Mark of Murder - Dell Shannon (16 page)

"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."

"
Tú 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 floor, 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.

"We just want to talk to you," said
Mendoza. The bartender came up and slapped a highball in front of
her.

"Sure. That's what they all say," said
Rosie, and giggled again. She drank thirstily.