Mark of Murder - Dell Shannon (9 page)

Mendoza was watching him. "I'll take that, John.
What was he working on? Where was he?"

"We don't know, damn it," exploded Dwyer.
"We couldn't press Mrs. Hackett too much, and she didn't seem to
know anything definite anyway--"

"All he said to me--that was before he went
home," said Palliser, "was that he was going to see the
desk clerk, and maybe Mrs. Nestor, and maybe a couple of the people
in Nestor's address book. He didn't like the way the Nestor case
smelled--he thought it was a private kill, not the outside thing.
We've got his notebook, with a couple of interesting ideas on that
jotted down. But there's also the desk clerk, and that was on the
Slasher, and I don't like the way the desk clerk smells."

"He denies Art came to see him?"

Palliser smiled bitterly. "You're ahead of me.
Sure he does. I don't like him."

"This is where I part company," said Dwyer,
"from our brain-trust boy, Lieutenant. I just don't see the
Slasher, who we can build pretty easy as a hair-trigger lout with a
low LQ., setting up that faked accident."

"You'll have to convince me on that too,"
said Mendoza, stabbing out his cigarette and immediately lighting
another. "Nobody, a hotel desk clerk or anybody else, is
collaborating with the Slasher. That's the berserk, unplanned thing."

"So it is," agreed Palliser. "Let
George tell you how the Slasher vanished last night. After Number
Five. The pretty Negro girl, seven months pregnant. Only she wasn't
so pretty by that time. At the corner of Third and Hartley, which is
about two blocks from that hotel. The interns said she hadn't been
dead fifteen minutes when they saw her, and the squad car couldn't
have missed him by more than ten. Where did he go?"

"
¡Demonios!
"
Mendoza sat up. "You scoured the neighborhood, George?"

"
Sure we did," said Higgins bitterly. "Five
squad cars and fourteen men on foot. For six blocks all around. What
else? Christ, the blood couldn't have been dry on his knife!"

"Tell me a story about that," said Mendoza
to Palliser.

"Of a sort," said Palliser. "Maybe
he's just smart enough--hearing the sirens so soon--to threaten the
desk clerk into hiding him? Clerk'd be scared afterward to admit
it--or there could be some other tie-up between them. Hackett thought
the clerk must have noticed more about the man than he admitted. Why
was he chary of talking? Look. If Hackett was at the hotel, it'd have
been after nine o'clock--the clerk didn't come on until then. The
call on Number Five--Loretta Lincoln--came in at ten-sixteen. Say
that Hackett had just left the hotel, was heading home. He'd go
straight up Third, making for the freeway exchange and the Pasadena
Freeway. He could have been at that corner about then, even, my God,
spotted the Slasher at work. And followed him when he ran. So you say
the Slasher isn't one to set up the faked accident. Maybe not. Maybe
Hackett tangled with him, got that knock on the head, there in the
hotel, and somebody else got stuck with an assaulted cop and set up
the accident. All I say is, it being the same general area--"

"
Same general area the Slasher's been roaming
right along," said Mendoza. "Nothing says Art was there. He
just might have been."

"
That's what I say," said Higgins. "God,
I don't know how we missed him--he couldn't have been five minutes
ahead of us! But on this thing, if Palliser's right, and I don't see
what else it could be, it looks the hell of a lot likelier to me that
Hackett maybe went to see Mrs. Nestor and caught her talking over
Nestor's murder with a boy friend or something. Or went to see
Nestor's office nurse--we know he didn't like her either and from
what's in his notebook neither do I--and spotted something definite.
All I say is, I think it's likelier it was something to do with the
Nestor case, not the Slasher."

Mendoza put out his cigarette, looking around the
group. His gaze came to rest on Higgins. "Of all of us big tough
homicide cops," he said mildly, "you're the biggest, at
least, George. Six-three, about a hundred and ninety? Yes. Could you
handle Art, boy? Half an inch taller, forty pounds heavier? Barring a
fluke, a very lucky first blow that put him out, not very many
men--even big men--could put Art down and out very easy. And I really
don't see any female doing that. Presumably somebody had to lift him
into the car too."

"
Which we also thought of," said Palliser
sardonically.

"So she--whoever--had a boy friend. Or it was
two people together."

"Yes. Damn it, if we only knew definitely where
he'd meant to go, who he'd--" Mendoza lit another cigarette with
a quick angry snap of his lighter. "All right, I'll go along
with your story, John. It was something on a case he was working.
Nobody had any reason to want him dead as Art Hackett--only as a cop
on a case.
Conforme.
So,
¿pues qué?
On
the Slasher's sudden vanishing after Number Five, I might just
buy--with a lot of reservations --your little idea of his scaring the
desk clerk--or somebody--into hiding him. But I don't buy the idea of
one like the Slasher setting up that faked accident. Of course, I
will say that whoever set it up didn't take many pains with it.
Didn't realize how obviously faked it looked. Which doesn't look like
a brain .... You hadn't really settled who was handling which case. I
see that. Art had been concentrating on the Slasher, most urgent,
naturalmente
, and then
this Nestor thing came up and he got interested in that, sent you out
on routine on the-- Yes. All right. He might have gone to see anybody
involved in either case. I'll talk to his wife, see whether-- But I
do not see one like this berserk lunatic--"

The office door opened and Marx came in. He had a
couple of still damp five-by-seven prints in one hand. He asked,
"How's Hackett?"

"No change. They'll call if-- What've you got?"

Marx came up to the desk and laid the prints on the
blotter. They were enlargements, a trifle fuzzy that big, of two
fingerprints. "I've got a lot of imagination," said Marx.
"I think Palliser's got something about that desk clerk. And on
principle I don't like cops getting clobbered. Nice to see you back,
Lieutenant--you made time home, I guess. These jets. So I did some
overtime for you. I thought I recognized that print when I saw it
blown up, so I checked."

"Well? What is it?"

"This one",--Max lifted the first
print----"is one of the prints we got off that S.P. switch.
Whoever tried to wreck the Daylight. And this one, which is the exact
same print of, probably, somebody's forefinger, I got off Loretta
Lincoln's nice shiny plastic bag last night. After--like we know--our
Slasher had rifled it. It's not hers or her husband's or her
sister's."

"
What?" exclaimed Palliser blankly. "For
God's sake--you don't mean--"

Mendoza sat back and said, "
¿Y
qué respondes tri a esto?
So the Slasher was
the X who tried to wreck the Daylight. A hundred to one and no takers
against. And that job called for a little planning ahead, didn't it?
Pues si.
He had to
know what time to be there, what trains were coming through before,
to throw that switch at the right time. So our Slasher isn't quite
the brainless lout he looks, is he? Yes, and maybe somebody who likes
to see train wrecks might take it into his head it'd be fun to send a
car over a cliff. Maybe, instead of using his knife on a cop who
dropped on him, he did set up the faked accident. On a sudden whim."
He looked round the group. "Who wants to bet?"

The outside phone rang and
all of them stiffened to frightened attention.

* * *

It was Rhodes of Traffic, calling from somewhere
unspecified to say sadly that they'd done what they could with the
wrecked Ford and nothing useful had turned up. Just the lack of
prints on anything a driver would touch, which of course said that
somebody other than Hackett had last driven it.

"
Yes," said Mendoza. He thought somebody
had better notify Hackett's insurance agent to put in a claim on the
car. He thanked Rhodes. He put down the phone and said, "I don't
suppose you've just been sitting around mourning all day, boys. What
have you got?"

They hadn't got much. The desk clerk's denial.
Neither Mrs. Nestor nor Margaret Corliss had been located to
question, nor Ruth Elger and her husband. They had seen about half
the people listed in Nestor's address book, all of whom denied that
Hackett had called on them last night.

"I went up there and asked around--that canyon
road," said Palliser. "I don't know how much it's worth,
but the people who live in the place nearest where he went over--a
Mr. and Mrs. Roy Baker--say they heard a car evidently being turned
around in the road, about ten forty-five. It's rather an exclusive
district up there, big places--quiet road. But the houses are set
back, and you'd think if they'd heard that, they'd have heard the car
go over--though, of course, it didn't hit anything to make a loud
crash, just plowed through all that underbrush on the way down. They
say the car sounded old and noisy."

"Yes." Detective sergeants with families
couldn't afford nice new cars. "Doesn't say much, no."
Mendoza looked at his watch. "You've all had a day and so have
I, but there's a little of it left. I want Art's notebook."
Palliser handed it over. "I'll go see the desk clerk and check
back on Mrs. Nestor. John, would you feel like checking back on the
Corliss woman? O.K. The rest of you can keep trying to locate the
other names in his address book." He got up.

The Ferrari was home in the garage. He went
downstairs and commandeered a patrol car, drove over to Third Street.
The hotel was called the Liverpool Arms, ostentatiously. It was a
fourth-class place, old and shabby: probably had more semi-permanents
than transients. The block was solidly filled with parked cars; he
left the squad car in front of a hydrant. It was just nine o'clock:
the clerk would be here.

Inside, the lobby was narrow: bare wooden floor, a
steep flight of stairs, uncarpeted, at the back; one ancient-looking
self-service elevator. The desk was no more than a long narrow
counter, with a sagging old armchair behind it, a makeshift shelf of
mail slots hung on the wall. A door there led into some inner room.
The register, closed and dusty, was on the counter; the clerk was in
the chair, leaning back with closed eyes, half asleep.

Mendoza tapped on the counter and the clerk jerked
upright. "Oh--all right, right with you," he said in a
grumbling tone. He wasn't a very prepossessing specimen. About sixty,
bald, with sagging jowls and a gross big paunch above his belt. His
gray-white shirt and stained, wrinkled trousers had seen better days.
He hadn't shaved that day or, probably, the day before, and he showed
about five snaggly yellow teeth in his upper jaw, none below. He
blinked at Mendoza. "You wanna room?"

"
I want to ask you a few questions," said
Mendoza sharply, and showed his badge. "A Sergeant Hackett's
been here to question you before?"

"Yeah, but he wasn't here last night. I told 'em
that. I ain't lyin' about it, why'd I lie about it?" The clerk's
eyes shifted.

"I could imagine reasons," said Mendoza.
"Look at me! What's your name?"

"Telfer. Adam Telfer. I got no reason--"

"Listen to me, Telfer. I'm in no mood to go the
long way round on this! Look at me, not the floor. You know the man I
mean?"

"
I know him. Great big sandy feller. He's been
here, but not last night. I ain't lyin'--" But his eyes kept
shifting.

Mendoza reached out, took him by one shoulder, and
shook him savagely. "Look at me! I can take you in, you know,
and grill you better at headquarters! The truth, now!"

"You leave me be-- Why'd I lie about it? He
wasn't here.”

"All right. You saw the other man--the one who
rented the room where the body was found. Keep looking at me!"
He tightened his grip.

"Yeah. I said so. But not good, see? It was only
a minute."

"Tell me what he looked like."

"I told 'em--them other cops--I don't know. I
didn't see him good at all. Honest I never. It was only a minute--he
stood sidewise to the counter and he had a hat pulled over his
eyes--I didn't--"

"He paid you two-fifty for one night and he
signed the register. He was standing right here for at least three
minutes, probably more, right under the overhead light. Tell me more,
friend. What age was he? Dark or light? What was he wearing?"

"
I didn't--" Telfer swallowed; he looked
panicky. "I--they was a couple of bulbs out o' the light, it
wasn't as light as it is now--”

"I don't want excuses, I want answers,"
said Mendoza very gently. He wanted suddenly, violently, to use his
fists on this stupid creature obstructing him. He let go of the man's
shoulder. "Begin at the beginning. It was about ten o'clock. He
came in. What did he say?"

"Said he wanted a room, I guess. I told 'em all
that before."

"You guess? Don't you remember?"