Exploit of Death - Dell Shannon (6 page)

"You're not looking for a home with reasonable
payments," said Piggott peaceably.

"Well, no. Maybe I was born to be a bachelor."

At least the day watch hadn't left them anything to
do. They didn't get a call until nine-forty, from a squad out on
Alvarado—a mugging. Piggott and Conway went out on it. The victim
was D.O.A. and there were witnesses: people up the block, one elderly
man, who had also been waiting for a bus at the corner like the
victim.

"They just came up and—and attacked him.
Slugged him and knocked him down—and I guess got his wallet and
just ran off. It all happened pretty fast, and I got a pacemaker— I
couldn't do much even if it hadn't been so fast—" The couple
of people farther up the block hadn't seen the assault so clearly.
There were, of course, no descriptions. Only that there were two
muggers, both men and probably young.

About twenty feet up the street they found a worn old
billfold. It was empty of cash, but there was identification in the
plastic slots. At a guess, of course, homicide hadn't been intended.
He'd been knocked down hard against the bus-stop bench and probably
died of a fractured skull. His name was Vincent Carmody and he'd
lived on Coronado Street in the Silver Lake area, by the driver's
license. He was twenty-five and he had been good-looking. Piggott
and  Conway went up to break the news and tell the family about
the mandatory autopsy, when they could claim the body.

"He was just going to see Judy," wept Mrs.
Carmody, "the girl he was engaged to—such a nice girl—just
waiting for a bus to come home, his car was on the fritz in the
garage. Just coming home from seeing Judy—it doesn't seem fair—
It isn't fair—"

Carmody had been a clerk at a Sears warehouse, with a
blameless record. It didn't seem fair, but that was the way things
went.
 
 

THREE

HACKETT WAS THE FIRST MAN in on Friday morning. The
heat was getting to him. It had been consistently in the high
eighties for weeks, but lately it had been a lot worse. He'd be ready
for his vacation six weeks from now—they weren't going anywhere,
they couldn't afford it and they couldn't take Mark out of school—and
that monster of a dog Angel had saddled them with ate as much as a
horse—but it would be nice just to relax and not have to get up so
early.

They hadn't got much from Joe Bauman yesterday, just
profane denials. They'd tackle him again today. But before Landers
came in Sergeant Lake buzzed him and said somebody at the hospital
wanted to talk to police, a Dr. Richter at Cedars-Sinai. Hackett
picked up the phone and said,

"Robbery—Homicide, Sergeant Hackett."

"Rob— Well, I just wanted to report the
death," said a doubtful masculine voice. "We understood the
police were concerned. This Mrs. Leach."

"Ieach. I'm afraid I don't know—"

"Well, she died last night. I don't know the
details, but the ambulance man said it was a police officer had
called him."

"I don't know anything about it. What did she
die of?"

"My God, she was in a terrible state— I was at
the end of my shift in Emergency when she was brought in— I never
saw anything like it," said Richter. "Gross malnutrition,
in and she was filthy. Hadn't bathed or eaten in God knows how long.
We took it that she lived alone and hadn't been able to look after
herself, and she was probably in the late seventies. She was dying
when she was brought in, there wasn't much we could do. She went into
a coma about seven P.M. and died a couple of hours later. The heart
just gave out. All we have is the name. I understood the police had
the background—it was an officer called the ambulance."

Hackett was a little annoyed at new business. He
called down to Traffic—they would have the records of what went on
in all the beats in Central Division, if it had been Central
business—the fact that the hospital was Cedars-Sinai said nothing,
that was the emergency hospital. Traffic eventually found the record
for him. The patrolman was a Dave Turner, the address Banning Street.
It didn't sound like any business for Robbery-Homicide, a natural
death; but he got Turner's phone number and woke him up.

What Turner had to say put a little different look on
it. They'd better talk to this Leach anyway. "I mean, Sergeant,
he acted a little bit senile as far as I could see, but he looks O.K.
physically. He could've helped the old lady if he wanted."

"Yes," said Hackett. The other men were
drifting in. It was Galeano's day off. It still didn't sound like
much and it would take some time, but he started out to talk to
Leach. Palliser and Grace were talking to a couple of
witnesses—probably on that mugging last night. The paperwork went
on forever.

It was already at least ninety outside. He had to
look up Banning Street in the Country Guide. At the ramshackle little
house he waited awhile before the door was opened.

"Mr. Leach?" He proffered the badge. "I'm
sorry to have to tell you that your sister died last night. I'd like
to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."

The old man peered at him blearily. "I got no
money to pay for a funeral," he said.

"How long had she been ill?"

Leach said indifferently, "Awhile. It' was a
damn nuisance. Leave me to do the cookin'. She allus did. But it sure
saved on grocery money. Yes, sir. Time she took sick"— He
worked his slack mouth as if savoring something—"said all she
wanted—tea and toast. I brung it to her a time or two, but it was a
damn nuisance. But it sure cut down on expenses." Suddenly he
cackled gleefully. "I come to see that, first week or so—reckon
I got by for no more than six, seven bucks a week."

"Why didn't you call a doctor for her?"
asked Hackett.

Leach said, "Doctors, they cost a lot of money."

"You hadn't been giving her anything to eat?"

"She wanted, let her get up and get it. Leavin'
me do all the cookin'. She allus been a pretty good worker up till
then." Leach gave Hackett a furtive, silly smile. His mouth was
slack and he dribbled a little.

Hackett swore to himself. The old man going senile,
that poor damned old woman left helpless. They'd have to find out if
there were any responsible relatives, get Leach safely tucked away.
It was a little mess and not really police business. It wouldn't add
up to any charge but contributory negligence, and Leach obviously
wasn't in possession of all his faculties.

He started to ask another question, but Leach
suddenly turned and went over to the T.V. and switched it on,
blaring.

Hackett looked through the house. There wasn't much
in it and it was filthy. The kitchen was piled with dirty dishes,
alive with flies, and the whole place stank like a sewer. He didn't
find an address book or any letters. There wasn't a phone.

The house to the left side was boarded up and empty.
The house on the other side was occupied by a fat, mustached Mrs.
Sanchez who said in thick English that she didn't know none of the
neighbors—she just moved in.

Hackett went back to headquarters and talked to the
Health Department. Then he called the appropriate Social Services
office and talked to a Mrs. Peabody. They would get the old man
committed, sort out who owned the old house, get the old lady buried.
And by that time he'd wasted half the morning on it.

Nobody was in the office but Higgins, sitting at his
desk, smoking and staring into space.

"Goofing off," said Hackett. "Where is
everybody?"

"Tom went to talk to that heister, and Baby
Face's latest victim came in to make a statement and Jase took him
down to look at mug shoots—not that he'll make one."

"No," agreed
Hackett. "I don't think Baby Face is in anybody's records.
What's the boss up to?"

* * *

MENDOZA WAS TALKING to a Sergeant Donovan in Chicago.
"Listen," said Donovan plaintively, "what do you
expect, bricks without straw? All you give us is a name—Ruth
Hoffman——you know how many pages of Hoffmans there are in the
phone book?"

"I can guess," said Mendoza. "We're
just going through the motions, Donovan. But we'd like you to prove
there never was a Ruth Hoffman who came out here last month from
Chicago."

Donovan groaned. "Not a hope in hell, either
way. There could be a dozen Ruth Hoffmans, anywhere in greater
Chicago—you want us to check through the whole damn phone book?"I

Mendoza said brusquely, "Just the usual
cooperation. If you can't find a trace of a Ruth Hoffman who left
Chicago recently, that'd be very gratifying?

Donovan groaned again. "I'll set a couple of
boys to phoning. Just hope we can get you to return the favor
sometime."

Mendoza put the phone down and wandered out to the
big detective office. Hackett and Higgins were there and he passed on
what Chicago had to say, which was expectable, and heard about Leach.

"And damn it, no lab report on that apartment
yet. We should get an autopsy report today or tomorrow or something
from the French police, or the airlines, or Customs. Where the hell
is everybody, on what? Anything new down?"

Higgins said, "A squad called in about an hour
ago. Body in an alley on Skid Row. John went out to look at it.
Probably nothing to work. I'd just as soon nothing new went down to
take us out of the air-conditioning."

Palliser came in and said, "My God, it must be
nearly a hundred out there." He looked tired and yanked his tie
loose, sitting down at his desk and pulling the cover off his
typewriter, rummaging for report forms in the top drawer.

"What was the body?" asked Hackett.

"Nothing much. Looked like an old wino. Either
natural causes or the alcohol. Man about sixty, little I.D. on
him—Manuel Garcia. Lived at one of those dollar-a-night flophouses
on the Row—the city will have to bury him." Palliser started
to type the triplicate report.

It was getting on for noon. Landers came in looking
hot and tired and said, "There's going to be a riot over at the
jail—the air-conditioning's broken down and it's like a damned
oven. My God. But Bauman had been thinking things over and decided to
tell us who his pal was—one Albert Gerber."

"And Gerber was the one who fired the gun and
killed the pharmacist," said Hackett.

"Naturally." Landers picked up his phone,
told Sergeant Lake to get him R. and I., and asked if they had a
package on Gerber. "Bauman gives us an address—Houston Street
in Boyle Heights. We'd better go and see if Gerber's home."

"After lunch," said Hackett.

Five minutes later R. and I. called back to say that
Gerber had a package with them of two counts of armed robbery.

It was a quarter past twelve. Palliser finished the
report and they all started out for lunch. But as they passed the
switchboard, a uniformed man came in and handed Lake a manila
envelope.

"Cable from Paris. You've been asking about it."

Mendoza seized it eagerly and slit it open with his
thumbnail. Twenty seconds later he said exasperatedly,

"
¡Diez millones de
demonios!
" He thrust the cable at
Hackett. That prestigious police force, the Sûreté
Nationale, had nothing to say. PRINTS WILL CHECK. INSUFFICIENT DATA
YOUR REQUEST INFO MARTIN NO AVAILABLE INFO UNLESS SUPPLY FURTHER
DETAILS.

"
¡Condenacíon!
"
said Mendoza. "If we had any further details, don't they suppose
we'd have said so?"

"I said you'd never get anything more on it.
It's all up in the air," said Higgins. "You don't know
anything about the girl—what to ask for—or where. Where she was
bound for here. Anything—it's a dead end. If there's anything to it
all." And Mendoza gave him a bitter look.

"In other words, I'm just woolgathering."

"Don't rile the man,
George," said Hackett. "Maybe the lab report will have
something useful."

* * *

THE LAB REPORT wasn't in when everybody came back
from lunch. Hackett and Landers took off to look for Albert Gerber,
and ten minutes later a new call went down to a bar on Temple.
Palliser and Grace went out on that. Five minutes after that
information started to come in all at once. American Airlines called
Mendoza from New York to confirm as requested that a Juliette Martin
had been booked on that flight from New York to Los Angeles with a
stop-over at Chicago and a change of planes, last Saturday. Air
France called from its New York office to confirm that Juliette
Martin had been on its flight from Paris to New York—leaving Orly
Airport at eight P.M. a week ago today. "Something to tell the
Sureté anyway," grunted Mendoza. Then the Customs office in New
York called to confirm that French citizen Juliette Martin had passed
through Kennedy Airport with a French passport at approximately five
P.M. a week ago today. They gave him the passport number.

"Something concrete," said Mendoza
pleasedly.

"For what it's worth," said Higgins.

"You're just a little ray of sunshine, aren't
you?"

"And that's impossible. If she left Paris at
eight that evening she couldn't get here at—"