Murder Most Strange

by Dell Shannon

  Mendoza was prowling around, looking at everything. He said, "It doesn't look like a very prosperous business. I'd say he was just about making a living. Why did he need a clerk? He couldn't have been too busy to wait on all the trade himself."

  "I suppose he wanted a woman who knew the cosmetic stock and so on."

  "¿Como?" Mendoza penetrated back to the big storeroom behind the body of the shop. It was largely bare, shelves at one side holding extra stock of miscellaneous items. There was a large folding table against the back wall, stacked folding chairs. There was a container for holding the delivered spring water, and the bottle was half empty.

  "There's nothing in the lab report either," said Hackett.

  "I finally got it yesterday, and as I said, I don't think whoever killed him went into the house at all. The lab dusted every surface they could reach and by all the latents there hadn't been anybody but him in the house for years, except the Coffman woman, and she kicked up a hell of a fuss at having her prints taken for comparison. I just can't imagine what was behind it. He could easily have made an enemy, the queer old cuss he was, but nothing says who."

  "Yes," said Mendoza. "But why the hell should he come back here at night? It's not as if he—mmh—had to hide the pornography from a loving wife and family, and it'd be easier

  and safer to get drunk at home if he was a secret drinker—"

  "He wasn't. Liquor costs too much."

  "Well, you're right, there's nothing here. And SID is usually thorough, but I think I'd like a look at the house."

  "Oh, for God's sake, if you want to waste the time . . ."

  They went over to the quiet little backwater and parked in front of the old frame house. Hackett unlocked the front door and they went in. It was a gloomy dank place, the few bare sticks of furniture, the stained walls, the uncarpeted floors redolent not so much of asceticism as of meanness. Mendoza went around opening cupboards and drawers and looking in closets, and Hackett asked, "What are you looking for?"

  “I haven't the faintest idea," said Mendoza. "But I do wonder, Art, how he spent his evenings? He couldn't work in his garden after dark. There isn't a book or a magazine here, or a TV set, or a radio. Why the hell did he go back to the store at night? There's nothing like that there either."

  Hackett trailed him patiently. "Your invisible crystal ball telling you something, compadre?"

  "Just following my nose." Mendoza wound up out in the garage, which didn't have a workbench; there was just the old Ford sitting there, and everything was dusty and dirty. Mendoza came out, automatically brushing at his silver-gray Dacron suit.

  "He was," said Hackett, "a professional blackmailer. Somewhere here there's a stash of incriminating information on some millionaires?"

  "I wonder," said Mendoza seriously. "What about his banking records?"

  "All perfectly straightforward. We found his bankbooks. You're right, he wasn't making any fat profit."

  "What the hell was he doing," said Mendoza, "that he had to go back there at night?" He opened the door and went into the house again, into the old-fashioned square service porch. Hackett followed him. Mendoza stood gazing around meditatively, and then raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Well, now, I wonder," he said. "Do you remember that corpse we found under the trapdoor in that apartment?"

  "That you found," said Hackett. "Vividly. You may remember that that was how I met my wife."

  “Yes," said Mendoza. "A very ingenious hiding place if it had worked. I saw a ladder somewhere, go and get it, will you?"

  The ladder was, in fact, leaning against the wall just outside the back door; Hackett brought it in and set it up. The little trapdoor in the ceiling was intended as access for electricians and plumbers, to the wires and pipes above the ceiling; it was about two feet by three. Mendoza mounted the ladder and pushed at it. It was just resting on a frame, and moved obligingly aside. Mendoza went up another step and shoved one arm inside.

  "Let me guess," said Hackett. "Mice."

  "¡Anda!" said Mendoza. "Something. But what?” He reached in both arms, and brought out a stack of paper; the ladder rocked on the uneven floor, Hackett grabbed it, and a shower of leaflets and pamphlets fluttered down, with a couple of heavier books.

  "What the hell—"

  Mendoza came down and dived for a handful. He looked at it and said, "¡Qué interesante es! So that's what Mr. Parmenter was up to. Now we know."

  All of the crudely printed leaflets emanated from something called the Brotherhood of the Superior Race. Hackett looked through the one Mendoza handed him. "One of these white-supremacy outfits? I'll be damned—"

  "A little more wholesale," said Mendoza, scanning the thicker pamphlet he'd just picked up.

  The Brotherhood of the Superior Race, by the contents of all this printed material, didn't like anybody very much except themselves. They had no use at all for Jews, Catholics, Negroes, Orientals, foreigners of any kind or presumably any possible visitors from outer space. There were stacks and stacks of the stuff up there, and some privately printed books, all enlarging on the degeneracy of the Jews, the Negroes, on the horrifying secret rituals of the Catholic Church, on the dangers of miscegenation, on the British-Israel theories.

  "Now I will be damned," said Hackett. "The things people fall for—"

  Mendoza said with a short laugh, "There was that folding table, you know. I'll bet you he presided over meetings of this nasty little outfit in the back room of that store. But I do wonder how Miss McLennan found out about it."

  * * *

  When Hackett got home he found Angel just taking a casserole out of the oven. She kissed him briskly. "You've really been very good about staying on the maintenance diet, darling. But you're going to fall off it a little tonight because we're in a hurry. And I hope to goodness I can get the children to bed early and they don't get to fussing."

  "Where are we going?" asked Hackett amiably.

  "No place. I just noticed it in the new TV Guide, there's a movie on we want to see. We missed it when it was playing in the theaters, because it was that time Sheila had chickenpox and we couldn't leave her. And it got the rave reviews, it's supposed to be awfully good—that one made on the old Christie mystery, you know, the Orient Express."

  "Oh, fine," said Hackett. "Just the thing to take my mind off the dirty job, my Angel." He went to strip off tie and jacket.

  For a wonder, the children went peaceably to bed, and at eight o'clock the Hacketts settled down on the couch together to watch "Saturday Night at the Movies."

  * * *

  When Mendoza came in at ten o'clock on Sunday morning the office was empty except for Sergeant Lake working a crossword puzzle at the switchboard. "Where is everybody, Jimmy?"

  "I think Jase and George went out on the Patterson thing again, and there was a new one down, Art and Tom are on that—body in a car at the County Courthouse parking lot."

  "¡No me diga! Has somebody killed a judge at last?"

  Lake grinned. "I couldn't say. Henry and John are out looking for heisters."

  "So you can put me through to the local feds." Mendoza went on into his office and two minutes later was talking to the FBI office in Hollywood.

  One of the feds came over, a fellow named Grady, and looked through the stacks of leaflets Mendoza had brought back yesterday. He looked at it sadly; he was a young man, but like any other cop he knew about human nature.

  "This outfit," he said distastefully, poking his finger at a pamphlet entitled "Race Purity or the End of Civilization!"

  "Well, it's on the subversive list, but we don't do much about it—there's not much to do—at least they don't go throwing bombs, and as far as we know they haven't started to stockpile machine guns yet. Just distribute the hate literature and hold secret meetings—get together to exchange passwords and tell each other how superior they are."

  "Yes," said Mendoza. "The bandar-log."

  "How's that?"

  "Mr. Kipling's bandar-log. ‘We are the greatest
people in the jungle, we know it is true because all of us say it is true!' "

  "Oh," said Grady. "It makes you tired to see people being such fools. We all come all shapes and sizes, good, bad and indifferent. You'd think a look at history would tell anybody that. These people, the ones who fall for this junk, they're usually little unimportant people, failures in life, and they need something to prop themselves up, you know? They're a far cry from the real terrorists and propagandists using the hate to create dissension, spread confusion, aiming for the cold communist takeover. They're kind of pathetic people really—but hate is hate."

  "Isn't it the truth," said Mendoza. "Well, I suppose this gives us an answer to our particular little puzzle. Parmenter annoyed one of the local brotherhood—maybe he was Grand High Panjandrum and somebody wanted the job—and the brother put him out of the way."

  "It's very possible. They don't tend to be very well balanced people, of course. But I guess both of us have had enough to do with the nuts to know how they react."

  Mendoza settled back for a desultory discussion of the vagaries of human nature, quite unaware of the storm that was about to break over the office.

  * * *

  Hackett and Landers had gone out on yet another routine call, a dead body: what Robbery-Homicide was there to deal with. It was a rather queer place to find a body, but the civic center with all its public buildings was surrounded by the inner city, the oldest part of L.A. and some of the shabbiest, and many things happen in the inner city on Saturday nights. They drove the little way to the County Courthouse and found the squad in the parking lot, which held just one car. Barrett was waiting for them.

  "I noticed the car because, of course, it's the only one in the lot. I thought it might be on the hot list, so I came up to look, and there he is. And I'll tell you something funny, he looks sort of familiar," said Barrett. "What you can see of him."

  "Oh?" Hackett went to take a look. The car was a nearly new Chevrolet hard-top, bright silver. The body was on the passenger side in front, but slumped over sideways. Hackett went around to the driver's side to get a better look at its face. They'd have to get the lab out before they could touch the car or examine the corpse, so they put in a call and Scarne came out with Horder in a mobile unit.

  They dusted the right-hand door, lifted a few latents, and got it open. The morgue wagon was standing by then. At least, up here on a Sunday morning, there was nobody around to make up a gawking crowd. They took some pictures and Scarne said, "He looks familiar. Okay, that should do it. Let's see if there's any I.D. on him," and he reached in and yanked the body more upright. It flopped up, still a little rigid, and the head fell back against the seat. The corpse had been a striking-looking man, a big man with broad shoulders, thick black hair slightly waving in front, strongly marked features—broad brow, jutting straight nose, a wide mobile mouth. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties.

  "My good God!" said Hackett. "It's Upchurch. Senator Upchurch."

  "I'll be damned if it isn't," said Landers. "What the hell is he doing here?"

  "Up—" said Scarne, and stared. "My God. It is. I was going to vote for him. How'd he get down here, for God's sake?"

  Howard Upchurch was a very new figure in national politics, and by all the signs he had been marked for success. He had currently been serving a fourth term in the state senate, and was campaigning for the nomination at the primaries in June to challenge the senior senator for California. He had been, according to the polls, the odds-on favorite to get that nomination.

  "I saw him on a TV spot just last night," said Hackett. They had all seen the news stories, the campaign publicity. Upchurch was running as a common-sensible moderate, with a strong base of Family, Patriotism and Morality. He was described as a solid family man himself, he had been a successful lawyer before entering politics, and he was identified with agricultural interests; he represented a constituency far north in the state where large ranch holdings dominated the local scene. They had all seen the TV spots, heard his well-modulated voice making the pitch. But it wouldn't matter now how many votes he'd have gotten; he wasn't going to Washington next January.

  There wasn't any visible mark to say how he had died.

  "I'l1 be damned," said Scarne in sole comment, and rather gingerly began to feel in the pockets. Upchurch was wearing a well-tailored gray suit, white shirt, a discreet dark tie. There was a gold seal ring on his right hand, and a Masonic tie pin fastened to the tie. "Well, he wasn't rolled," said Scarne, handing the billfold to Hackett. There was a hundred and seventy dollars in it, and the plastic slots were crammed with I.D.: credit cards, membership cards for the Elks, Kiwanis, Rotary. Scarne was into other pockets now. He came up with a florists' card, the kind attached to a formal arrangement. In green ink was printed on it To welcome you to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Compliments of the manager. Next came a note crumpled hastily into the left jacket pocket.

  It was a sheet torn from an interoffice memo pad, and it was headed in scarlet block print, From the office of Bernard Seton. In an overlarge scrawl below that was, Dear Howie, suggest we get together for a confab re the campaign and Tuesday speech, my hotel room, this afternoon—sorry can't join for dinner, will take rain check. Bernie. That seemed to be all that was in the pockets, except for a bunch of keys.

  "Well, this is going to make some headlines," said Hackett.

  "We'll have the press around."

  Landers sniffed and said, "One politician less."

  "It's a Hertz car, did you notice?" said Scarne. The keys were in the ignition.

  "He was evidently staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel," said Hackett. "I suppose we start there. And, hell, it's Sunday, I don't suppose there'd be anybody at his Sacramento office."

  The lab would tow in the car and Upchurch would be delivered to the morgue. There wasn't any obvious injury, and he could have died of a heart attack, only what was he doing at the County Courthouse? But whatever, they had to work it.

  Hackett and Landers drove out to the Beverly Hills Hotel. It was an old and still very good hotel, not as large or as classy as the newer Hilton, the Century-Plaza. And of course there wasn't going to be any way to avoid the publicity on this. Hackett asked the desk clerk whether Senator Upchurch was registered. The desk clerk beamed at him cordially and agreed that he was. He was a thin dark man with obsequious eyes and an anxious smile. "I'm sorry to tell you," said Hackett, bringing out the badge, "that he's just been found dead, and we'll have to make some inquiries."

  The smile vanished. "D-dead!" said the clerk. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"

  "We'd like to see his room," said Hackett. "And do you have a Bernard Seton registered?" The clerk shook his head dumbly. "All right, let's see the register."

  "Really, there's no Seton—"

  "I don't doubt it," said Hackett, "but I don't recall where Upchurch comes from, and I want his home address."

  "It's S-San S-S-Sallitas," said the clerk. "Oh, my God. What—what did he die of?"

  "We don't know yet. Will you take us to his room, please. Would you know what time he went out, when he was last seen here?"

  Dumbly the clerk took down some keys from behind the desk. "I go—off duty at six. Bob Logan's on—up to midnight. I saw the senator come in—yesterday—about five o'clock. That's all I know."

  "Al1 right, thanks."

  They rode up to the top floor, and the clerk let them into a room at the end of the corridor. Hackett shut the door on him and they looked around. In ten minutes Landers said, "I'll bet you he was just down here to make a speech, he wasn't intending to stay long." There was only one suitcase, and it held four clean shirts, two folded ties and four sets of clean underwear, four pairs of socks. There was a dark navy suit hanging in the closet, his razor in the bathroom, a few toilet articles on the shelf there. The register said he had checked in on Friday. And a laundry bag in the closet held a little pile of dirty clothes, two shirts, two sets of underwear, two pairs of socks.

  Th
e only other objects in the room were a copy of Playboy, a pamphlet about the aims and methods of the League of Women Voters and a lot of campaign material from the Upchurch for Senate Committee. Landers picked up one of the brochures and read it, shook his head and passed it to Hackett. Upchurch was firmly outspoken, it announced proudly, in support of the sanctity of the American family, law and order, the protection of the American consumer, the necessity to strengthen and broaden our economy, the improvement of education for the younger generation, and the reaffirmation of the eternal principles of democratic government.

  "The usual vague hogwash. We're supposed to have a republic, not a democracy. See B. Franklin."

  Hackett laughed. "The language degenerating, Tom, too many people don't know the difference. We'd better go back to the office to do any phoning." And they'd only been in there about forty minutes, but it was long enough; by the time they got down to the lobby the press was just arriving. The desk clerk had called in the scoop.

  They were annoyed, and ran the gauntlet out to the car. The press would be besieging the office and Mendoza would have a lit.

  Back at base, Hackett was stymied by Information, who informed him that the number he desired was unlisted and could not be given out. "This is the police," said Hackett. Information was sorry, but she had no proof of that and was not allowed to give out unlisted numbers. "Give me your supervisor," said Hackett, and had a long argument with that one before he got her to call him back, verify the claim and read him the number. He dialed and let it ring twelve times; nobody answered.

  "I suppose there might be somebody in his office," said Landers. "Height of a political campaign, likely there'll be an army of people there stuffing envelopes begging for money."

  Hackett got the Senate Office Building in Sacramento, and the phone rang four times before an impatient voice answered. "Is this Senator Upchurch's office?" asked Hackett.

  "Yes, sir, what can we do for you, sir?"

  "This is the police in Los Angeles. I'm—"