by Dell Shannon
It seemed that Nestor, Clay, and several others used to get together for poker a couple of times a month, and Nestor had talked, casually, about his girl friends, about his lucrative practice. "I don't mean he'd come right out with names and details-Frank wouldn't do that. On the women, I mean. But he'd say things like, he had a date with a hot number tomorrow night, or something like that. So I knew he was stepping out on his wife a lot."
"Did he ever mention a name to you at all?"
That was where Clay said again he wouldn't want to get anybody in trouble. "He did, once. About two weeks ago, last time I saw him, matter of fact. He had the tail end of a nice shiner-about three days old, you know-and I asked him about it. He laughed and said, oh, Ruthie's husband had caught up to him."
"Ruthie." There was a Ruth Elger, and an address, in Nestor's address book. "I see."
"I guess at that,” said Clay, "even if he wasn't just so level, at that job, he'd have been good at it. He'd always wanted to be a surgeon, he used to say, and he was good with his hands, any hand work. I understand now it's not like it used to be, this chiropractic thing, a six-week course anybody could take-it's like a regular college course, and they have to take all the pre-med classes. He may have turned quite a few unethical bucks, but he was really interested in it and no fool, you know. I don't know how much it's worth to you, Sergeant, because I couldn't say whether it was so, but he told me once his family had had a lot of money, he'd always had everything, and been going to go to medical school and so on, but after his father died his mother got hooked by some con man and lost it all. He said he'd made up his mind to get his however he could-he was kind of bitter about it."
"And that might figure too," said Hackett. "Could be. Now, you knew him pretty well, Mr. Clay. This could be what it looks like, the break-in after drugs or cash, and the impulsive assault. But not so many burglars carry guns. It could also be a private kill. And generally speaking, in a case of murder, the deceased has done something-or been something-to trigger it off. Could you make any guesses as to who might have wanted Nestor dead? Off the record-just between us."
"Hell," said Clay, "that's a thing to ask me, Sergeant? He looked down at his scarred old desk there in the back room of his store, the untidy pile of invoices, business letters. "I don't know about any-you know-specific person. Far as I know, everybody liked Frank just line. But I'll say this much. If it was like that, the private reason like you say, I'd make a guess that it was most likely over some woman. Some girl's husband or boy friend. He liked the girls-and they liked him."
"Yes. What about his wife? Do you think she-felt anything about him any more? Enough to-"
"His wife? Hell, I don't know," said Clay doubtfully. "That's-well, I don't know, I never could read that woman." That makes two of us, thought Hackett. He wanted to see Andrea Nestor again. "You think a woman might have-Lord, what a hell of a thing, old Frank getting murdered… "
"Well, we'll see what turns up," said Hackett. He thanked Clay and went out to his car. One of the new Traffic Maids, on her three-wheeled cycle, was righteously making out an overparking ticket for him. Without compunction Hackett pulled rank on her and got the ticket torn up. No millionaire indeed, with another one coming along he needed every dollar he earned.
What, he wondered again, had Nestor wanted with a sterilizer? Chiropractors weren't allowed to give shots or do anything they'd need surgical tools for, were they? Instruments that would have to be sterilized. There was just the glimmer of an idea in his mind about that, but resignedly he thought there'd be no way to prove it-now. That Corliss woman. He could kick himself for such stupid carelessness, leaving the place wide open… He wanted to see her again too. And he wanted another try at that desk clerk in the Third Street hotel, the man who'd been on the desk when the Slasher signed for a room. The man was hardly the world's greatest brain but he must have noticed more about the Slasher than he claimed to remember.
Hackett ruminated behind the wheel, uncertain where to go from here. There were a lot more places to look, on the Nestor thing, than there were on the Slasher. But that one was the one most urgent to catch up to. God, yes.
The prints in Nestor's office had been mostly his and Margaret Corliss'. It would be largely wasted effort, probably, to track down all his patients and get their prints to compare to the unknown ones in the office; probably X had worn gloves or wiped off anything he'd touched. If it had been the casual thief, why hadn't he taken Nestor's star-sapphire ring and jade tie clasp, along with the cash? Of course, it could have been juveniles after drugs; in the dark they wouldn't notice from the sign that Nestor had been a chiropractor and wouldn't have any drugs on the premises. But…
Margaret Corliss had said at first that she'd come to call and put off the patients because-how had she put it?-it would be awkward having them come in while the police were there. And then later on she'd said that there never were any patients on Wednesdays. Hackett got out his notebook, turned to the page where he'd written down the facts of that odd little encounter with Miss Corliss, and added that one.
That button. By the thread hanging from it, maybe already loose; so when Nestor saw the gun, made a grab for it, he got the button instead? Button from, probably, a man's jacket. Just an ordinary dark gray button.
He couldn't sit here the rest of the afternoon. Where now?
They had the bullet out of Nestor's skull, and not too much damaged: a. 22. When, as, and if they ever found a possible gun, Ballistics could probably say whether it was the right one.
Well, all right. Go and see Ruth Elger, whose husband had presumably given Nestor a black eye. Go and see everybody listed in his address book. See Mrs. Nestor again…
While the berserk killer roamed around loose. Hell. Hackett started the engine. It was Friday afternoon, getting on to five o'clock. He'd promised Angel he'd be home for dinner, but he thought he'd go out again afterward. See that desk clerk: he was on the night shift, wouldn't be on until nine o'clock. See Mrs. Nestor. See-
FIVE
Hackett went back to headquarters to report in, see if anything had turned up that looked interesting. Something had, and how much was it worth?
"I happened to be in," said Palliser, "so I talked to her.
A Mrs. Constance Brundage. About fifty, too fat, nice motherly soul but not much in the way of brains. She made a statement. Your guess is as good as mine whether it's worth anything. She said she was waiting for a bus at the corner of Western and San Marino, last night about eight o'clock, when a man came up to her. She was alone on the corner. She said he looked ‘sinister' because he had a hat pulled down over his eyes and his jacket collar turned up, which looked funny on a warm night. Said he had a sinister voice too, like a gangster, she said."
"Yes," said Hackett. "Naturally.?Que mas? And how much of that is imagination?"
Palliser shrugged. "What with all this press hysteria-Anyway, she said he came and stood ‘too close' to her, and she got nervous, and then he said he needed bus fare and she looked like a nice kind lady, would she give him a dollar? And she said no, and backed away, and he followed her-and goodness knows," said Palliser in obvious quotation of Mrs. Brundage, "what would have happened, except that the bus came just then and she got into it in a hurry, and the sinister stranger didn't. But on thinking it over, she was sure it must have been this terrible Slasher, and it was just the Lord's mercy she hadn't been his fifth victim. And-”
"?Basta!" said Hackett. "Description?"
"Very vague-it was dark. Just one little thing made me think twice, and get a statement. She can't say anything about his features, and says vaguely he was about medium-sized. But she did say that his clothes didn't seem to fit, looked too big for him. And Miguel Garcia-who's a much better witness-said the same thing about the man Roberto stopped to talk to."
"So he did," said Hackett slowly. "Food for thought. I'll be damned. On the other hand, John, a lot of bums around town are wearing hand-me-down clothes that don't fit."
&nb
sp; "True. I just mentioned it," said Palliser.
"And asking for money. Of course we don't know the hell of a lot about him. It could be. Corner of Western and San Marino-if so, out of the territory where he's been operating. Nice."
"You get anything new on Nestor?"
"This and that-maybe," said Hackett. "I don't know. I've got a funny little idea, but how the hell to prove anything? I want to see the wife again, and the people in his address book. And Ruth Elger's husband. I also want to have a heart-to-heart session with that desk clerk. He must have noticed something more than we've dragged out of him."
"I don't know," said Palliser. "It's not the kind of hotel where they give guests the eagle eye to see if they're respectable. And it was about ten o'clock at night."
"All the more reason for him to notice, damn it. Business'd be slow," said Hackett. "I want to talk to him again, anyway."
"Wish you luck," said Palliser, shrugging again. It had been a hot day, and he was tired. But he had a date with Roberta Silverman and was anxious to get away, to a cool shower and a shave and a clean shirt, and Roberta's dark eyes smiling at him across a table and a long cold drink. He didn't know then that this was an important conversation, that tomorrow he'd be racking his brains to remember just exactly what Hackett had said to him. 'The night shift was coming on. He told the night desk man where he'd be and went down to the lot for his car.
***
That night, at ten minutes past ten, the man full of hate took his pleasure in blood again. He had been with the old lush Rosie, but it hadn't lessened the taut violence in him. He had taken the half-empty bottle with him when he left, and on the street he stopped to drink from it. The raw spirit didn't seem to get to him, though he'd had four or five drinks before, with Rosie.
He walked on down the dark street, the vague hatred churning inside him. At the corner he turned; he had taken a room at a place on this street, just today. But he didn't feel like going there, to sleep.
There was a full moon, a great silver circle of serenity riding high above the city, casting clear silver light on the streets. He walked under it, hating.
At a corner two blocks up, a young and pretty Negro girl waited for her husband to pick her up. She had been visiting her sister and her sister's new baby, just home from the hospital; and her husband, Joe Lincoln, would pick her up here on his way home from work as a clerk at a local supermart. She was smiling, thinking about her new niece, for she was expecting her own first child in two months.
It was a nice warm night, and there was a bench here; Joe would be along in a few minutes. Besides the moon, there was a street light at the corner, it wasn't dark.
The man full of hate came up behind the bench and stopped to drink from the bottle again. She heard his steps and turned her head, and saw him clearly. Small shock registered in her eyes, and she turned quickly away. Another one, looking at him as if- And a nigger girl too. Everybody always- His hand closed on the knife in his pocket and he lurched toward the bench.
***
Most of the night shift were out on that one from ten-twenty on. The husband found her there-not fve minutes after she'd died, said the surgeon, in all probability, blood still flowing. She'd really been cut up, it was quite a mess, and they called every car in the vicinity to stop any and all pedestrians within six blocks. But again they drew blank-the Slasher seemed to have vanished into air. When they'd been that close, it was irritating to say the least. They'd go on hunting, but the longer he stayed loose the colder the trail.
Higgins came back off that at twelve forty-five, talking bitterly to himself about it. Really a mess. By all rights they should have picked him up as easy as- He couldn't have been more than a couple of blocks away when the husband found her. Of all the Goddamned bad luck.
Sergeant Farrell, on the night desk, welcomed him in and said he'd go off for a coffee break, then, somebody to mind the desk. Higgins sat down at the desk dispiritedly and lit a cigarette.
He was still sitting there three minutes later when the call came in.
He said, surprised, "Why, yes, Mrs. Hackett…
What?" As he listened to the distrait, carefully controlled voice, his hard-bitten face went grim. "I see. All right, we'll get on it. No, he hasn't been in tonight so far as I know… Yes, I see. We'll find out. I'll be in touch."
As a realist, he didn't tell her not to worry.
He put the phone down. He thought something had happened all right. Not like Art Hackett, not to call her if he was held up this late somewhere.
Ten minutes to one.
Accident.
The first thing to think about. He called down to Traffic. "Just check it out, will you? Put an Urgent on it…
He'd have had identification on him, but just in case-better take it down-yes. Arthur John Hackett, thirty-six, six three and a half, two hundred and thirty, medium-brown hair, eyes blue. He'd be driving a dark blue four-door Ford sedan, 1957 model… "
His voice was expressionless, relaying that also to the Georgia Street Emergency Hospital and the General. All they needed, he thought, Hackett out of action. If Hackett- Well, don't expect the worst. He looked up the license-plate number and relayed that to Traffic. In that first ten minutes, Traffic hadn't any record to tell him about. Farrell came back and went a little white, hearing about this.
"Does anybody know where he was going tonight?"
Which was a question that would be asked again.
***
"It's a heavenly beach," said Alison, groping in the closet for her beach sandals. "And morning's the best time really. Aren't you going to get up today at all?"
Mendoza was sitting up in bed smoking moodily.
"What the British call coffee is no inducement. And I thought one point about taking a vacation is that you can sleep late. It's only seven-thirty." As a matter of fact he hadn't slept much. He'd lain awake worrying, coming a dozen times to the conclusion that he really couldn't ask Alison to cut the vacation short. And, damn it, they'd planned to stop off in Illinois and see the Lockharts on the way home
… "Furthermore," he added, "what's the point in my going to the beach with you? I can't swim. Am I supposed to enjoy myself watching every other male present ogling you? And if I wasn't the nice indulgent husband I am, I'd absolutely forbid you to wear that outrageous bathing suit."
"It's not a bikini, I wouldn't dare-it's a perfectly decent bathing suit," said Alison. "Well, at least get up and get dressed while I'm gone. Don't just sit there brooding."
She came up to the bed. "Luis, amado, it's senseless. I know you feel you ought to be there, hunting down the murderer. You're not the only competent officer on the force."
"I know, I know!" said Mendoza. "Don't fuss, amante. Run along for your swim."
"We can have a nice leisurely breakfast afterward," said Alison, picking up her beach robe. And that was when the knock fell on the door; she pulled the robe around her and opened the door to a smartly uniformed boy who smiled at her.
"Mendoza? Cablegram f'r you-"
"Oh," said Alison.
But Mendoza was out of bed, finding small change on the dresser top, ignoring the polite, " 'Kyou, sir." He had the yellow envelope ripped open before the door was shut.
"Luis-," said Alison, watching him. "What-"
He had gone white as death, and his mouth tightened to a grim line. He thrust the sheet at her, sat on the bed, and picked up the phone. "Travel service… When's the next plane out? I don't care where, Washington or New York, wherever I can get the quickest flight to Los if Angeles… Well, look it up, for God's sake, and make it snappy!"
"Oh, my God," said Alison. She read it twice before she took it in. Hackett attacked on critical list outlook bad hell of mess here can you fly soonest. It was signed by the captain of detectives. "Angel," said Alison. "She'll be-"
She stopped, looking at his face as he spoke impatiently into the phone. She opened the closet door, got out suitcases, began hastily to pack. Thirty-five hundred
miles, she thought distractedly. Whyever did I say Bermuda? Not Art, she thought. Not Art-and Angel- "Can you get seats on it? All right. Two. Make sure of that right now, will you? Give me the desk again. Mendoza, room 284. We're checking out in an hour, I want the bill made up, please. Yes. N0. There'll be two tickets on the eight-forty plane to Washington, in my name, delivered at the desk. See they get into the right slot. I'll be down in twenty minutes." He flung off pajamas, started to dress.
"Luis-it'll be all right," she said, knowing how foolish that sounded. "Not Art-it couldn't be-"
"?Y como no? " said Mendoza hardly. "It's not the safest job there is. You get on with that-we've got an hour or so to wait. God-ought to have some breakfast, I suppose. There's a plane to New York at noon, but this one being earlier, we might get better connections, get there sooner. We'll see."
"I'll never say you aren't psychic again," said Alison.
She found she was folding clothes blindly, through a haze of tears. Not Art, Art mustn't- And Angel hadn't anybody, they had to get back.
***
It was the longest hour Mendoza had ever got through in his life. He ate an anonymous breakfast; they were at the airport by eight-fifteen, with twenty-five minutes to wait, but after several eternities the plane was there, and taking on passengers.
They hadn't talked much; there wasn't much to say. He sent a cable, and then they just waited. For the plane to take off, and then for the plane to land in Washington. There wasn't any use making idle speculations.
They landed in Washington a little before noon, and had all the nuisance of Customs to go through. There wasn't a flight direct west scheduled until nearly four, so they got the twelve-fifty flight to New York and landed there at one fifty-five. And then they waited some more, for the next flight scheduled to L.A., due to take off at three-ten.
"You ought to have something to eat, you didn't have any lunch," said Alison. "Coffee, anyway…"
