Felony File (17 page)

"
You'd known them a long time?"

"Forty-five years. Brian and me worked together
all that time. On the maintenance crew at Hollywood High School. We
was about the same age, he was just a little older. Retired fifteen
years ago. He was eighty, you know. Jessie just turned seventy-nine
last week."

"
I take it they were Catholic." They looked
surprised, nodded. "Very religious? Tried to convert people?"

"
Why, no, sir." They hadn't seen the
scrawled words on the mirror. "Just good, decent, religious
people. They didn't talk about it much. Bill usually drove them to
church, Brian wasn't let to drive anymore."

"
I couldn't come see Jessie on her birthday,"
said Mrs. Coons suddenly. "I was laid up with a cold. I'd baked
a cake for her this morning—we live in Culver City, don't get out
much now—" She began to cry again.

"
Well, that's about all for now, thanks,"
said Mendoza.

"
I don't know," said Mr. Coons with slow
dignity, "that I just feel up to driving home. I don't expect
they'll renew my license again."

In the end, they called up another squad; Yeager
drove the old people home in the Chevy, and rode back in the other
squad.

A doctor came out from Bainbridge's office and
annoyed Marx and Fisher who were busy in the kitchen. Coming out, he
said to Mendoza and Hackett, "We might pin it down closer at the
autopsy, or maybe not. They were killed either late Sunday or Monday.
I think. Both of them were stabbed repeatedly—tell you more about
the knife after the autopsy. They wouldn't have put up much of a
fight, especially if he caught them off guard. They were pretty
elderly, and the woman was heavy. But I think they were sitting at
the table when they were attacked. The dishes—food on the table—"

"Yes. Not an utter stranger just crashing in,"
said Mendoza. He looked up and down the block. Another working-class
block, with not too many neighbors home during the day. But the kind
of area where people stayed put; the Jackmans had probably lived here
for many years, and most of the people on the block would know
them—each other. He said that, absently, to Hackett. "There's
not much we can do here pending the lab report, but talk to the
family—ring doorbells and talk to the neighbors. Had there been any
trouble around here lately, prowlers or— Had they mentioned anyone
bothering them? And let's hope the lab turns something? He used the
phone in the Ferrari to call the office; Palliser, Landers and Grace
had come back, and he filled them in, told them to come down here
after lunch and start the legwork. For a start, he and Hackett tried
the house next door, but got no response.

"
And you know, Luis, what you just said—not
necessarily so. They were old. They may have lived here for years,
but few people that age are still living alone in single houses. I'd
bet most of these places have changed hands, and there'll be younger
people around, younger than they were anyway. There must be some
people at home along here, but you notice nobody's come out to ask
about the squad cars, ask about the Jackmans."

"
True," said Mendoza. They tried the house
on the other side, and as soon as the bell rang, the door opened.
They showed the badges.

"
I saw the police cars, I wondered what had
happened." She was a little, thin, middle-aged woman in a shabby
cotton dress.

They told her, and she put a hand over her mouth and
her eyes held terror. "Oh!" she said. "Oh! Those poor
old people—"

"
Did you know them, Mrs.—"

"Burroughs, I'm Amelia Burroughs. No, sir, we
just moved here last week. We don't know anybody here."

"
Do you remember hearing or seeing anything
unusual along here, last Sunday or Monday?"

She shook her head. "Is that when—? I was out
about an hour, up to the market, on Monday. No, I didn't. And my
husband wasn't here Monday, he was at work, he drives a bus for the
city."

They went back to the car. "And you know, Luis,
as cold as it's been, everybody's had doors and windows shut. And it
was raining on Monday," Hackett reminded him.

Mendoza conceded that ringing doorbells along the
block might be a waste of time.

Mr. Coons had told them which Thrifty drugstore it
was where Bill Jackman worked. They drove up there, not looking
forward to breaking bad news. But at the pharmacy counter, a
white-smocked middle-aged man stared at the badges and asked, "What
do the police want Bill for?" They explained, and he said, "Oh,
my God! Jesus, that's awful. And I don't know what to tell you—my
God, they're not here. They're all over in Arizona. Yuma. Bill's
youngest granddaughter got married yesterday and they all went over
for it—Bill and his wife and son and his wife and kids, Bill's
sister and her family. Bill's daughter, that's the bride's mother,
she and her husband live in Yuma. And my God, I can't think of her
married name—her first name's June—I don't know how you'd reach
them. My God."

"
The Coonses might know," said Hackett to
Mendoza.

"
I'1l take you back
to your car. You'd better go and ask. I think this one is going to be
a bastard to work," said Mendoza.

* * *

Galeano said to Melinda, "Now take it easy. All
you have to do is take a look at her. Forget about pretending to sell
something—that's not such a hot idea, she might be interested. Just
ring the bell and ask for Mr. Smith, say you've got the wrong
address."
 

"
I still think this is awfully far-fetched,"
said Melinda. "She'll think it's funny, the same thing happening
twice."

"
So let her." The garage door was up and
there was a car inside; she was at home.

"Well—" Melinda got out of the car, which
he had parked three houses up. She had on a blue pantsuit today, and
a short leather jacket over it. She closed the car door and started
toward the Armstrong house at a brisk walk. Galeano watched her up
the front walk; she pushed the bell. After a wait the door opened,
and she spoke to the woman inside, backed away, started back to the
car. It was just starting to sprinkle.

She got into the car and said, "No. She's not
the one."

"
You sure?"

"
I'm sure. The woman who killed Leta was a lot
younger. Big and busty, but younger."

"
Well, it was just an
idea," said Galeano.

* * *

The
maitre d'
at the Brown Derby looked at the badge with raised eyebrows,
listening to Mendoza. "I'm very sorry to hear about Mrs.
Stromberg," he said quietly. He was a short, stocky, dark man
with the restless eyes of the experienced waiter. "She'd been
coming here for a long time. She and Dr. Stromberg used to come in at
least once a week. They were very nice people."

"
I'd like to know if she was here last Friday
night."

He thought. "Yes, she was. Since Dr. Stromberg
died, she used to come in oftener. She had said to me, it was boring,
cooking for herself. She'd be here for dinner two or three times a
week. Yes, she was here Friday, I'm sure. There weren't many people
in that night— Friday is a good night usually, but the rain kept
people in."

"
Do you remember what time she was here?"
The restaurant was open but at this hour of the afternoon not many
people were here. No one was in the restaurant section at all: set-up
tables waited for diners to come. There were half a dozen people in
the bar off to the right. They were standing in the square foyer,
with the cashier's desk to the left, a corridor leading beyond that
with a discreet sign indicating the rest rooms; just down from the
door to the bar was a public phone on the wall.

The
maitre d'
thought. "It was fairly early, I think. She usually came early.
I'm almost sure she was sitting at Doris' station. Let me get her."
He went into the restaurant section and came back a few minutes later
with a slim blonde girl in a waitress' yellow uniform. She was
looking very shocked.

"Mrs. Stromberg!" she said, hardly
acknowledging the
maitre d
's
formal introduction. "Why, that's just awful. She was such a
nice lady."

"
You knew her pretty well here?"

"
Oh, yes. She came in a lot. The others said,
especially since her husband died— I've only worked here two years.
We'd all waited on her, different times."

"
She was here last Friday night?"

She was studying Mendoza now, interested in a
detective. She nodded. "Yes, she was. I was a little surprised
she came out in all that rain, but she did. She was at one of my
tables."

"
Do you remember what time?"

"
It was about six-thirty when she came in.
Around there."

"
Did she have a drink before dinner?"

"
Oh, she always did. Just one. A daiquiri."

"R
emember what she had for dinner?"

"I think it was the beef stroganoff. It might
have been shrimp scampi—those were about her favorites, but I think
it was the stroganoff. She always had salad instead of soup, thousand
island dressing, and she never wanted dessert."

"
That's very good," said Mendoza. "Did
she talk to you much—then or any time, I mean?"

Doris thought that one over. "Well she was
always nice. Pleasant. But if you mean she talked about herself
or—well, personal things, no. Some people do—our regulars, I
mean. Mrs. Stromberg was just—nice. She always left a good tip,
too. She wasn't dressed as smart as usual Friday, I suppose on
account of going out in the rain."

"
Remember what she was wearing?"

"
A navy knit dress, sort of plain, and a navy
coat with a fur collar. She had a bright-red handbag," said
Doris.

"
What time did she leave?"

"
I'd say it was eight o'clock, maybe a few
minutes after. She didn't hurry over her drink, or dinner either, and
of course there wasn't anybody waiting for a table so it didn't
matter. It might have been later when she actually left," said
Doris, "because she made a phone call."

"
Oh, she did? How do you know that?"

"
I saw her. Look, she was sitting at that table
right there—" She pointed at one of the first tables beyond
the foyer. "When she left, I came up and collected my tip, but I
didn't start to clear the table right away because I had to get the
drinks for another party. I did that, and I went back to clean up
Mrs. Stromberg's table. It took me, oh, a couple of minutes, you
know, putting the plates on a tray and the used napkin and wiping off
the table, and setting it up again with a place-mat and silver. And
while I was doing that, I saw her come across the foyer and go to the
phone."

"
Mmh," said Mendoza. "She went down to
the rest room to powder her nose and put on fresh lipstick, and by
that time you were busy at the table."

"
That's right. She was still at the phone when I
took the tray out to the kitchen."
 
Mendoza
thanked her absently. Now where the hell had Marion Stromberg gone
after that, last Friday night? In the rain? And whom had she phoned?
Go right down the names in her address book, and he had a hunch right
now everybody would say, not me.
 
A
colorless sort of woman. But someone had felt strongly enough about
her, over something, to take hold of her roughly, knock her around
some.

And where the hell was that Buick Skylark? There had
been an A.P.B. out on it since Tuesday night. He drove up Alexandria
to Sixth slowly, uncertain where he wanted to go; and then he
accelerated and turned on Western, up to Santa Monica. Of course
there wasn't a parking place anywhere around the library, and he had
to park on a side street two blocks away.

He found Miss Leila Retzinger busily shelving books
in the children's wing. She was a little brisk dowd of a woman, with
bright brown eyes, sallow skin and a quick high voice. She looked at
him with her head on one side and told him that Miss Dowling had
called her.

"
What a very terrible way to go. But I
understand it was quick. Perhaps it is even worse to linger on for
years in misery and loneliness. But what can I tell you about it,
Lieutenant?"

"
You saw her on Thursday night. Did you talk
much with her at all? Did she happen to mention anything about her
plans for the next day?"

She again put her head on
one side exactly like a little brown bird and said, "Why,
no—there wasn't any occasion. After all, we are there to give
attention to the patients, not to talk to each other. Mr. Whitlow—I
refuse to say Reverend, for his is not an established church and we
have always been Episcopalians—would insist on prayers, but after
that we got them settled down at card games, and I was talking to
Mrs. Pinckney a good deal of the time, and then Mrs. Morgan. Mrs.
Stromberg was across the lounge with Miss Romney and Mrs. Peterson. I
scarcely exchanged a word with her, I'm afraid. If I had known it was
the last time I should see her— She was such a nice woman."

* * *