lavatory and was rewarded with a white smock that had a smear of old dried blood down its front.

He rather liked that, so he looked further. Stuck to the bottom of the metal wastebasket in the rear examination room he found a tiny scrap of paper with the two letters MO printed on it. It wasn't much, but he put that carefully away too.

He looked at the scrapbook full of high-society doings, and the start of a very tentative theory formed in his mind about that. He went down to the nurse's desk and looked that over very thoroughly, but evidently she'd been allowed to clear it of personal belongings. There were all five of the city telephone books there. A tedious little job for somebody, probably Sergeant Lake, but they'd have to be gone through; some people jotted down things in phone books, or underlined numbers. He took them out to the Ferrari.

He went back and looked at all the rooms again. He opened the top of the sterilizer; it was empty. He wished (as Hackett had before him) that Hackett hadn't overlooked the precaution of leaving a guard here that day, or had come back a little sooner. Couldn't be helped now. He took down the white smock hanging in the locker; it was unstained. But, after thought, he took the rubber gloves along with him. Give the lab boys a little more work.

He found, in the nurse's desk, a ledger. Whoever had kept the accounts had kept very sketchy ones. Maybe on purpose. He took that along too.

He had looked up the address and phone number before he left the office; now he dialed and asked whether Mr. Marlowe were home.

Yes, he was, who was calling, please?

Mendoza thought that sounded like a servant. Did anyone have butlers these days? A man's voice, anyway. He identified himself, said he'd be obliged if Mr. Marlowe could give him a few minutes, if he came by.

The address was on Kenniston Avenue, the other side of Rimpau. A very classy district indeed: wide quiet streets of big, very expensive houses. A good many houses sprawling over two or three city lots, with outsize pools behind them and walls everywhere for privacy. The Marlowe house, when he found it, was one of those. It looked vaguely as if it had been modeled on a French chateau,‘it had a three-car garage, and what looked like an honest-to-God butler opened the door.

He was a small man, pale-faced, in a neat dark suit; and Mendoza was a little surprise to him. He repeated his name doubtfully, taking a second glance at Harrington's tailoring, the Sulka tie, and the conservative black homburg he'd taken from Mendoza's hand. Mendoza suspected he'd check the brand name in that behind his back.

"If you'll come down to the library, sir," he said, wooden-faced. Mendoza followed him down a very wide carpeted hall, past a pair of double doors and several ordinary ones, all closed, to a door at the end on the right. The man opened this and stood back. "The-ah-lieutenant," he murmured. Very likely, before he saw the tie he'd have said, "The policeman."

Mendoza went into a large square room filled with heavy furniture that belonged in a British men's club and was another little surprise to the man who rose to welcome him. "Ah, yes-" said William Marlowe, and stopped as if he'd blown up in his lines. He eyed Harrington's tailoring and the tie too; he couldn't keep the brief flicker of surprise out of his eyes. Mendoza let his expression go very bland. He knew Marlowe's type at a glance, and he knew what Marlowe had expected to meet in a Lieutenant Mendoza.

"Well, and what can I do for you, Lieutenant? Do sit dowr1, won't you?" Marlowe was not a big man-about Mendoza's own height, Five-ten--but broader and stockier. He was about sixty, and well preserved: he'd kept his hair and not taken on much weight. He had a roundish face, regular features, the inevitable important-executive horn rims. His voice was an unfortunately high-pitched tenor, with the hint of a British accent. More probably New York and/or Harvard, thought Mendoza.

And Marlowe, prepared to condescend to a police officer, had expected one out of a 1930 detective story, had expected possibly the accent and low-class grammar, the deference to a rich man.

Harrington's Italian silk had shaken him. Mendoza sat down, smiling at him. Marlowe was wearing a dark blue suit of excellent and conservative cut, and a plain navy tie. Mendoza glanced at his shoes and said affably, "Do you visit England very often, Mr. Marlowe?"

"I-why- Usually once a year or so," said Marlowe, taken aback. "How-"

Mendoza smiled. "The very British tailoring. Savile Row? Personally I like Harrington quite well, if you keep an eye on him." Marlowe would probably know how Harrington charged. "Just a few questions, Mr. Marlowe. You know Mrs. Nestor. You went to see her on Friday evening, I understand"

"Oh, it's about that," said Marlowe. "Yes, I did. I've always felt rather sorry for Andrea-I knew her father, poor man. She's always-" He hunched his shoulders. "She's one of those people, nothing ever turns out right for her. Perhaps it's partly her own fault-I shouldn't say so, but she's a rather stupid woman. That husband of hers, poor fellow, had all the drive and the brain."

"I believe you lent him the money for the chiropractic course?"

"Yes, so I did. I saw he was-in earnest about it, you see, and I had every confidence that he'd repay me. Which he did. That's a tragedy there. Such a wanton thing. I most certainly hope you'll find out who was responsible."

Marlowe bent to proffer a silver bowl of loose cigarettes.

"Thanks so much, I'll have one of my own," said Mendoza. "When you were at Mrs. Nestor's apartment on Friday evening you met one of my men there-Sergeant Hackett."

"Yes, that's right," said Marlowe, leaning back.

"Seemed a very pleasant fellow. He wanted to ask Andrea about a few things. That's a tragedy indeed, poor Frank getting killed that way. Just when he was doing so well. Probably one of these juveniles, or-"

"I understand that you left before the sergeant? Mrs. Nestor said-"

"Why, yes. Why?"

"I'd like to hear all the details," said Mendoza.

"Well, I'm afraid I don't quite see the point…" Marlowe looked puzzled.

"Sergeant Hackett had a most unfortunate accident later on that night," said Mendoza. "We're trying, just for the record, to trace his movements, see where he'd been and why he might have driven up to-the site of the accident, you see. Did he say anything at that time about where-” And that was very unlikely, but you never knew.

"Oh," said Marlowe. "Oh, I see. That's too bad, he seemed a very nice fellow. I hope he's not badly injured?"

"The hospital isn't very hopeful," said Mendoza. They had kept any hint out of the papers that it hadn't been an accident. Another accident wasn't very interesting news, and there'd been only a brief article about it on page eight of the Times. It was salutary that X should go on thinking that his faked accident had been accepted at face value.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," said Marlowe politely. "Well, let me think back. I'm afraid I can't help you much. I only stayed, after he came, because I thought Andrea might-er-feel the need of a little moral support. He asked her a few questions about Frank, his usual routine and so on, and-"`He stopped, and then went on, "And I saw he was, ah, perfectly polite and so on-"

"Not likely to bully the poor girl, in other words," suggested Mendoza, smiling.

"Oh well, we ordinary citizens so seldom come in contact with the police! You'll have to forgive me, that was in my mind, the reason I stayed." Marlowe laughed deprecatingly. "Yes, when I saw that, I left."

"I see. And he didn't say anything to give you an idea where he was going next?" Of course he wouldn't have; that was clutching at straws. Marlowe said he hadn't. "Yes. Mr. Marlowe, you know Mrs. Nestor quite well, I understand. Did she and her husband quarrel much? Do you think she might have a-man friend outside her marriage?"

Marlowe stared at him. "What on earth gives you that idea? Absolutely not, I'd say. Oh, they didn't care for the same things, perhaps, but I think, between us, she was more or less resigned to his-call it extracurricular activities. And even if she hadn't been, I don't see what on earth you're getting at there… After all, that could have nothing to do with-" Marlowe stopped, his mouth open foolishly. "Unless you're thinking it wasn't a burglary, that…? Why, good God, it never crossed my mind-but Andrea! No, really, Lieutenant, if you're thinking along that line, it's quite ridiculous! I've known her since she was a child, and-" He stopped again, looking thoughtful, and then shrugged.

"Well, we try to be thorough," said Mendoza. "Do you mind telling me where you went from there?"

"Well, I came home," said Marlowe stiffly. "Here. I was here for the rest of the evening. Paul could tell you that. The rest of the family was out, but-"

"Thanks very much," said Mendoza, getting up leisurely. Marlowe hadn't quite recovered from his little surprise; covertly he was still studying Mendoza, from his sleek widow's peak, trim mustache, Sulka tie, and gold links to the custom-made shoes. And feeling puzzled. Let him, thought Mendoza. And he wondered what had suddenly entered Marlowe's mind just then, when he'd stopped and looked thoughtful, about Andrea Nestor.

He'd crossed her off-on Art-because she'd admitted he'd been there. But the assault on Art could trace back to the other case. So maybe Andrea had got fed up with her charming, crooked husband and got rid of him the permanent way.

Crooked. Pro crooked, he thought. And that was going to be one hell of a tricky thing to prove, all legal.

The Elgers lived at a nice upper-class address too, on Normandie in Hollywood. At eleven o'clock on Sunday morning he hoped to find them home.

Cliff Elger was listed twice in the Hollywood phone book: at the Normandie address and as Cliff Elger and Associates on Hollywood Boulevard. Mendoza deduced that that meant he was an agent of some kind.

The nearest parking slot that would take the Ferrari was half a block away from the apartment. Walking back, Mendoza was thinking that he'd been out of touch with the hospital for several hours. For a second something seemed to constrict his breathing.

Nothing he could do, nothing, but what he was doing.

Trying to do.

How many years had it been? Art had just made rank-detective-and he'd been new in the homicide office, as sergeant, after eight years down in Vice. Eleven years. A little better than eleven years. You got to know a man damn well, working with him for eleven years.

Not the safest job in the world, no. But the risk of a random bullet from some hood's gun, the unavoidable crash in a high-speed pursuit, you expected. The deliberate, private assault-that was something different. He had a moment of unprecedented black pessimism. This Nestor thing could easily be just what it looked like: the casual break-in. And that Slasher so damned anonymous. Trying to wreck the Daylight. Somebody who liked to watch train wrecks. So maybe somebody who'd set up another kind of wreck. And where to look for him? A thin man with a red face, said a boy…

He thought it might be a useful idea to get the newspapers to run a photostat of that signature in the hotel register. Somebody might recognize it.

The apartment was a new one, very square and modern. There was a sign in front: Now Renting, 1 and 2 bedrooms, from $250. The hell of a lot of money to pay out every four weeks, he thought. He went into a square carpeted lobby and looked at the mailboxes. The Elgers were in apartment 1A.

It was the second door down, and there wasn't a bell, only a brass knocker, shield-shaped. He used it. He had to use it three times before the door was opened to him. If this was Ruth Elger, maybe Nestor had figured she was worth a black eye. She was about five-five, with a luscious figure and big dark eyes, a tilted nose; probably mouse-brown hair originally, but she wasn't letting nature dictate, and it was an expensive attempt at imitating Alison's burnished bright copper. Dressed and made up, she'd be something to look at. Right now, she was wrapped in a rather dirty silk housecoat, and she looked pale and sick, with dark circles under her eyes.

"Well?" she said.

Mendoza introduced himself, said he had a few questions to ask.

"Oh, God, it's a cop," she said, turning into the room.

"What did we do last night, Cliff? I don't remember going out anywhere."

"Didn't," said the man lying on the couch. He groaned. "Don't talk so loud, honey, I'm a tender plant 's morning." He was simply clad in a pair of red and white polka-dotted shorts, and he had an icebag balanced on his forehead. He opened one eye and squinted up at Mendoza, and groaned again. "False alarm. Maybe he's a cop, but I know why he's come. He wants to break into TV. It takes more than looks, brother."

"I really do want to ask you some questions," said Mendoza mildly.

"Oh, God, I feel awful," said Ruth Elger. "Why did we, Cliff?"

"Celebrate," said the man on the couch. Very slowly he rolled over, hauled himself to a sitting position, planted both feet on the floor. He pressed the icebag into place with one hand and managed to get both eyes open. He looked at Mendoza. "Looks, all right, you got. Latin lover-boy, mustache and all. Can you act? Can you sing? Besides, you're out of date. Ten years ago the Latin type was fine-maybe five years from now. Right now, what's wanted is clean-cut crew-cut red-blooded American boys, snub noses and all. God. They make me sick."

Mendoza produced his badge. "Hangover, Mr. Elger?"

"God," said Elger.

The woman came back from the kitchen with a cup of black coffee. She sat down and raised it to her mouth with both shaking hands.

"Celebration," said Elger. "I landed the Stoner contract for Jeffie. Bless little Jeffie's heart. Little two-hundred-grand-a-year Jeffie. Seemed reasonable at the time, celebrate. We didn't go out any place, I couldn't have hit anything or got a ticket, or did I?"

"About Frank Nestor," said Mendoza.

"Oh, my God," said Ruth Elger. "That awful thing.”

She put a hand to her head. "Poor Frank, getting shot by a burglar. Oh well, he was a bit of a bastard, but you couldn't help liking him."

"You couldn't," said Elger a little sulkily.

The room was-expectable, thought Mendoza. A lot of expensive modern furniture, everything wildly untidy, clothes flung over the backs of chairs, an empty gin bottle sitting on the color TV. "You gave him a black eye a couple of weeks ago," he said to Elger.

"That I did," said Elger. He put the icebag down on the couch beside him, stood up, and stretched. And Mendoza watched him, fascinated. Art Hackett was the hell of a big one, and it would take quite a lot of man to handle him. Maybe this was the man. Elger, naked except for the shorts, was quite something to see. He must be almost six-five, and he had a torso like the ads in the back pages of True Detective: You too can build muscular power. He might tip the scales at two-fifty, and all of it bone and muscle. Thick mat of hair on his chest, hairy legs. He had a square-jawed, nondescript face, shrewd blue eyes that right now were bloodshot and not quite focusing. "That I did," he said, and yawned widely.

"Oh, Cliff," she said, pouting. "I was mad at you about that idiotic Warren female. I didn't really think you'd- But when you got plastered at the Andersons' party you were pawing her like mad, and I- You know I wouldn't've-"

"Damn right,” said Elger. "That Goddamned little would-be charmer, twisting his damn mustache at you-"

He broke off, looked at Mendoza again. "Of course," he said seriously, "your type's always useful for villains. Funny thing, seventy-four per cent of all heavies always have mustaches. I made a graph on it once. It's damn funny, because a lot of females go for them. I'll bet you do right well with the females, cop or no cop."

"So I used to," said Mendoza. "Some straight answers, please, Mr. Elger. You thought-or knew-your wife was, shall we say, dating Dr. Nestor on the side. You had a fight with him-"

"I only met him twice," said Ruth Elger defensively, plaintively. "I wouldn't have- But Cliff-”

"Suspected it," said Elger laconically. "Knew it was just to spite me. Didn't think it'd do any harm to teach him a lesson. Fight? Good God, man, him and me? I found 'em in Mike De Angelo's bar together, and sure I gave him a black eye. Pleasure. That's all. I hit him once and Ruthie and I left. What the hell? Ruthie said she was sorry, and I said I was sorry about the Warren girl-not that I'm admitting anything-and that was that. What the hell are the cops sniffing around for?" He eyed Mendoza interestedly and patted his crop of dark curly hair. "I'm feeling better, Ruthie."

"Oh, God, I wish I was," she said.

"Did a Sergeant Hackett of my office come to see you on Friday night?”

Elger turned away and sat down again. Mendoza couldn't see his eyes, read his expression. "Never heard of him. Was he supposed to? What about?"

"Where were you on Friday evening?"

"Where were we?" ruminated Elger. "Friday. What happened to Thursday? Oh, I remember, I had lunch with that guy from New York-that won't come to anything- and we had dinner at Sardi's. Friday. Friday, I spent mostly with Jeffie, coaxing him to sign that Stoner contract. God, that man. Why do I stay in this business? Thinks he can ask half a million guarantee because he's made one picture and sends the teens. Maybe he can, eventually. I was beat. And we were meeting the studio lawyers yesterday-was yesterday Saturday? I've got a dim recollection- Yeah, so I came straight home. Didn't I, Ruthie?"

"Friday," she said vaguely. "Yes, that's right. You said you needed a quiet night for once, on account of the lawyers next day. We had dinner here and didn't go anywhere."

"You were both here alone all that evening. And Sergeant Hackett didn't come to see you?"

"Nope, never heard the name. Why?" Elger cocked his head at Mendoza. "Now I look at you a second time-Knight Productions is doing a rehash of the Joaquin Murrieta thing, and you're just the type. You ever done any acting?"

"Only," said Mendoza, "in the line of duty, Mr. Elger. You were both home alone all Friday evening and no one came to see you."

"I said so," said Elger. He stood up again, towering over Mendoza, suddenly motionless, hands on hips. The only man Mendoza had run across in quite a while who would be capable of putting Art Hackett down and out.

"What's it all about?" he asked.

"Oh, God, I feel awful," said the woman.