Mark of Murder llm-7

by Dell Shannon

  A half-empty packet of matches. A single penny, dark with age. An empty crumpled-up cigarette package, king-size Chesterfields. A dime-store handkerchief, soiled. A crumpled-up paper cup that had held bourbon at some time.

  He picked up the matches idly and opened the cover. He looked at the dozen matches left in it and said to himself, "?Y que es esto? Somebody's slipping, either the lab or us. Jimmy!"

  "What now?"

  "This Mike. The first victim. I suppose you couldn't tell me whether he was left-handed?"

  "Nor I don't know what color eyes his grandmother had either. Why the hell?"

  "We can probably find out," said Mendoza. "He seems to have been known down on the Row. And I'd like to ask Bainbridge his opinion on this one too… Why? Have all of you so-called detectives gone blind? Look at this packet of matches. The ordinary right-handed person, tearing off a match, holds the book in his left hand and naturally reaches for the first match at the extreme right.?Como no? He gradually works his way through the book from right to left. All right. Whoever started to use this book of matches did it just the opposite-all the matches that have been torn out were at the extreme left. If Mike wasn't left-handed, there's a fair probability that these were the Slasher's matches and that he is left-handed."

  "Oh," said Sergeant Lake. "That might narrow it down, sure. From about seven million to only two and a half."

  "Well, it's another something," said Mendoza.

  Dwyer came in at five-fifteen, Scarne and Glasser after him; Landers had just finished taking the second bartender's statement. All the people in Nestor's address book looked ordinary-other chiropractors who'd been in his graduating class, men around his own age, salesmen, clerks-some family men, some not. Of the women, a few looked like typical tramps, a few others were married; one of those women, a Mrs. Anita Sheldon, had been scared, said Glasser, and begged him not to drag her name in-nobody knew she'd known Nestor, her husband would kill her if he knew. "Husband's a truck driver," Glasser added. "National moving firm. Those guys are usually pretty hefty."

  There wasn't much there. They'd look harder at the Sheldons.

  Dwyer said he'd seen Elger's two associates in their office, and they'd given him names of a couple of others who knew him, another agent and a producer. The consensus was that Elger had the hell of a hot temper, was known to fly off the handle over any little thing. "The kind who gets mad quick and then cools down fast and it's all over, you know. But everybody seems to like him."

  "Yes. And that kind sometimes cools down fast to find an unintended body around," said Mendoza. "Especially when they're as big as Cliff Elger. Well, boys-any of you feel like doing a little more leg work tonight?"

  None of them minded.

  ***

  When he got home Alison met him at the door. "What's wrong, querida?" he asked, seeing her eyes. He held her close. The hospital was still saying, No change.

  "Oh, Luis," she said shakily. "Nothing now. But-I didn't tell Angel, I asked the nurse not to. We were at the hospital this afternoon, and the nurse told me. They they thought he was going, this morning. Then his pulse picked up, for no reason, and he-"

  Mendoza put his head down on her shoulder for a minute. "Well, he's still here anyway," he said. "Maybe Adam was doing some extra earnest praying about then. I want to talk to Angel. Can she-"

  "Yes, of course."

  He went into the living room, where Bast greeted him loudly and El Senor contemplated him evilly through green slits, from the top of the phonograph. The record-cabinet doors were open and El Senor had dragged out four albums. Mendoza said absently, " Senor Molestial " and put them away

  Mrs. MacTaggart came trotting in with a shot glass and a saucer. "I heard the car," she said. "You'll be needing a drink before dinner, and that unnatural cat giving you no peace unless he has his share." She set the saucer down for El Senor, who had an unaccountable taste for rye and lapped eagerly. "And the longer the man hangs on there, the better chance there is, as I needn't be reminding you. Mercy on us, what's-"

  Pandemonium broke out in the hall. Mark Christopher staggered in clasping a wildly struggling Sheba around the middle. "Kitty-kitty!" he was announcing triumphantly. Miss Teresa Ann, still very uncertain on her small feet, staggered after him wailing loudly, and bringing up the procession came Master John Luis on all fours, also wailing.

  "Now what is all this indeed? Like banshees the lot of you- Mark, put the kitty down now-" Mrs. MacTaggart hurried to Sheba's rescue.

  El Senor finished the rye, thoughtfully licked his whiskers, and looking slightly cross-eyed jumped down to cuff Sheba, who was indignantly smoothing down her coat. She shrieked and spat at him.

  "The happy home," said Mendoza resignedly to his drink. "Talk about the patter of little feet…"

  When Angel came in with Alison he eyed her and said, "I think you could stand a small drink before dinner too."

  "I'm all right," said Angel.

  "Cocktails all made, waiting," said Alison with a show of briskness. "I thought we both could. I'll get them."

  Mendoza sipped rye, looking at Angel. He and Art's nice domestic little wife had never appreciated each other to any extent; he couldn't say he knew her very well. He was rather surprised she wasn't weeping and fainting all over the place. She looked pale, but she'd put on make-up and combed her hair. Just another pretty dark-haired woman: but for the first time he noticed the firmness of her jaw and her steady eyes.

  Alison came back with two glasses, and he waited until Angel had taken a sip. "Now, I expect Alison told you I want to hear every detail you remember, about what he said to you that night."

  "Yes, of course," said Angel. "The worst of it is, I wasn't paying too much attention-of course I couldn't know it was important then. And what with coping with Mark pounding the table legs with one of his pull-toys-but I've tried to think back as well as I can. I know definitely he said he was going to see that hotel clerk." She sipped her cocktail; her voice was steady. "He was worried about this mass killer, on account of all the fuss the newspapers have been making, what they were saying about the force. He said something about Nestor's wife I too, and a woman named Corliss. And he mentioned somebody named Elger. That's all I remember, I'm sorry."

  "That's fine," said Mendoza. "He said definitely he was going to see the clerk at the hotel?"

  "Yes, that I remember. He-" She stopped, and finished her drink rather quickly. "He left about twenty past seven.

  He kissed me at the door and said, ‘Think I'll try those Elgers first, or the Nestor woman-and, damn it, I'll be late because that clerk's not on until nine. Probably be home about ten-thirty.' That's-"

  "O.K.," said Mendoza. "That's something. But he must have gone to see Mrs. Nestor first, and we know he was all right when he left there. Gives us a sort of terminus a quo, anyway." He stared into his nearly empty glass.

  Suddenly she got up, came over to stand in front of him. "You'll find out, won't you?" she said.

  Mendoza looked up at her. "We'll fond out. Whatever happens."

  "Yes. I never-never liked you very much," said Angel. "It seems a little funny, but I guess now I can see I was a little jealous of you. Not just of you. All of them. The office. You because you're the important one there.

  And he-thinks-so much-of you."

  "Yes," said Mendoza. He stood up. "Yes, Angel. I know that."

  "He thinks-you're so good," she said. Her eyes were very bright. "I never thought- But the way all of you have- They've all called me, you know, to say- There was even a letter from the chief. I never really understood how it is-with all of you. I-I used to resent the job, sometimes."

  "As most cops' wives do,” said Mendoza. "Which just makes it all the tougher for the cops."

  "Yes. I wouldn't feel that way any more," she said. "It's like-I see that-soldiers in line of d-duty. All together."

  "And there is no discharge in that war," said Mendoza with a crooked smile.

  "So you will find out who. You'll
just go on until you do. Whatever happens. And I guess-maybe-he was right about you too. I didn't think you ever felt things much, that you were the kind of man who- But you do. I see."

  "Now I'll tell you," he said gently, "I never thought much of you either, but you're a good girl, Angel. I wouldn't have thought you'd stand up to this so well. Whatever happens, we'll get him, I promise you."

  After a moment Alison said with a little catch in her voice, "Well, if the mutual admiration society'll break up, I think dinner's about ready… I suppose it's silly to ask you if you're going out again."

  " Tu debeas saberlo," said Mendoza. "I'm going out on what the British call a pub crawl"

  "Bars?" said Alison. "Good heavens. You can't go into bars without drinking, and you know what three drinks do to you. You'll end up getting picked up for disturbing the peace, or assault and battery."

  "?Dios me libre! ” said Mendoza. "I just hope to God we can turn up something useful."

  ELEVEN

  They were out in force down there tonight, most of the night shift and some of the day men, wandering in and out of the bars in the Slasher's territory. Palliser was stationed in the bar where the bartender said the lush Rosie dropped in; he'd stay until ten-thirty when Higgins would take over. The bartender didn't like it, but agreed to point her out if she came in. Piggott was sitting in the bar on Flower Street where the bartender remembered the fellow who had paid him with a silver dollar and walked out with Theodore Simms, The rest of the men had only a very vague description to work from, but they'd be checking on anybody who matched it, getting names and addresses. That was the kind of dogged routine that often got you there in the end, especially on one like this. Mendoza went first to the bar on Main, the bar Rosie frequented. Palliser was sitting in the rear booth, and getting surly looks from the bartender for occupying a whole booth instead of a stool. He didn't come over to take Mendoza's order right away.

  "Nothing yet," said Palliser.

  "Couldn't expect it," said Mendoza. "Too early. If she's working tonight at all, she's still fixing herself up in her room… No wonder nobody could offer any descriptions. I can hardly see you, let alone anybody across the room. 'These damn places-" He looked up as the bartender slouched over and said, "Nothing for me, thanks."

  The bartender almost snarled at him. Palliser was taking an occasional small sip of a highball.

  Mendoza drifted over to the bar on Flower Street, to have a word with Piggott. Piggott was the day tail on Margaret Corliss, and he greeted Mendoza with something like excitement. "I was just wondering was it worth while calling in, Lieutenant. See, I-"

  "Something?… Straight rye," said Mendoza to the bartender, sliding into the opposite side of the booth.

  "Not on this, no. It's that Corliss dame. You know I got a pretty good memory for faces. Well, when I first laid eyes on her today I thought right off I'd seen her before. Only I couldn't place where. I been thinking about it on and off all day, you know how a thing like that bothers you. Like some name you can't remember, but it's right on the tip of your tongue. It kept bothering me something awful, because I got to thinking it might be important. Well, I said to myself, lay it at the Lord's door and ask for help on it." Piggott looked at him earnestly over his glass of plain water; Piggott was a pillar of the Free Methodist Church and wouldn't have dreamed of touching the jigger of whiskey at his elbow. "And just five minutes ago, as I was sitting here not really thinking about it, the Lord came through and I remembered. I saw that woman down at headquarters once, Lieutenant. I couldn't tell you when, but I can tell you where-it was in the corridor right outside the Vice office. I'd been down there, some reason, and I saw Lieutenant Andrews with her-he had her by one arm, they were just going into his office."

  "?No me diga! " said Mendoza. "That's very interesting. That all you remember? Well, we know it wasn't a charge because her prints aren't on file, but if she was brought in for questioning even once, maybe Percy will remember something about it. Probably be somewhere in his records anyway. I'll ask him in the morning. That's very interesting indeed… "

  From there he wandered over, looking around several other joints on the way, to the bar on Broadway where the barkeep remembered the fellow with the silver dollars. He found Higgins sitting on the end stool there, over a nearly empty glass, watching the crowd. "He said he'd give me a signal if the guy came in, but he's not very sure he'd know him again."

  The bartender came up, but only to take Mendoza's order and suggest a refill. Higgins shoved over his glass and Mendoza said, "You'd better nurse them along slower, George, it's still early."

  Higgins laughed. "My God, place like this gets about sixty-five highballs out of a fifth, and only eighty proof to start with… You sure see the types in these joints. Makes you wonder about people, how they get this far down.”

  Presently Glasser and Scarne came in, and took a good look at all the customers. There was a man alone, round the horseshoe curve of the bar, who matched what there was of their vague description: medium height; thin, in. rather loose-fitting old clothes. Glasser went up to him, they exchanged a few words, and the man, looking very frightened, went out with Glasser. Five minutes later he came back in, looking shaken, and ordered a new drink. Glasser would have his name and address.

  Routine. It usually got you there in the end. Sooner or later…

  About ten forty-live Mendoza stepped into the lobby of the Liverpool Arms. The armchair behind the counter was empty; the inner door stood open.

  Suddenly he felt that small cold bite up the spine that told him he was onto something, a new card was about to be handed him; and though he hadn't the remotest idea what it might be, he obeyed instinct blindly and stood still, making no move toward the counter.

  The old shabby building was very silent at this time of night. From what he could see through the half-open door, the small room behind the counter was a storeroom of some kind; he had a glimpse of dusty shelves.

  He heard the glassy clink of bottle on glass, and something was set down with a thud. A minute later Telfer the clerk came out and shut the door behind him. He moved with exaggerated care, and he was wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

  Mendoza walked up to the counter. Telfer noticed him then and stood swaying only a little, smiling his yellow-snagged smile. " 'D evening, sir," he said. His eyes were glassy and there was the saccharine-sweet smell of port wine about him. "Do for you?" He didn't seem to recognize Mendoza at all.

  "Never mind," said Mendoza, and turned and went out. For God's sake! he thought. Every little lead they had turning out to be useless. Telfer a wino, and the odds were that was why he couldn't tell them anything about the man who'd taken that room. Probably so high he didn't remember a single damn thing about him. Of all the Goddamned bad luck…

  But, damn it, was he going senile, not to have tried that? Like Art walking off and leaving that office wide open-sometimes you caught yourself forgetting the most elementary things.

  Where was the Slasher sleeping? He hadn't signed into any other hotel in this area. He could be staying in a different flophouse every night, the fifty-cents-a-night, men-only places on the Row. Nobody asked for signatures in those places. But he could also have taken a room in some cheap rooming house. What was he living on, too? Did he have a job-or an unlimited supply of those silver dollars? Well, cover the rooming houses, anyway; ask about recent arrivals.

  And the ordinary citizen might think that one like the Slasher would be easy to spot, that he'd behave so queerly or look so different that anybody could spot him at a glance. Unfortunately not so. As Higgins said, you ran into some funny ones down here, and a lot of them looked odd.

  At eleven-thirty he wandered back to the bar on Main and found Higgins where Palliser had been sitting. Higgins had probably, of necessity, drunk four or five highballs this evening, and he looked and acted as sober as the proverbial judge. Mendoza, who had ordered five drinks and contrived to empty three of them inconspicuously on the fl
oor, ordered a sixth and said, "You can drink it for me."

  "I don't like rye," said Higgins.

  "But I've already had two," said Mendoza. "You know what it does to me. We're on a job, damn it."

  Higgins looked at him benevolently and said he'd look after him if he started picking a fight with the bouncer. The bartender came back with the rye and jerked an ungracious shoulder.

  "You want Rosie, she just come in. There by the juke box."

  Higgins got up. "I'll bring her," he said.

  Thirty seconds later he ushered her into his side of the booth and slid in after her. "You said you'd buy me a drink, honey,” said Rosie.

  "Sure.” She wasn't very high yet; she could probably take a good deal more. "You like rye? You can have this."

  He reached and set Mendoza's glass in front of her. "Cigarette?"

  "Thanks lots," she said. She put the rye down in one swallow and leaned to Higgins' lighter. "You just buy drinks for Rosie 'n' Rosie'll be nice to you. Both of you," she added, discovering Mendoza across the table. She beamed at them muzzily. "You're cute," she said to Mendoza.

  "We'd just like to talk to you awhile, Rosie," said Higgins. He looked at Mendoza and they exchanged a silent opinion. They'd both seen about all there was to see, down here and elsewhere, of the bottom of things; but nobody ever quite got used to it.

  She might have been pretty once, a shallow-eyed little blonde with the pert figure, out for the fun times and the romance. There were a thousand reasons for it, for the Rosies; this was a long time later.

  She giggled up at Higgins a little foolishly. "Order me another drink, honey." Mendoza signaled the bartender, who shrugged and began to build a highball.

  She might be no more than in her forties, but she looked sixty. That was a long time of too much careless make-up and too little washing. She was too thin, shoulder bones standing out sharply, her wrists and ankles like a child's. She hadn't much on under the old, mended, cheap black rayon evening dress, and the thin breasts pushed relentlessly out by the padded bra, the too thin body, were hardly provocative: only a little pathetic. Her hair, bleached too often and washed too seldom, was diy and uncurled, hanging untidily to her shoulders. She smelled of old sweat and cheap cologne and whiskey, and the coy painted smile was somehow a little obscene, as if a death's head had winked at them.