by Dell Shannon
Landers, who had just cast up his eyes at that, said sardonically, "Man in the prime of life all right, him picking up the blond floozy as soon as he landed here."
"Did you find out any more about that?" asked Mendoza, grinning.
"Well, we asked around in the bar and restaurant there," said Hackett, "but nobody seems to have noticed anything.
He could have spotted the girl alone in the bar or somewhere, or she could have been on the make—"
"Or," said Mendoza, "he might have had a date set up with her, Art. Maybe Seton only thinks Upchurch didn't know anybody here."
"Damn it, we can't do anything until these places are open."
"Preserve patience. You'd better hear what happened last night," and he told them about the brothers.
"I suppose that is the likeliest thing," said Hackett, "that one of them had a private fight with Parmenter. He didn't seem to know anybody else."
Landers just said, "People."
"But you know, Luis, there was a funny feeling about that street that day—I don't know, I couldn't say why. Just a feeling." Hackett sat back and reached for a cigarette.
"That wasn't you I saw driving up in a Chevy a while ago, was it?" asked Landers. Mendoza liked exotic cars, and he could afford the taste, with all the loot his grandfather had left.
Mendoza explained about the electric eye. "I only hope it works," he added, sounding doubtful. "Some of the ideas that girl has had—talk about one thing leading to another—
¡Valgame Dios!"
* * *
Of the four new heists, one was Mutt and Jeff again, and this time they had dropped a receipt in the amount of sixty dollars from a motel on Avenue Twenty. The others were all new to the detectives: one description was of a short thin Mexican type, another of a tall thin Negro, and on the fourth there was no description at all: he'd been wearing a stocking mask.
They started to work it as they could. Higgins, Glasser, Grace and Palliser went down to R. and I. and Phil Landers took the descriptions and went away to feed the computer. In half an hour they were handed no fewer than nineteen possible suspects from Records to hunt for, whose descriptions and pedigrees made them at least likely to have pulled these jobs. And that, of course, was leaving out the fourth heist entirely.
Grace, Higgins and Palliser went out to start that legwork. The addresses in Records for those men might not all be up to date; criminals tended to drift around. They might not find any of them. None of these men might be guilty, this time. But it was a place to start.
Glasser and Wanda drove out to the motel on Avenue Twenty. It was over in Lincoln Heights. It was a ramshackle, ancient place with about twelve little wooden cabins, one of the front ones occupied by the manager. He was a paunchy dark-brown fellow, with a couple of front teeth missing, and he looked at the badge fearfully and said, "Man, we never have no trouble here. All nice an' quiet, I don't let in no junkies or drunks."
"Nobody said you did," said Glasser, and showed him the receipt. "Do you remember these two men?"
"I go look in the book." They went in with him, to a crowded little fusty room with a black-and-white TV blaring. He shut down the sound, found a thick old ledger, leafed back. "Oh, them, yeah," he said. "They was here three nights. Ten a night."
"They each rented a cabin?"
"Naw, naw. There was two couples. Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Mr. and Mrs. Brown. One short fat guy and one tall thin guy—"
"What about the women?" asked Wanda.
He shrugged. "I only saw 'em that one time. Just a pair of broads. I couldn't tell you what they looked like."
"What car were they driving? Did you take the plate number?"
"Naw, I don't bother with that. Most people not here very long. I think it was white, a Ford or Chevy or something, I don't know."
"Oh, well," said Glasser as he slid under the Gremlin's wheel, "they're such a pair of bunglers they'll probably get dropped on eventually."
* * *
Palliser and Grace had wasted all morning trying to catch up to just one quarry, one Alfonso Marquez, who sounded like one of the likeliest on that heist last night. He had changed jobs, and as soon as he was off parole last month he had changed apartments; and through the vague memories of old neighbors and someone who knew his brother who lived in Glendale, they finally chased down his newest address over in Pasadena. There wasn't anybody home. A man came out of the apartment next door and said, "You lookin' for Al?"
"That's right," said Palliser. "You know where he is?"
"Well, he's in jail," said the man. "The cops picked him up Saturday night for heisting a gas station and I guess he couldn't make bail."
Just to be sure, they checked with the Pasadena jail, and he was there. "This is," said Palliser, "one of the times I wish I'd decided to be an English teacher."
"Dad wanted me to go in for medicine, naturally," said Grace, whose father was a gynecologist. "I never had any ambition that way, but there was a time I thought of the ministry. Believe it or not. Decided I didn't have any real call. And isn't it about time for lunch?"
They had lunch at a place in Pasadena, and started to look for Rafael Torres. Surprisingly, he was where his latest record said he should be, at an address in Boyle Heights, and they brought him back to base to question him. He couldn't tell them where he'd been last night, he said frankly; he'd gone to a party and there'd been some high-grade grass and a few other things, and everybody must have had a good time and moved on, because the party had started at Doris's but when he woke up he was at Roberto's.
Whoever had pulled the heist last night hadn't been stoned, so they let him go. They were both feeling a little tired then so they sat there for a while smoking before they started looking for Rolando Garcia, and they were still there when the new call went down and Lake buzzed them.
"It's a body, at Seventh and Hill."
"My God, am I having a premonition?" said Palliser.
At that very busy corner, right in front of Bullocks' department store that ran through from Seventh to Eighth, of course there was a crowd. With the realization that something had happened or was happening, a lot of people tended to crowd up just to gawk, and the Traffic man first on the scene had evidently had to call a backup to make some effort at preserving order. There were three uniformed men standing spaced out behind one of the benches at the corner, and a fourth was standing in the street in front of it. Standing beside him was a civilian who was talking excitedly. And the body, slumped sideways on the bench, with quite a lot of blood all around it . . . "I knew it!" said Palliser savagely as they came up. "God damn it—"
"But didn't I say he's getting nuttier? Of all the places to commit a murder . . ." This was one of the most crowded spots in downtown L.A., where pedestrians and buses and cars made a hodgepodge of the narrow sidewalks and streets. During the middle of the day, on weekdays, it was nearly wall-to-wall people.
The Traffic men greeted them with relief. "It's been a job just to keep people from coming up to poke at the corpse," said Gomez feelingly. "I'd say you want to take him in as soon as possible, or we'll have traffic stalled."
"The lab will want photographs, though it's a waste of time," said Palliser. "Not one goddamned lead on this joker—”
"Well, you're going to get a good one," said a cheerful voice. Palliser turned.
"This is Mr. Trotwood," said Gomez. "Your only witness, Sergeant. And you might offer him some heartfelt thanks, he's been a big damned help in keeping the people away."
"Have to preserve the scene," said Trotwood. "It's Carl Trotwood, Sergeant, and I was glad to help out. I'm too short to pass the physical, but I've kind of made a hobby of—you know—police work. Police business." He was, quite simply, delighted to have stumbled into this, to be meeting real-life detectives. He looked at Palliser and Grace almost with affection. "To think it was me just happened to sit next to that guy! But see, Sergeant, I trained myself to have a good memory for faces—always thought, I ever happen to be a witnes
s to something important, I want to be a reliable one. And I got a very good close look at this killer—you put me at a table with an artist and an Identikit, and I'll give you a photograph of him! And I'll tell you something else very funny." Mr. Trotwood was a short broad dark fellow about thirty-five, with a homely round face and a big nose.
"That's fine, Mr. Trotwood, and we're very grateful for the help you gave the officers," said Palliser. "But just let us look at what we've got here—we'll get back to you presently."
"Oh, sure, sure, anything you say."
Grace was on the mike in one squad, to get a lab truck out. The body was a medium-sized man around sixty,_in ordinary sports clothes; he had thinning gray hair, a pair of rimless spectacles had fallen to the sidewalk, and this was a messier kill than the others, a lot more blood spilled. There was a large canvas bag full of library books propped up against the bench beside him; all the books had been checked out today at the main library, Palliser discovered while they waited for the lab men.
The lab truck came, with the morgue wagon behind it; Horder took a couple of pictures for the record and then searched the body and handed a billfold to Grace.
There were a driver's license, a couple of credit cards, sixteen dollars in bills. His name was Eric Gustafson, he'd been fifty-nine and lived at a Hollywood address.
After the morgue wagon left, the crowd began to drift away, and Palliser and Grace took Carl Trotwood back to Palliser's car and put him in the back seat.
"Say, you know, I'm sorry as hell a man got killed," he said. "But all my life I've been interested in police work, in crime, and this is the first time I've ever been mixed up with it for real. I don't mean to sound as if I'm happy somebody got killed, but—well, I'm glad to be able to help you. I can tell you just what he looked like." He laughed. "Kind of a bonus, get out of going to the dentist."
"Oh? You were on the way to the dentist?"
"That's right, had an appointment at two-thirty. You see, I work right here at Bullocks', I drive one of the delivery vans. And we live in Atwater but I never drive to work on account of the parking being so expensive down here, leave the car to my wife. I had an appointment to have my teeth cleaned, Dr. Wilhelm out on Beverly, so I took off about one-forty to come down and catch the bus. And that guy was already sitting there, only one on the bench. The bus—my bus—was due about one-fifty. I wasn't paying any attention to the guy, just sitting there. And then this other one came up. He came right around in front of the bench"—Trotwood gestured—"and those benches are pretty close to the curb, you know, he was standing in the street—and on account of what he said I looked at him. Lots of people going by, but I don't suppose anybody heard him but me. He said, you're the one killed her, I found you now—and he just pulled this knife out of his pocket and starts stabbing the guy"—the gesturing was graphic now—"back, forth, back, forth, like lightning—I'm on my feet, he's maybe five feet away from me, I yell something like what the hell you think you're doing, and he turns and runs-up toward the corner, around on Seventh and I tried to chase him, but I kept running into people, and all the crowds—he's gone. I came back, there's already people milling around on account of the blood. God, the fools there are in this world. I couldn't do everything at once," said Trotwood apologetically. "There's a pay phone on the corner, I called in to headquarters, but I couldn't swear that some of those damn people didn't leave prints all over, only I don't suppose it matters because he took the knife with him, and I never saw him touch the bench."
"That's very good, Mr. Trotwood."
"Now you give me a session with one of your artists, Sergeant, and I'll give you a composite like a photograph. He was six feet even, a hundred and seventy, that streaky dark and light blond hair, light eyes, a kind of pointed narrow chin, clean shaven—tufty sort of eyebrows and thin lips; But the funniest damned thing is," said Trotwood, "I've seen a picture of that guy before. I know I have. It's clear in my mind—I've seen a real photograph of him."
"That's not very likely, Mr. Trotwood," said Grace tactfully. "Maybe he just reminded you of somebody—"
"No, no," said Trotwood obstinately, "I've seen a photograph of him—if I could just remember where, damn it! But you give me a session with your Identikit."
* * *
At the address on Russell Street in Hollywood, the nice-looking brown-haired woman said blankly, before she broke down, "He always goes to the library once a week—he's a greater reader, he likes Westerns—and the car was on the fritz, he took the bus today— What? Why, he's the night security guard at the Universal Studio—you can't be telling me that Eric's dead—he's only fifty-nine—"
There was a son in West Hollywood to call, and a married daughter in La Habra.
* * *
Hackett and Landers had finally been able to get to some legwork, covering those various restaurants suggested to Upchurch by Seton, when the places began to open. They were all high-class, expensive restaurants; Landers snorted at Upchurch and his French cuisine. Upchurch so politically identified with those simple ranchers up north. They had started out at La Bella Fontana at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, but everybody there shook their heads at the picture and said he hadn't been in there.
"It's possible," said Hackett, looking at the list, "that he stayed right where he was, Tom. At the Beverly Hilton. The big restaurant there is French—L'Escoffier. What the hell's that mean?"
"No idea," said Landers. "I took German."
"It's one of the places Seton said he recommended. And if Upchurch wasn't familiar with L.A. he might not have been inclined to go hunting for addresses. He wasn't far from his own hotel at the Hilton."
So they had come up here, to the dining room of L'Escoffier, opening at four. They showed the picture around, and the maitre d' and all the waitresses shook their heads at it. He hadn't been there. They had, of course, seen the newspaper stories and pictures; they would have remembered.
"We11, the next nearest," said Hackett, "is this Jimmy's farther up in Beverly Hil1s."
But as they went through the lobby, they spotted Seton striding toward the front entrance, and Hackett increased his pace and caught up to him. "Afternoon, Mr. Seton. I should have picked up the nuances—that copy of Playboy—and of course you would have too. He had the roving eye, didn't he? He picked up a girl at the hotel as soon as he landed here, or did he have a date already set up? Was that just a call girl, or would you know?"
Seton met his eyes and gave a massive shrug. "So you're onto him. My God, Sergeant, that is the kind of thing we're paid to deal with—but if he was going to be that kind of a fool, I couldn't play nursemaid to him twenty-four hours a day. Yeah, I found out soon enough after we started dealing with him, he had quite an eye for the chicks, and I'd warned him to be discreet, for God's sake." Seton ran a hand over his smooth hair. "He was a good property," he said. "He put up such a damned good appearance, a slick actor, all those hicks up there eating out of his hand, and it was such a damned good image, the city folk liked him too." He looked reminiscent and thoughtful, his cold eyes introspective. "Why, hell, he could really have gone places, that one, it's a god-damned waste when you think of it—"
Hackett said, "It didn't cross your mind what harm a man like that might do the nation—a lecher, a man of no principle, susceptible to blackmail?"
Seton gave him a mirthless smile. "Sergeant, I'm a P.R. man. We get paid to build the image. What the hell, it was no skin off my nose."
Landers said very softly, "It will be, if we fall into a dictatorship on account of the corrupt politicians."
Seton shrugged again. "So you're one of the wild-eyed extremists. Common sense, boys. But Upchurch is a dead issue anyway, no use to anybody now. Forget it. And I've got an appointment with a client, excuse me." He turned to the door.
"Remind me to ask John," said Landers, "for a copy of that quote from Belloc."
EIGHT
Palliser and Grace were still out on the new call, whatever that was, on Tuesday afternoon w
hen the autopsy report on Edna Patterson came in. Mendoza skimmed over it and said to Higgins, "Nothing we couldn't have guessed." She had been manually strangled. And she had been a medium-sized woman in reasonably good health, but if a big man had got her by the throat she wouldn't have had much chance to tight back.
When the new call came in at four-thirty, they both went out on it. "Getting along toward summer," said Higgins. "We'll be having a heat wave before long, and then see business really pick up."
It was a public high school on Forty-second Place, and as Higgins pulled into the parking lot the ambulance came out of it screaming. In the middle of the parking lot were a lot of excited adults and a handful of teen-agers and the two Traffic men, Faye and Corbett. They had sorted out the main facts, and presented them in capsule form.
"The supervisor of the cafeteria here, a Mrs. Joan Flowers, and one of the teachers, Arthur Robillard—he looked pretty bad. Two other cafeteria workers and a couple of kids saw it happen, everybody else came out afterward. This guy accosted Flowers as she was getting into her car, and Robillard evidently saw it and came running over to grab him—good many people leaving at this hour—and they were both shot. Senseless damned thing," said Faye. "Evidently he was after the money bag."
"What money bag?" asked Higgins.
"She always took the money from the cafeteria to deposit it at the bank. It's still in her car."
They talked to the two women, who also worked in the cafeteria, who had seen it happen: Mrs. Mona Knight, Miss Frances Medina. "We were just going along talking, coming to our cars, when I heard Mr. Robillard shout—he'd been just ahead of us—and I looked up, and he was running, and there were all of these loud bangs like firecrackers and this man beside Mrs. Flowers' car—"
