by Dell Shannon
"About any family, for one thing."
"They had a son and daughter," said Mr. Coons promptly. "Bill Jackman, he's a pharmacist, works at a Thrifty up in Hollywood, he's married and they got a couple of grown children. The daughter's Mrs. Helen Burley, her husband manages a chain market, they live in Burbank." He was shaking just a little. "Awful to die like that. Awful. Some maniac."
"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."
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"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."
"Remember 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."
* * *
Mendoza went back to the office and got Bainbridge on the phone. "Well, I thought you'd forgotten about it," said Bainbridge. "Yes, I did the analyses. Stomach contents, beef, sour cream, mushrooms, rice, lettuce, asparagus. The alcohol was rum."
"As indicated," said Mendoza. "More than one drink?"
"Definitely. About the equivalent of three."
"Thank you so much," said Mendoza.
Hackett, Palliser and Landers came in and Hackett said, "The Coonses came through with the name and I called Yuma. General consternation. They all drove over, and they'll be back some time tomorrow, late. But we're not going to get anything from any of the neighbors down there, Luis. Most of them at work all day. The people on the other side of the Jackman house, we heard from a woman across the street, own a deli up on Virgil. They were friendly with the Jackmans, just casually, and I saw them, but they don't remember anything unusual happening on Sunday and of course Monday they were gone all day. I think anything we turn on this'll be from the lab."
"Yes," said Mendoza sardonically. "All we can logically infer is that X attended the public schools, as indicated by his misspelling. I'm going home, boys." It was five-thirty, and raining steadily.
As Mendoza stood up and reached for his hat, Sergeant Lake's voice was raised in the hall outside.
"Just a minute, ma'am, you can't—oh, damn—"
A pretty, little, elderly woman appeared in the doorway. She was pink-cheeked, white-haired, beautifully groomed; she came tripping in on stilt heels; she radiated warmth and joy. "Dear Lieutenant Mendoza! Ah, you sweet brave man! I simply had to come—it was providential that we had our regular meeting this afternoon and we all agreed I must contact you—I am the secretary, of course—dear Lieutenant, we have made you an honorary member unanimously—"
Mendoza took a step back and dropped his elegant black Homburg.
"—Of the West Hollywood Cat Lovers' Association. We should all be so honored and delighted if you would come and tell us all about your own dear kitties—I know you must share your home with some lovely kittums. Such an inspiring picture, we all agreed! Risking your life for a dear little kitty!"
Mendoza said icily, "As far as I am concerned, madam, a cat lover is another cat. I am not interested—"
"And I simply had to bring you a copy of My Book—" she pressed a little volume insistently into his hand.
"Poems to my dear kitty pussums—I had just a few copies printed for special friends—I do hope you'll like my little efforts. And you must come to one of our meetings, my dear man—"
"I am not—"
She shook her finger at him merrily. "My card is there, and we shall so look forward to seeing you at our next meeting! I've marked the date for you—you'll find us all friendly—don't be shy! Now I won't interrupt your busy schedule, but do come!" She tripped out and down the hall.
Hackett began to laugh. He bent double, gasping.
Mendoza retrieved his hat. He put it on slowly, pulling it just to the correct angle, and brushed his moustache back and forth. Hackett subsided into his desk chair, giggling. He said, "Tell 'em-about El Señor and his rye—sorry, just struck me funny—"
Mendoza said distinctly, "God damn eternally the man who invented cameras," and stalked out.
Mairi had gone out to the market and brought the Times home that afternoon. "Well, for heaven's sake," said Alison, "I wonder where they got the picture." They had
heard about Dan Whalen, the fire, and Merlin—largely on account of Mendoza's suit jacket, which was past reclamation.
"And wasn't it just like the man, never mentioning what a terrible blaze it was—guidness to mercy, see all the smoke there," said Mairi.
Alison suddenly dissolved into mirth.
"Now the man might have been killed!" said Mairi. "Well you know it!"
"I know-only he wasn't- But Mairi, it isn't Luis—not really a good picture of him—b-but it's exactly like an old still of Valentino yearning at Vilma Banky or some other vamp—" Alison went on giggling, looking at it.
The twins came home on the private school bus, and rapidly became obstreperous, quarreling and noisy—it was raining again and they couldn't go out to play. The trouble with babies, thought Alison, was that they turned into children. She cuddled Luisa Mary—a perfectly contented peaceful mite of life, quite easy to cope with, but a couple of years from now ....
When the phone rang around five o'clock, the twins were settled down having supper.
"I'd have called before," said the slow country drawl of Ken Kearney, "but I got hung up some. Carburetor trouble on the way up here, so I was late getting in. But I've got it fixed up O.K. What I wanted to tell you the ponies are fine. just what we want. They belonged to this fellow's kids—Lew Ford, he's got a spread here, very nice, herd of Herefords—and the kids outgrew 'em. They're worth the money, a very nice pair, and I clinched the deal. He'll be glad to keep them till next month. But what else I'm calling about—you know what I said about some sheep. Well, Ford says he knows a fellow a few miles north might have some to sell—you know, it's mighty hard to find any sheep right around L.A. I thought I might kill two birds with one stone—see what they look like, and if they're O.K. I can rent a U-Haul and bring them right down, put 'em up there."
"But we're not moved in," said Alison. "Would they be all right up there alone?"
Keamey's laugh was hearty. "Right as rain. We just want 'em for eating down the weeds. I'll call you back, let you know how much he wants."
