by Dell Shannon
He felt empty but not hungry; he got down a sandwich without tasting it, and a couple of cups of coffee. "At least with jet flights we can get back in a hurry. Ten years ago-"
No use in speculating. They'd know when they got there.
The three-ten flight from New York to Los Angeles was scheduled to land at International Airport at eight o'clock, but traveling east to west they gained three hours, and it was just five-thirty by L.A. time when they landed. "Can you cope with the luggage?" asked Mendoza.
"Of course, darling. Go and call right away."
He felt as tired as he'd ever felt in his life, and at the same time taut as a coiled spring. It was nearly six o'clock before they got to the taxi rank outside. Mendoza said to the cab driver, "Take all this stuff to 311 Rayo Grande Avenue in Hollywood." He passed over a bill and took the next cab in line from under the nose of an elderly dowager, thrust Alison in, and said, "White Memorial Hospital," to the driver. "Take the freeway for God's sake."
Alison held his hand tightly. "It's got to be all right," she said. "I don't mean to sound like a fool, Luis, but-whatever happened-they know so much more these days, and there's plasma, and-"
"Yes, querida. Wait and see."
It was six thirty-five when they got to the hospital. A brisk thin nurse directed them to the third floor, and a brisk fat nurse there directed them to a small waiting room at the end of a long corridor.
Angel was sitting there, dry-eyed, looking down at her clasped hands. She had dressed in haste, carelessly, and hadn't any make-up on; she looked as if she'd been sitting there, numbly, a long time. Hackett's older sister sat opposite her, and she'd been crying. Alison went to Angel at once. Mendoza went to find somebody who knew something, and ran into Scarne in the hall.
"Lieutenant-God, am I glad to see you! You must have made time back. They hadn't called in so long, I got chased up to see- They said they'd call if there was any change, but-"
"Let's find a doctor, for God's sake. What happened and when?" snapped Mendoza.
"It's a miracle he's still alive. He went down a cliff off Canyon Drive, in his car-the car's one sweet mess, you should-"
"?Vaya por Dios! How-"
"He was sent over, Lieutenant. He didn't get found until 2 AM. this morning, but then they got searchlights up there, the works, and you could see by the tracks. The car was aimed to go over-and he'd been tied up before-"
"?Dios! You've got casts of the tire marks, you've-"
Mendoza caught the arm of a white-smocked intern passing. "Doctor-"
"That one," said the intern when they'd identified themselves. "If he hadn't the constitution of an ox he wouldn't be still with us. I'm sorry, we aren't committing ourselves yet, he's still in a deep coma. There was an extensive skull fracture and internal injuries-broken pelvis, both legs, a couple of ribs, and one a bit nearer a lung than we liked… Dr. MacFarlane operated to relieve the pressure, but as I say he's still unconscious. We don't know when or whether he'll be conscious. All I can say is- Well, you can see him, but-"
"Who've you got stationed here?" Mendoza asked Scarne. He knew there'd be somebody, to get whatever Hackett said when and if he regained consciousness.
"Fellow named Evans."
Mendoza knew Evans, a uniformed man bucking for rank. He nodded at him, installed in a chair beside the door not too far from the high bed. He stood over the bed and looked at Hackett. Hackett lay on his back, breathing slow and irregular. His face was drained of color; he looked gray. His head was bandaged, and one arm. A watchful nurse had a hand on his pulse, and they had an I.V. going.
"All I can tell you is we're doing everything we can," said the intern. "He's got a very sound constitution to help him fight. But we can't say one way or the other, not yet."
"Yes, Doctor. Will you please see that somebody calls in if there's any change? I know you've been briefed, but just remind the desk. You've got the headquarters number-ask them to call this number too, please." He scribbled their home number on the back of an envelope, handed it over. He looked at Hackett again and led Scarne out, to the little waiting room.
Angel was crying now. "I'm sorry, I don't mean- I c-couldn't, somehow, until you c-came in and I-"
"Yes, all right, darling." Alison looked at Mendoza and, seeing his expression, asked no questions.
"Angel said- I took the baby to your place, Mrs. Mendoza-your nurse-" Hackett's sister Elise Dunne looked at them helplessly.
"That's fine, Mrs. Dunne. Now, Angel-"
Mendoza came up and squatted down before Angel.
"You're doing no good sitting here, either of you. They're doing all they can, and they'll call when there's any change. I've asked them to call our number too, and"-he looked at Hackett's sister-"you can give them yours. Come on now." He urged Angel up. "Scarne, drive them to our place, will you? O.K. Alison, you look after her. God knows when you'll see me, but I'll be in touch."
"Yes, darling. Come on, Angel, it's only sensible-"
"And get back downtown as fast as you can," said Mendoza to Scarne. He kissed Alison, held her hard for a second, and went out and downstairs. He called a cab and waited for it impatiently. He had work to do.
SIX
He walked into the homicide office at seven-forty, and he didn't feel any particular joy at getting back home; he was intent on the job. Most of them were there-Palliser, Dwyer, Higgins, Landers, Glasser, Farrell: on one like this they weren't punching any time clocks. And they didn't waste any time asking about the vacation, making welcoming noises at him. They all looked relieved to see him; Palliser said tiredly, "Thank God. You made time, didn't you?"
"I want a breakdown on it," said Mendoza without sitting down. "In detail. From one of you who knows the detail."
"Me," said Palliser. "We knew he was missing, from about twelve-forty. Mrs. Hackett called in. He'd left home about seven-thirty, and we're not sure where he was going. He said to me he wanted to see that desk clerk again, at that Third Street hotel. That was on the Slasher-" He gave Mendoza a terse briefing on that, enough to put him in the picture. "He meant to see Mrs. Nestor again, that's another business, and you'd better hear about that too-"
"I want the facts on Art, John.”
"It's relevant," said Palliser, and told him about Frank Nestor. "Higgins called me back in and we had everybody alerted, everywhere around any area he might've been, but he didn't turn up until about two o'clock. An Edward Charlton, on his way home up Canyon Drive, spotted the wheel marks going off the road, in his headlights, and looked. The Ford had rolled about two hundred feet down-it's not a sheer cliff, just a steep hill, with underbrush and so on-turned over at least once-it was lying on its side."
"Dios," said Mendoza softly. "Why wasn't he killed?"
"Coming to that. When we got the ident from Traffic, we converged up there in strength. Because Traffic said it wasn't an accident. Anybody could see that by the tire marks. The Ford was backed around to face the drop square-there's a two-yard soft shoulder either side, loose dirt that takes marks just dandy. And gunned over. Not a sign of any attempt to brake. Traffic's taking the car apart looking for anything, they're the experts on that. And we figure, with what the lab came up with, that the reason he wasn't killed is that he was already unconscious, lying across the front seat, face down."
"I did wonder why there weren't any facial cuts," said Mendoza. He sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette. The desk needed dusting, and somebody had overfilled his ashtray. He didn't do anything about it.
"So did the interns in the ambulance," said Palliser.
"And for a civilian, we might not have committed lese majeste, but as it was we hauled Dr. Erwin himself out of bed and shot him over to the hospital. He saw him before they did the surgery, and went over his clothes." They were all avoiding Hackett's name; maybe the impersonal pronoun would help to keep this on the objective level, if anything could. As cops, they had all seen other cops killed on the job, and that was always bad; but this was something worse.
Something really bad. The deliberate thing.
Dwyer got up in silence and took the lid off the shoe box sitting on the desk. "Erwin said," said Palliser, "he'd been tied up. Wrists and ankles. For one or the other, his own belt had been used." Dwyer lifted out the belt and passed it over. It was a worn brown steerhide belt with a plain buckle, and it was twisted out of its normal flatness still, where it had been used as a rope would be used. The fifth hole in it was the most worn and frayed, but evidently more recently the fourth hole had been in use. Hackett and his diet… Mendoza's eyes stung suddenly. He put the belt down. He said, "Yes."
"He'd got the worst knock on the head at the back of the skull, a little to the side, not the front. The interns said he was half on the floor, head on the passenger's side of the car. Glass all over from the windshield but he hadn't a cut on him."
"Yes. I see. You've printed the car. Anything?"
"What do you think?" asked Higgins savagely. "His, that's all, and his wife's. Steering wheel and gear selector clean. Naturally."
"Naturally. All right. Why?"
Dwyer looked at Palliser, "It's your fairy story," he said. "Tell the detective man,"
"And it's no fairy story,” said Palliser equably. He sat smoking quietly; he looked relaxed, but his mouth was grim. "What else could it be, for God's sake? Nobody's got any private reason for murdering Art Hackett. I'll tell you what it has to be-something he spotted on one of those cases. He was out looking, and he found out something, something definite, a giveaway. And somebody knew he had, right then. So he got knocked on the head then and there, and tied up, and the faked accident was set up later."
Mendoza was watching him. "I'll take that, John. What was he working on? Where was he?"
"We don't know, damn it," exploded Dwyer. "We couldn't press Mrs. Hackett too much, and she didn't seem to know anything definite anyway-"
"All he said to me-that was before he went home," said Palliser, "was that he was going to see the desk clerk, and maybe Mrs. Nestor, and maybe a couple of the people in Nestor's address book. He didn't like the way the Nestor case smelled-he thought it was a private kill, not the outside thing. We've got his notebook, with a couple of interesting ideas on that jotted down. But there's also the desk clerk, and that was on the Slasher, and I don't like the way the desk clerk smells."
"He denies Art came to see him?"
Palliser smiled bitterly. "You're ahead of me. Sure he does. I don't like him."
"This is where I part company," said Dwyer, "from our brain-trust boy, Lieutenant. I just don't see the Slasher, who we can build pretty easy as a hair-trigger lout with a low LQ., setting up that faked accident."
"You'll have to convince me on that too," said Mendoza, stabbing out his cigarette and immediately lighting another. "Nobody, a hotel desk clerk or anybody else, is collaborating with the Slasher. That's the berserk, unplanned thing."
"So it is," agreed Palliser. "Let George tell you how the Slasher vanished last night. After Number Five. The pretty Negro girl, seven months pregnant. Only she wasn't so pretty by that time. At the corner of Third and Hartley, which is about two blocks from that hotel. The interns said she hadn't been dead fifteen minutes when they saw her, and the squad car couldn't have missed him by more than ten. Where did he go?"
"?Demonios! " Mendoza sat up. "You scoured the neighborhood, George?"
"Sure we did," said Higgins bitterly. "Five squad cars and fourteen men on foot. For six blocks all around. What else? Christ, the blood couldn't have been dry on his knife!"
"Tell me a story about that," said Mendoza to Palliser.
"Of a sort," said Palliser. "Maybe he's just smart enough-hearing the sirens so soon-to threaten the desk clerk into hiding him? Clerk'd be scared afterward to admit it-or there could be some other tie-up between them. Hackett thought the clerk must have noticed more about the man than he admitted. Why was he chary of talking? Look. If Hackett was at the hotel, it'd have been after nine o'clock-the clerk didn't come on until then. The call on Number Five-Loretta Lincoln-came in at ten-sixteen. Say that Hackett had just left the hotel, was heading home. He'd go straight up Third, making for the freeway exchange and the Pasadena Freeway. He could have been at that corner about then, even, my God, spotted the Slasher at work. And followed him when he ran. So you say the Slasher isn't one to set up the faked accident. Maybe not. Maybe Hackett tangled with him, got that knock on the head, there in the hotel, and somebody else got stuck with an assaulted cop and set up the accident. All I say is, it being the same general area-"
"Same general area the Slasher's been roaming right along," said Mendoza. "Nothing says Art was there. He just might have been."
"That's what I say," said Higgins. "God, I don't know how we missed him-he couldn't have been five minutes ahead of us! But on this thing, if Palliser's right, and I don't see what else it could be, it looks the hell of a lot likelier to me that Hackett maybe went to see Mrs. Nestor and caught her talking over Nestor's murder with a boy friend or something. Or went to see Nestor's office nurse-we know he didn't like her either and from what's in his notebook neither do I-and spotted something definite. All I say is, I think it's likelier it was something to do with the Nestor case, not the Slasher."
Mendoza put out his cigarette, looking around the group. His gaze came to rest on Higgins. "Of all of us big tough homicide cops," he said mildly, "you're the biggest, at least, George. Six-three, about a hundred and ninety? Yes. Could you handle Art, boy? Half an inch taller, forty pounds heavier? Barring a fluke, a very lucky first blow that put him out, not very many men-even big men-could put Art down and out very easy. And I really don't see any female doing that. Presumably somebody had to lift him into the car too."
"Which we also thought of," said Palliser sardonically.
"So she-whoever-had a boy friend. Or it was two people together."
"Yes. Damn it, if we only knew definitely where he'd meant to go, who he'd-" Mendoza lit another cigarette with a quick angry snap of his lighter. "All right, I'll go along with your story, John. It was something on a case he was working. Nobody had any reason to want him dead as Art Hackett-only as a cop on a case. Conforme. So,?pues que? On the Slasher's sudden vanishing after Number Five, I might just buy-with a lot of reservations -your little idea of his scaring the desk clerk-or somebody-into hiding him. But I don't buy the idea of one like the Slasher setting up that faked accident. Of course, I will say that whoever set it up didn't take many pains with it. Didn't realize how obviously faked it looked. Which doesn't look like a brain
… You hadn't really settled who was handling which case. I see that. Art had been concentrating on the Slasher, most urgent, naturalmente, and then this Nestor thing came up and he got interested in that, sent you out on routine on the- Yes. All right. He might have gone to see anybody involved in either case. I'll talk to his wife, see whether- But I do not see one like this berserk lunatic-"
The office door opened and Marx came in. He had a couple of still damp five-by-seven prints in one hand. He asked, "How's Hackett?"
"No change. They'll call if- What've you got?"
Marx came up to the desk and laid the prints on the blotter. They were enlargements, a trifle fuzzy that big, of two fingerprints. "I've got a lot of imagination," said Marx. "I think Palliser's got something about that desk clerk. And on principle I don't like cops getting clobbered. Nice to see you back, Lieutenant-you made time home, I guess. These jets. So I did some overtime for you. I thought I recognized that print when I saw it blown up, so I checked."
"Well? What is it?"
"This one",-Max lifted the first print--"is one of the prints we got off that S.P. switch. Whoever tried to wreck the Daylight. And this one, which is the exact same print of, probably, somebody's forefinger, I got off Loretta Lincoln's nice shiny plastic bag last night. After-like we know-our Slasher had rifled it. It's not hers or her husband's or her sister's."
"What?" exclaimed Palliser blankly. "For God's sake-you don't mean-"
The outside phone rang and all of them stiffened to frightened attention.
***
It was Rhodes of Traffic, calling from somewhere unspecified to say sadly that they'd done what they could with the wrecked Ford and nothing useful had turned up. Just the lack of prints on anything a driver would touch, which of course said that somebody other than Hackett had last driven it.
"Yes," said Mendoza. He thought somebody had better notify Hackett's insurance agent to put in a claim on the car. He thanked Rhodes. He put down the phone and said, "I don't suppose you've just been sitting around mourning all day, boys. What have you got?"
They hadn't got much. The desk clerk's denial. Neither Mrs. Nestor nor Margaret Corliss had been located to question, nor Ruth Elger and her husband. They had seen about half the people listed in Nestor's address book, all of whom denied that Hackett had called on them last night.
"I went up there and asked around-that canyon road," said Palliser. "I don't know how much it's worth, but the people who live in the place nearest where he went over-a Mr. and Mrs. Roy Baker-say they heard a car evidently being turned around in the road, about ten forty-five. It's rather an exclusive district up there, big places-quiet road. But the houses are set back, and you'd think if they'd heard that, they'd have heard the car go over-though, of course, it didn't hit anything to make a loud crash, just plowed through all that underbrush on the way down. They say the car sounded old and noisy."
