Felony File (11 page)

"
We'd like to find out about it," said
Mendoza._

"What can you tell us about her, Mrs. Caldwell?
Her routine, her friends, her interests?"

She shook her head. "Not very much. We lived
next door to each other all those years, but aside from saying good
morning or whatever—as I say, I've got a big family. She was—just
quiet. She didn't go out much. She had charity meetings of some kind,
I think it was, a couple of times a week. She called them her good
deeds just a few times, I happened to be in the yard when she was
leaving, she'd say off to do my good deed for the week. She wasn't
interested in gardening and she didn't play cards. I suppose she read
a lot. She'd go out to market a couple of times a week."

"
Her husband was a doctor?"

"An optometrist, not a real doctor. But he had
his own office on Hollywood Boulevard for years, I guess he made a
good living. She must have been pretty well off, not a lot of money
but plenty—I know she owned a house she rented. She was—well,
what my mother used to call a real lady. Kept herself to herself, you
know, but she was friendly too and, well, nice. Just not very
social."

That seemed to be about all she could tell them, but
the house might tell them more. They went back to Beachwood Drive and
she showed them where the key was hidden—not a very safe
place—under an empty flower pot on the counter in the garage. They
thanked her and she retreated into her own house a little
reluctantly.

They unlocked the front door and went into Marion
Stromberg's house. Whatever had happened to her, for whatever reason,
it hadn't happened here; that was immediately obvious. The house was
immaculately clean, museum-like in its orderliness. The very slight
film of dust, from her five days' absence, they could guess she could
not have tolerated. The furniture was old, some of it antique, solid
and good furniture, the rooms tastefully arranged. It was all
conservative and a little colorless, but with an atmosphere of
elegance. Nothing, obviously, had been disturbed in the large living
room, formal dining room, kitchen with its spacious built-in nook,
the two front bedrooms with a bath between, the smaller den at the
back of the house. They found an address book on the desk there,
containing only a few names: one entry was that of a legal firm.
There was no correspondence around, or none she'd kept. In the desk
drawers were neat files of canceled checks, receipts for bills.

"
Not much use getting the lab up here,"
said Hackett.

"
We'd better get the plate number and put out an
A.P.B. for her car." Mrs. Caldwell had told them that she had
driven a light-blue Buick Skylark about five years old.

"
Yes," said Mendoza vaguely. He stood in
the middle of what had obviously been Marion Stromberg's
bedroom—closet full of good clothes, double bed made up with an
expensive quilted spread—and looked around.

He said, "A very sterile existence, wasn't it?
So quiet. Such a lady."

"
You," said
Hackett, "have exercised the famous crystal ball quite enough
for one day. It's five-forty-five. And we've got inquests coming up,
on Whalen and the Engel kid, to slow us down further. Tomorrow is
also a day. Let's go home, boy."

* * *

Galeano came into the office at a little after four,
feeling frustrated and mystified. He had got out and around today, on
the Reynolds thing, and had got absolutely nowhere. Galeano had
worked a lot of homicides, and in his experience if you took a good
hard look at the victim, his associates, his areas of being,
something usually showed to point the way. Here there was just
nothing. He'd never run across such a bunch of honest, respectable,
high-minded people in his life, and damn what color they were.

Herbert Armstrong, who owned the studio where Leta
Reynolds had worked, was horrified and grieved.  She'd been a
fine girl, an excellent retoucher. At that job, she'd had no contact
with the customers, of course. All her friends were the same type she
was; and by inference their associates. Young women, some married,
some not, in ordinary jobs, or just at home as housewives. Her
parents were the same: the father was a skilled machinist at a plant
in Inglewood. All Melinda Corey's friends were respectable
hard-working citizens. The only fellow she occasionally dated was one
Lee Ballard, who was a law student at U.S.C.; his father was a member
of a very reputable legal firm in Santa Monica. It didn't seem that
Leta Reynolds or her sister had known anybody who'd ever had so much
as a drunk-driving ticket. Leta went to work, came home, took care of
Lily. Quiet girls, both she and Melinda.

The parents could give him a lead to the ex-husband;
they were barely acquainted with the family, who lived near them in
Inglewood. Len Reynolds was said to have been living up the coast in
Ventura for three years, where he had a job with the post office.
That seemed to put him out of the picture, seventy miles up the
coast. Besides, everybody said he hadn't been mad about the divorce,
and that had been five years ago.

There was nothing to take hold of, damn it. Even the
Avon business—there wasn't any listing in the phone book on that.
Some door-to-door selling scheme, he didn't know much about it.

He was also curious about the Hoffman hearing, and
Lake gave him the word on that when he came in.

"
At least it's something, but he'll be eligible
for P.A. in seven years."

Glasser and Wanda were in sole occupation of the
office. "Saved by the bell," said Glasser. "I've got
an arrest warrant to execute—it just came through—and I've also
got an old~fashioned prejudice against exposing lady cops to possible
violence. She was hell-bound to go with me."

"
I've been on the case," said Wanda,
annoyed.

"
Ah—hah. I've got a little hunch that Fratelli
could be a mean character when he's riled. I'd rather have Nick to
back me up, thanks."

"Any time," said Galeano absently. "Either
of you know anything about this Avon business? I couldn't find a
listing in the book."

"Oh, it wouldn't be in the yellow pages,"
said Wanda.

"
It's direct selling—no offices. Mother had an
Avon area once, but it can be a lot of work. Why?" Galeano told
her, and she was intrigued. "I hardly think a real Avon lady—but
I see you have to check. That is a funny one." She looked in the
Central book, and found a number for Avon Sales Products. Galeano
tried it, but the phone rang nine times without an answer.

"
Come on," said Glasser. "I want to
get this bird booked in before end of shift."

Galeano went out with him. It was nearly dark, and
had turned even colder. "We'll have to take your car," said
Glasser.

"
That kiddie-car of yours—you just don't like
transporting prisoners."

"
I didn't pick it out," Glasser reminded
him. He had, as a matter of fact, won the Gremlin in a drawing. They
got into Galeano's car, and Glasser told him, "It's the Eagle
Grill over on Fourth."

They had to park double in front, and went in in a
hurry. Fratelli was just serving the two men at the bar; about ten
others sat around at tables. Glasser went up to the end of the bar
and said quietly, "All right, Leon, I've got a warrant for your
arrest. Come on out."

Fratelli stared at him. "What? You can't arrest
me—I didn't do nothing—damn fuzz—"

"
Come on," said Glasser. He was four inches
shorter than Fratelli and probably forty pounds lighter, but unless
he had to he wasn't going to pull a gun in here, in a crowd like
this.

The same thought was passing through Galeano's mind.
He flipped up the pass-through at the end of the bar and went past
Glasser; he was the bigger man. "Let's do what the man
says—don't make it hard on yourself." He took hold of
Fratelli's arm.

Fratelli roared and shook him off, and brought up a
fist like a ham, staggering Galeano back against the shelves of
glasses behind the bar. Momentarily blinded—the fist had caught him
square on the left eye—Galeano swore and groped, saw Fratelli
swinging again with a bottle in his hand, and grappled with him.

Glasser crowded in from behind; in the narrow space
behind the bar, they struggled impotently, Galeano hanging onto one
of Fratelli's wrists grimly. He heard the crowd beginning to mutter
about the fuzz. Then Glasser's hands were over his and he heard the
cuffs snap together.

"
All right!" said Glasser crisply. "That's
enough, Leon." But with the cuffs on, Fratelli suddenly quieted
down. He walked out to the car meek as a lamb. Glasser asked, "You
all right, Nick?"

"
I'm O.K. But I think you'd better drive, I seem
to be bleeding some."

They booked Fratelli in at the central jail, and
stopped at First Aid. Fratelli was wearing a big fake-diamond ring,
and had caught Galeano a jagged cut with it. The nurse in First Aid
washed it, told him he was going to have a beautiful shiner by
tomorrow, and applied a neat dressing. Glasser passed on the message
for the jail doctor; he was to get a specimen of Fratelli's pubic
hair and send it over to the lab, please. "You sure you're O.K.
to drive home, Nick?"

"
I'll be O.K.," said Galeano. But he wasn't
going home. At this end of the day, he needed a shave and there was a
little blood on his shirt, and his right knuckles were raw where he'd
got in one good one on Fratelli's jaw. But damn it, if she would
think about marrying him—and he thought it was going to be all
right—she'd have to get used to him as he was. After he dropped
Glasser off in the lot, he drove up to the restaurant on Wilshire
where Marta Fleming worked. She spotted him right away when he came
in, and as soon as she'd emptied her tray she came over to the single
table by the window. "Nick, what has happened to you? You are
hurt much?" Her dark eyes were concerned.

"
Just a fellow resisting arrest—nothing much."
He smiled at her; he thought it was going to be all right, but he was
being careful. She was convent-bred, and of a very conventional
middle-class German family, and her husband hadn't been dead a year
yet. Not until January. But she'd go out with him, let him take her
to dinner at quiet places. And there were a couple of hopeful signs,
he thought. She was thick as thieves with his mother, the pair of
them prodding him to attend Mass regularly, persuading him to go on
that diet.

He grinned up at her. "You can bring me a steak.
I've earned it. And a bourbon and soda first."

"
The calories," she said severely. "So
you have earned it. One. But rice with the steak, no potatoes."

Her tawny blonde hair was pinned back under the
uniform cap, but when they went out somewhere she let it loose.

"
That's my girl,"
he said; but he said it to her back as she hurried off.

* * *

Landers and Conway had finished going through the
employee records at four o'clock, and had drawn a blank. There were
no other significant initials or dates.

"
I said from the start, a dead end," said
Landers. But Conway had got interested in this very slick operation.
"All right, so there had to be inside information from
somewhere. It didn't have to be an exact copy of the jobs in Philly
and Pittsburgh. Look, why the hell should that same gang be all the
way out here? If you ask me—people get around these days, and all
sorts of people—it's likelier it was somebody who was there then,
read about those jobs. Now here, and needing some ready cash,
thinking about all the loot to be had in one fell swoop—the hell of
a lot more than he'd get on any other kind of heist. Look, Tom—"

"And just happening to run into three eager
accomplices at the nearest bar?"

"
Hell," said Conway, "if he had the
inside dope, he could hire three thugs to help out nearly anywhere."

Landers admitted that. "Look, Tom, are any of
those guards unmarried? If so, has one of 'em maybe just found a new
girl friend? Men get talking about their jobs—even security men—if
they're with somebody they think they can trust."

Landers said doubtfully, "Well, it's another
idea to toss around. The lab report was no use—all the prints in
the elevator belonged to the guards, and no prints in the van at all.
And the rope was an ordinary brand you can buy at any hardware
store." He massaged his jaw thoughtfully. "You know,"
he said, "one of the guards said something about the
ground-floor man going around checking to be sure all the customers
are out. I wonder—somebody like that, lurking behind counters long
enough to see what was going on with the money bags? Seeing all the
take from one or two departments going to the same place, he could
guess it was all going there. And then all innocent going up to a
guard, ‘Is the store closed? I didn't realize,' and getting let
out."

"Yes, but," said Conway, "the rest of
it, up on the eighth floor—"

Landers got up suddenly. "That freight elevator
is numbered," he said. "Come on, Rich. Let's try
something." He led Conway out to the regular employees' elevator
that went all the way down, and took it down to the seventh floor.
Here, at this side of the building, were Infants' Wear, Children's
Wear, Ladies' Lingerie, Fabrics, Luggage. He led Conway as far as
that, and stood looking helpless and inquisitive until a clerk
bustled forward.