Murder Most Strange (26 page)

"Bricks without straw," said Mendoza
absently.

"You can say so. The room on one side of his is
empty, but I want to talk to the fellow in the one on the other side,
what's his name, Gillespie, but he isn't home. The clerk says
sometimes he doesn't come back for a couple of days, doesn't know
where he goes, but he's paid up so he probably will be back. See if
he heard anything, or saw the man who came in with Fuller. My God,
what a place." Higgins sorted out carbon, rolled the triplicate
forms into his typewriter.

Palliser and Glasser came back to write the
inevitable follow-up reports on the disposition of evidence in the
Patterson case. Wanda was down at the D.A.'s office giving moral
support to Rosalie Packard. The office was clinking along quietly at
normal speed, about three o'clock, when a man came rushing in and
said loudly to Lake, "Sergeant Palliser—I've got to see
Sergeant Palliser! By God, they both thought I was crazy, but I found
it! Is Sergeant Palliser here?"

Palliser went out to the corridor, and Carl Trotwood
gave him a vast beaming grin. "I know you thought I was crazy,
Sergeant—eager beaver amateur imagining things, hah? But I knew I'd
seen it—a photograph of that killer—and I got to wracking my
brains, where the hell could it have been? Only one logical answer, I
says to myself, and I've been looking—because I subscribe to all of
'em, all the true detective magazines, and I save 'em, I've got a big
collection. I've been back through the last six months of issues,
whenever I got time, ever since that happened. And just now, I'm on
my coffee break at work, I pick up this one, and there he is, by
God!" He thrust a magazine with a garish cover at Palliser; he
had a slip of paper marking the page, and opened it and folded it
back and jabbed his finger at it. "That's him, Sergeant—I'd
swear it on a stack of Bibles—that's the guy who stabbed that
fellow."

Palliser took one look and prodded Trotwood into
Mendoza's office. They spread the magazine on Mendoza's desk and
skimmed through the story hastily. The magazine was a four-month-old
copy of Master Detective, and one of its features appearing every so
often was "Do You Remember This Unsolved Case?" "That,"
said Trotwood triumphantly again, "is him." The full-page
photograph on the left-hand side had been blown up from a much
smaller candid shot, but it was clear enough: a nice-looking boy
about nineteen or twenty, with an engaging grin, fair hair, a pointed
chin, wide-set eyes.

Mendoza skimmed through the story, Palliser reading
over his shoulder. Six years ago, two young college kids on a date,
Don Holland and Jean Tuesche: students at Pasadena City College.
They'd been parked in a lovers' lane above Altadena when a man drove
up, put a gun on them, locked Holland in the trunk, drove off
elsewhere, eventually raped and killed the girl and nearly killed
Holland. They were found the next day up by Devil's Gate Dam. But
Holland, evidently keeping his head and thinking coolly, had
memorized the plate number of the killer's car. He had scrawled it on
his shirt cuff while he was locked in the trunk, before the killer
beat him up so badly he had to have brain surgery. The Pasadena
police had run a make on it, and it belonged to a man named Floyd
Seacarn.

They found the car abandoned in a lot on Third Street
in L.A., and they traced Seacarn to a nearby hotel, where he'd been
registered for four days. Holland had given them a description: a
medium-sized man about fifty-five, brown hair, glasses. Seacarn had a
record in San Francisco and Fresno of rape, attempted rape, assault
with violence; he'd just been released from Susanville where he'd
been serving a five-to-ten for assault with intent. But that was
where it ended; they'd never picked him up; he had vanished into the
blue.

"
¡Como no!
"
said Mendoza softly. "
¿Cuanto
apuestas
—how much do you bet?"

"Six years," said Palliser. “Where is he
now?"

"Around. Obviously."

"He's got to have turned into a nut," said
Trotwood excitedly, reminding them that he was there. He'd have
simply loved to stay and watch them work it, but they showed him
gently out, with fervent thanks. Carl Trotwood had broken the case
for them, and they were grateful, but they would have to take it from
there, the professionals.

"Six years," said Mendoza. The story said
that Holland had been living with an aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs.
William Holland, in Altadena. Palliser got out the phone book and
looked; they were still listed.

"Delicate approach shot," said Mendoza, who
had never played golf in his life. Lake got him the number and a
rather shaky elderly voice answered. "Mr. Holland? Lieutenant
Mendoza of the Los Angeles police. I'm sorry to remind you of that
old murder case, sir, where your nephew was involved . . . Yes . . .
Well, there may be some fresh evidence, and we'd like to talk to your
nephew. Is he still living with you? . . . Oh, I see. Yes, please . .
. Thank you very much, sir."

He put the phone down. He said tersely to Palliser,
"They weren't sure he'd recover fully, the doctors were afraid
of irreparable brain damage, but he apparently got over it just fine.
He dropped out of college and he's currently working on the
maintenance crew at the Wilshire Country Club. Has an apartment in
Hollywood."

"Let's go find him," said Palliser, equally
terse. The Wilshire Country Club was a sprawling piece of greenery
surprisingly more or less in the middle of Hollywood, below Melrose,
between June and Rossmore Streets. They took Palliser's car, in case
they'd be bringing him back.

It was a nice spring day and there were a number of
golfers out on the pretty green lawns. There was a clubhouse, empty,
and a building for maintenance equipment. There, a big
farmerish-looking man was working on one of the riding lawn-mowers.
Mendoza asked if Holland was working today.

The man straightened up and looked at them, and put
down the wrench in his hand, substituted a pair of pliers. "Him,"
he said. "He got fired a month ago. Half the time never showed
up, and acted queer as Dick's hatband when he did."

"What's the address?" asked Palliser back
in the car.

"Leland Way."

That was the middle of old Hollywood, all much run
down and showing its age. When they found it, it was one of the
garish jerry-built little garden apartments, but minus a pool. Don
Holland's apartment was at the back on the ground floor. Palliser
shoved the bell, and they waited; nothing happened and he shoved it
again. Mendoza reached past him and tried the door; it opened and
they went in.

The little living room was in the wildest disorder,
clothes, book and magazines scattered all over on every surface and
the floor, and the room was crowded with furniture, a big stereo
cabinet, a TV, oversized couch, two armchairs; but the first thing
they saw was the knife. It was an ordinary big bread knife with a
long serrated blade, and it hadn't been washed since the last time it
had killed; it was covered with ugly dark-brown stains. It was lying
on top of a dirty white shirt on the TV.

Don Holland was sitting in an armchair in front of
the TV, but the TV wasn't on. He looked much, much older than the
picture in Master Detective, which had been taken at his high school
graduation; but he was only twenty-five now.

"Hello, Don," said Palliser quietly.

Holland looked up slowly. "Well, hello," he
said, and a vaguely pleased smile came over his face.

"We'd like to talk to you," said Palliser.
There was an unfolded newspaper on the floor, and he tore off the top
page—which bore a large picture of Upchurch—and slid the knife
onto it. "About this. We're police, Don."

"Oh," said Holland. Then he said rapidly,
"The police tried, they were all good men, all good men, you
know."

"Don," said Mendoza. "What did you
want this knife for? What have you been using it for?"

"It's nice to have someone to talk to,"
said Holland, blinking. "When did you come? I don't remember. I
haven't really had anyone to talk to for a long time. And it would
help to talk, because I've been feeling—kind of confused."

"You go right ahead and talk, we'd like to
listen, Don," said Palliser.

He smiled at them a little uncertainly. "You
see, I never forgot Jeanie, of course. But for a while there, all
that—was sort of at the back of my mind. But it's since her
birthday—her birthday was March the seventh, and I took some
flowers to her grave in Forest Lawn—yellow roses because they were
her favorite—I couldn't stop thinking about him. He never paid for
what he did to Jeanie."

"Seacarn," said Mendoza very softly.

"That's his name. I knew he was down there
somewhere—around where they found his car. He was still there. And
I had to kill him, for what he did to Jeanie. I've been out—nearly
every day—hunting for him. Because I knew he had to be there.
Somewhere down there. And I knew what he looked like, I'd recognize
him."

"And did you?" asked Palliser
conversationally.

Slowly he nodded. "Yes, I did. I found him—and
I knew him right away—but you see, he's very clever. He can change
his face so he looks different. At first, I knew it was him, and then
he changed—he got away again—but I kept looking. And I found him
again. I had to find him—to keep on finding him—to make him pay
for Jeanie. But it's been—awfully confusing, you know. I'm glad to
have someone to explain it to."

"We know some people you'll like talking to even
better than us," said Palliser. "They understand confusing
things like that, and maybe they'll help you understand it better. If
you don't mind going somewhere to meet them."

"Oh, I don't mind at all, I don't seem to have
really talked to anybody in a long while," said Holland
dreamily.

The phone was in the kitchen. Mendoza went to use it,
and fifteen minutes later the ambulance arrived. They followed it out
to Cedars-Sinai. The psychiatrist they talked to, a bouncy little man
named Steiner, was interested. "There could have been brain
damage not immediately detectable," he said.

"Just showing up. We'll have a look and find
out. But it's an interesting case, Lieutenant. We'll look after him.
I don't suppose it's likely to come to trial."

"That depends on you, Doctor," said Mendoza
dryly.

"Yes, well," said Dr. Steiner, "I'm
scarcely likely to tell a judge he's responsible for his actions."

Holland would probably end up in Atascadero.

On the way back downtown Palliser said, "God.
What a senseless damned random thing, those harmless fellows killed
because he'd gone that far off the beam. And originally, take it back
to beginnings, because they never caught up to Seacarn."

"The kind of thing
that happens," said Mendoza. "The human nature we're here
to deal with, John."

* * *

When he turned up Hamlin Place and at the top of it
came to the impressive wrought-iron gates, he pushed the gadget on
the dashboard and the gates swung open silently and majestically. But
as he accelerated, the gates began to close again, and only a frantic
reversal saved the Ferrari's nose from being smashed; they were heavy
gates. Mendoza swore and tried the thing again; the gates opened and
immediately closed. Something wrong with the damned electric eye, he
thought. The only drawback to the marvelous mechanisms was that the
more complex they were, the more could go wrong with them. The gates
were, of course, operable manually, and he got out and opened them,
drove through, got out and closed them again, and drove on up to the
house.

Mairi's car wasn't in the garage, and he wondered
where she was. He walked into the kitchen and found it empty; the
whole house was silent. No twins came running. He left his hat on the
kitchen table and went down the hall. He found Mairi just starting up
the front stairs; she gave him a frosty glance. Wondering what he'd
done, Mendoza went on into the living room. Here he found Alison
lying back in his armchair with her feet up and her eyes closed, with
two cats on her lap and two beside her and Cedric sound asleep on the
floor beside the ottoman.

"Querida, there's something wrong with that
damned electric eye, and—"

Alison opened one eye and squinted up at him. "Oh,
are you telling me!" she said bitterly. "When I went out
this morning, the damned gate let me get halfway through and then
banged in the whole rear end of the Facel-Vega. It's running, but the
garage says there's about three hundred dollars' worth of dents to be
ironed out."

"
¡Por Dios!
"
said Mendoza. "I never looked at your car—”

"And I didn't know Mairi was going out, or I'd
have called to warn her. And when she went out, the gates let her out
all right, but when she came back they smashed in the front of the
Chevy and ruined her radiator, and the car had to be towed in to the
garage. And she's so annoyed about it she's been talking broader and
broader Scots ever since."

"
¡Caray!
"
said Mendoza, amused.

"So I called the company, and the man said it
probably just needs adjusting, and he'll come out tomorrow."