by Dell Shannon
"Did Mrs. Stromberg seem just as usual on Thursday night?"
"Certainly did to me, but then she wouldn't know she was going to be murdered, would she? There wasn't anything on TV the old dears would enjoy, but Miss Retzinger had brought some cookies and candy—diets be damned," said Miss Dowling, "it's about the only pleasure they have left—and Mrs. Stromberg got a game of rummy going, and they had quite a merry little party in the lounge, up to about nine o'clock. We do close down early—they usually left about nine."
"Well." Mendoza stood up. "Where could we reach Miss Retzinger?"
"At the branch library on Santa Monica—she's the I children's librarian there. I wish you luck on finding out who killed Mrs. Stromberg—a real sweet little woman she was. I can't get over that, I can't indeed—but then none of us can know what end we'll come to."
* * *
"There isn't anything else I can tell you," said Melinda Corey.
"Maybe there is." Galeano had asked the L.A.C.C. registrar what classroom she'd be in, and waited to catch her at the lunch break. It was too cold to sit on one of the benches outside, so they were in an empty classroom. The straight wooden chair with the tray arm on it was too small, and Galeano was uncomfortable.
"I don't know what." She was staying on at the house, she had said this morning, and her mother had taken Lily, but she'd have to let the house go; the payments were too high.
"Did your sister recently, or ever, have an argument with somebody—trouble over anything? Come on, everybody does sometimes. Little things." What was in his mind was that other funny case last August, where a very small thing had triggered off big trouble. But in any case, as Mendoza said, what constituted a motive depended on who had it; and with this thing looking as nutty as it did, it was very possible that a real nut with an irrational motive had done it.
"Nothing that would make anybody—"
"You don't know. Tell me about anything."
"Well, it's silly, but she did have an argument with the salesclerk at the Children's World shop uptown. That was last week. Leta was furious. She'd got some hair ribbons for Lily, and gave the girl a ten, and the girl gave her change for a five and wouldn't believe her about the ten. Leta called the manager and all the good that did her was, they told her when the register was cleared, if there was an extra five they'd call her. Well, naturally the clerk wasn't going to admit a mistake. She probably sneaked the five out of the register later. But Leta couldn't afford to lose five dollars. Everything so high, even if she was making a good salary— And sometimes it was like pulling teeth to get the support payments from Len. He was supposed to pay her a hundred a month, and lots of times it'd be late."
"Yes," said Galeano. "That's the only recent thing you can think of? All right, something else. You told us she wasn't interested in getting married again, but she was a good-looking girl. Had anybody made a pass at her, annoyed her any way like that?"
She shook her head. "When she first went to work for Mr. Armstrong, she thought she might have some trouble with him like that. He started acting kind of fatherly and silly, patting her arm and calling her pet names—you know the way a man that age acts when he wants to make a pass. It was a good job and Leta didn't want to lose it. She just let him see, in a nice way but making it pretty plain, that she didn't like it, wouldn't stand any nonsense, and he quit it. She never had any more trouble from him."
"Oh, really," said Galeano. He remembered Armstrong, seen briefly, as a dignified light-skinned Negro about fifty, austerely dressed and looking like a solid citizen. But if he was given to making passes at girls half his age—
She hadn't anything more for him. And of course, though they'd been living together, they wouldn't have told each other about every single incident happening in the course of every day.
He sat in the car thinking about Leta Reynolds, and he didn't see how the five dollars could really tie in. Not unless the salesclerk was nutty as a fruitcake, and if she was she wouldn't be holding down a job, would she? Well, go and look at her. But first, he got out of the car, walked half a block to a public phone, and looked at the book.
Herbert Armstrong was listed at an address in Leimert Park as well as at the photographic studio. He drove over there and pulled up in front of the house. This was one of the solidly black areas that was also affluent; a lot of professional people lived here, as they did in View Park, the next area over. Jason Grace and his wife had a nice house in View Park. There were elegant big houses in both locations, some quite expensive places. The house where Armstrong lived was a two-story colonial with a brick chimney, an expanse of lawn in front.
Galeano got out of the car and went up to the front porch, pressed the bell. He thought, this is damned silly. Suppose they had a maid, or one of the kids answered the door—if they had kids—but if they had, they'd likely be grown and away. But they might have a relative living with them— Damn it, he thought, I don't even know that he's married. He pressed the bell again.
Unhurriedly the door opened. He said, "Mrs. Sidney?"
"Why, no, nobody of that name lives here."
"Oh, excuse me, it's the address I had."
"No, I'm sorry. I'm Mrs. Armstrong, just my husband and myself live here."
Galeano muttered an excuse and hastened back to the car. As he drove off he was thinking. Mrs. Herbert Armstrong was a tall, heavy-bosomed female who matched Melinda's description at least cursorily. And if Herbert was given to dalliance with young women, she was probably aware of it. And she might on some occasion have seen Leta Relynolds at the studio without Leta seeing her—or possibly Leta just didn't remember her. And if she had evidence that Herbert was playing around again, she might have jumped to the conclusion that his playmate was Leta.
It was possible. Anyway, he wanted Melinda to take a look at Mrs. Armstrong.
She'd be home about four. Take her over there, get her to ring the bell, pretend to be selling something. He headed back for the station automatically, parked in the lot, and on the front steps met Glasser coming out.
"Well, good, you can come be a witness," said Glasser.
"If you're not nervous of meeting Leon again." Galeano felt his eye absently; it had certainly developed into a colorful sight, and he'd been conscious of a slight ache in it all day.
"What for?"
"The lab just called. The doctor sent over some of Leon's pubic hairs this morning, and it's just a matter of looking through a microscope. Somebody finally got around to it, and it's a match for the hairs from Alice Engel's body. Nice evidence, but it's always nicer if we can spell it out for a judge."
"That thing."
"Come on, I'm escaping from Wanda. I have an old-fashioned prejudice against talking about sex in front of an unmarried girl." Galeano grinned at him; Wanda was probably a little—just a 1ittle—tougher than Glasser thought. There was a little whisper on the grapevine about those two; he wondered how Glasser really felt. They took the Gremlin up to the jail, and presently Fratelli was brought to them in an interrogation room. He looked neat and clean enough in the tan uniform, but he hadn't been allowed to shave and a heavy beard stained his jaw. He looked at them with a scowl and Glasser told him to sit down.
"You might as well tell us about it, Leon. How you killed Alice. We know it was you."
"I never done a thing like that. I told you how it was, it was that dude brought me home. He seemed like an all-right guy, but it must've been him did that. He said his name was Sam."
"No, Leon, there isn't any Sam," said Glasser. "It was you."
"I never did no such thing."
"Listen, do you understand anything about science? Scientific evidence? The lab boys can take a hair from your head and compare it to another and prove it's the same, from the same place. You get me? just the way they can match shoes to footprints."
"Yeah?"
"That's right. And you may remember that the doctor detached some hairs from you last night, not from your head."
"He hadn't no rig
ht—crazy thing to do—I thought first off he was a nut—"
"And now the lab boys have compared them with hair found on Alice's body, and what do you know, Leon, they're all yours. There wasn't any Sam. You did that. We can prove it in court. Suppose you tell us how it happened."
He sat there thinking. He looked at his hands spread out on his knees, and he said, "That's for real?"
"For real, Leon. You ever do anything like that before?"
"No! No, I never," said Fratelli violently. "That's true on the cross. I never. I dunno why it happened—I don't. I—I—I'd been mad at Rosie—I tell you how it was—" He took a long breath and held it.
"Yes? Go on, tell it."
"Rosie—she's no good anymore, see. Getting to be more of a lush every day, she's drunk alla time. No good to me. What kind of john's gonna look at one like that? And she ain't int'rested in turning tricks no more. I'd been mad at her—and then she goes off 'n' the kids are hollerin' for somethin' to eat—damn it, they ain't my kids—"
"She says one of them is," said Glasser.
"Well, I guess. I got fed up."
"But were the kids?" asked Galeano gently.
"What? Oh, sure, sure, I got 'em some hamburgers. I went out for some drinks, there wasn't nothin' in the place. I went to that bar, an' after I had a few drinks I felt better, see, I felt O.K. I wasn't so mad at Rosie, except like I say she's no good at it no more an' I hadn't had none in a while. I got back home O.K., an' the kids had shut up and gone to sleep. Alice was asleep there, I saw her when I went to the john. I—well, I tell you, I just dunno what put it in my head. Musta been crazy just awhile. I just got to thinkin', how maybe it'd feel—to do it to a kid—like that. I never thought about nothin' like that before. But I kept thinkin' about it, and after a while I-I-I went in there. I never meant to hurt her—honest, I never."
"Just what did you think it would do to a nine-year-old?" asked Glasser coldly.
"I—never thought. An' I started—doin' it—and she commenced to holler and scream and that made me mad, I'd just started—and I grabbed her just a second to make her keep quiet—I never meant to hurt her," said Fratelli hopelessly.
"That's enough," said Glasser. He opened the door.
"You can have him back." As they walked down the hall he said to Galeano, "Such a dirty job, Nick, dealing with such dirty people."
"But there are always more of the do-right people around, Henry. We just don't see as many of them as other people do," said Galeano seriously.
Mendoza and Higgins came into the office at four-thirty. Lake looked up from his paperback as they came past the switchboard and said, "Two things, Lieutenant. You're supposed to call the coroner's office. And a funny thing happened about an hour ago—" he picked up a small brown paper bag and handed it over. "This pawnbroker came in with that. Either he's the most honest man in the world or he's covering up something else. He said when he took a look at the latest hot list he thought he recognized this stuff. He took it in last Saturday for five bucks. He's got a shop over on Second."
"Cal1 for Diogenes." Mendoza was amused; pawnbrokers weren't usually so obliging. He upended the bag, and there was the little loot from the Whalen house: the old Waltham railroad watch, the Masonic ring, the cameo pin. He turned it over in his palm with one finger. Five bucks. Seventeen bucks they'd got altogether. And a man's life.
"Hell," he said, "pure formality, but we'll have to get Dan Whalen to identify it."
Higgins had passed on into the office, and now came back. "I called the coroner's office. The inquest is set for Friday." Yes, officialdom would want to get that one over, let everybody forget it.
There were inquests set for Dave Whalen and Alice Engel tomorrow.
"What've you got there?" asked Higgins. Mendoza told him. "Funny." He yawned. "I could run over there now. '
Mendoza hesitated. He was feeling a little stale; and he wanted to think about Marion Stromberg. Better see her lawyer tomorrow. He dropped the few items back in the bag, and Conway came in towing a big black fellow and said, "Good, somebody's here. Another possible suspect in that other bar heist, who'd like to sit in?"
"George can help scare him better," said Mendoza. He dropped the bag into his jacket pocket and started out again, and thereby changed a couple of lives.
It was just threatening to rain again; hadn't actually started. He bypassed the freeway and went up Sunset, thinking absently about the various things they had on hand—actually a lighter caseload than usual, but that was the natural curve after the end of the summer heat, as tempers cooled with the temperature. And all they knew so far about Marion Stromberg—just what the hell had happened to her? The sweet little woman? As for Leta Reynolds, that was even wilder. Nick had been working that; talk to him tomorrow, see if he'd come to any conclusions.
Portia Street wasn't very long. Even some time before he got there he was aware of a column of black smoke rising off to the right; and when he turned on Portia, there it was ahead—two fire trucks, an ambulance, an excited crowd milling around. It was the Whalen house. He angled in behind the ambulance and got out in a hurry. The hoses were playing steadily; there were crackling flames engulfing the whole right side of the house—the bedrooms and kitchen there. He groped for the badge, running up to one of the firemen standing by the first engine, hand on a valve.
"What's happened here? I'm on police business with the householder—" And as he said it, he saw the canvas-covered mound in the street, between the two engines. The man turned and he saw the legend Assistant Chief on the helmet-badge.
"You're too late then." They had to raise their voices over the play of hissing water, the shouts of the men to each other, the excited voices of the crowd turned out to watch. "The paramedics tried, but he was gone. Suicided with the kitchen gas—but something sparked her off, probably the pilot light."
Mendoza stared at the angry bright flames. Seventeen dollars and two men's lives, he thought. A hand caught his arm; he turned. Mrs. Meeker, the Whalens' next-door neighbor, had recognized him.
"Oh, oh, isn't it terrible!" she cried. "Poor Dan—he couldn't go on—"
A voice in Mendoza's mind said suddenly, Dave always had to have a cat. Not Dan. Dan had been preoccupied with his own troubles. "Mrs. Meeker," he said loudly, "is Merlin out?"
Her shocked mouth gaped at him, and then she shrieked. "He's always in—cold weather—doesn't like—"
The wicker basket was in the front room. That side of the house hadn't caught yet, but there must be a good deal of smoke. Mendoza was on the front porch in three seconds. He heard an outraged shout behind him,
"Where the hell d'you think you're—"
He yanked off his jacket, balled it around his right arm, and knocked the window in with three hard blows. Great billows of smoke rolled out at him. Holding his breath, he clambered over the broken edges of glass into the room. He couldn't see, but he remembered the general location of the hearth and, remembering to bend low under the smoke, he groped over there. Wickerwork under his fingers, a furry inert body—
And his mind said, Not another innocent, for nothing. He seized the cat Merlin in one arm and groped back to the window. Outside, he ran back to the engine.
"Oxygen—"
"Well, for Cod's sake, a cat!" said the assistant chief.
"Hey, Dick! Com'ere with that tank!"
In two minutes, Merlin stirred and sneezed. He struggled up groggily in Mendoza's arms and uttered an indignant attempt at a serious feline cussword.
"Oh!" sobbed Mrs. Meeker. "Oh, thank God—poor Merlin, poor boy—oh, how brave of you, are you hurt? Oh, give him to me, I'll love to have him, darling Merlin—I never saw anything so brave—"
"I'm quite all right," said Mendoza. Except, of course, for his suit jacket; he'd paid two hundred and fifty bucks for this suit three months ago.
But, looking at Merlin slowly recovering catly dignity in Mrs. Meeker's arms, he felt a warm satisfaction.
* * *
Piggot
t was holding down the night watch alone; it was Schenke's night off. Middle of the week, it was a quiet night. Piggott, sitting there alone, was thinking about the Hoffmans. He was, he hoped, a good practicing Christian, and alone there in the big office, he did a little praying for Bill Hoffman, who had once been a good man and a good cop.
He didn't get a call until ten o'clock, and then it wasn't anything to go out on. It was a Sergeant Costello of the Glendale force, and he sounded tired. He said, "I'm going home to bed now, but you pass this on to your day watch, hah? That Bullock's job—we just had a real carbon copy here, at Probinsons'. We'll want to get together with whoever worked your job, see what got turned. You know if they got any leads?"
"We're nowhere on it," said Piggott.
Costello just said, "Hell," in a discouraged voice, and rang off.
At the end of shift, in the chill night, Piggott drove home to the apartment on Sycamore Avenue. He came in quietly, not to wake Prudence, and for just a minute stood in the living room looking at the lighted tank of beautiful tropical fish. And a very queer thought took hold of him, that God must love most other creatures much more than man, they were so much more beautiful. That it wasn't the animal creatures who had thought up racial and religious hatred, wars, political persecution, terrorism, the sordid and random and mindlessly violent crime.
But that wasn't anywhere in the Bible. He undressed quietly in the dark and got into bed beside Prudence; she stirred, muttered, "Matt," and went to sleep again.
SIX
NEARLY ALL THE MEN came in about the same time on Thursday morning, bunched in the same elevator: Palliser, Landers, Grace, Conway, Glasser, Galeano. Sergeant Lake was just settling in for the day, plugging in the switchboard for direct calls where, overnight, the desk downstairs had relayed. "Morning," he said, and there was a small grin on his sober mouth. "Did you notice the boss made the Times?" Hackett and Wanda came in together; it was Higgins' day off.
