Mark of Murder - Dell Shannon (18 page)

"My fault,” groaned Palliser. "Damn it,
if I'd had the sense to press the kid more--"

"You couldn't know. It was just one of those
last-resort hopes that paid off. And of course it's not a hundred per
cent sure, but damn near, that that fellow Roberto stopped to talk to
was the Slasher. We'll get this on the wires right now--tell
everybody. Yes, and no wonder it wasn't spotted in those bars, you
can't see your hand in front of your face--"

"But why the hell didn't that desk clerk spot
it?" said Dwyer.

"Telfer didn't spot it," said Mendoza
exasperatedly, "because that night he was probably so full of
cheap port when the Slasher came in, he wouldn't have noticed if the
man had been painted bright green with red polka dots. I dropped in
on him last night. I'd have a guess that, with cops all around, maybe
last night's the first time he's dared risk drinking on the job
again. It's not a very high-class place but all the same, if the
owner or manager found out, Telfer would get fired safe enough. He's
the kind who can carry it off--he looked just a little high, you
know, and probably if I'd asked for a room he'd have assigned me one
and found the right key, automatically. The way they say sleepwalkers
never fall over anything. But he'd seen me before and didn't
recognize me. I don't think he'd remember now that I came in last
night."

"Tight enough to pull a blank, in other words.
That's something all right," said Palliser. "I'll be
damned. And of course that's why he was so cagey about giving a
description. But at least he didn't mislead us by making up some
description, and now we've got this--"

"You think he hasn't misled us?" said
Dwyer. "So maybe last night wasn't the first time he'd taken the
chance since. Maybe he was carrying a load on Friday night and
doesn't know whether Art came in or not."

"
¡Qué demonio
!"
said Mendoza. "I hadn't got that far. My God, that could be so.
And we'll have to tackle him on it to make sure .... Hell. Jimmy, get
this news about the Slasher's scar relayed out--with every cop in
town looking for something as noticeable as that, we ought to lay
hands on him inside twenty-four hours anyway."

"I've only got one head and two hands,"
complained Sergeant Lake. "Sure, that's urgent, I'll get it out,
but could somebody give me a hand on this damn appointment book? I've
been phoning for two days and haven't made a dent in it."

Which was understandable. Building up the fictitious
large practice for Nestor, the Corliss woman had scribbled down
nearly a hundred names throughout the book.

Under the circumstances, most of them had been very
common names, and throughout the county area the same names made up
long lists in all five phone books. And every name had to be checked
out, that its owner had never been a patient of Dr. Nestor's, if they
were going to prove that on her. It was, in fact, one hell of a job.
Mendoza suggested that Dwyer lend a hand, and Dwyer groaned.

But as he started downstairs Mendoza felt a great
relief at this new break: something as glaringly obvious as that
disfigurement ought to mean that they'd pick up the Slasher within
hours. Not too many people, even in a city as big as this, would
possess such a disfigurement; and he seemed to be keeping inside the
one area. Check every rooming house, every flophouse--run extra cars
. . . With any luck, and God knew they were due for some luck, they
should get him now. And before he used his knife again ....

He found Lieutenant Andrews just arriving and
followed him in. "When did you get back?" asked Andrews. "I
thought--oh, sure, they'd let you know about Hackett. How is he? . .
. Hell of a thing. Do I come into it?" He yawned and sat down.

"Late night?”

"I sometimes wish I was down in Traffic or
somewhere," said Andrews. "Or Records--that must be a nice
peaceful place. I never used to believe it, but I'm beginning
to--that sins don't get committed until after midnight. I didn't get
home until five."

"Too bad. Well, what I want to know is, Percy,
do you remember a woman named Margaret Corliss? I don't know whether
she was calling herself that then, but an unspecified while ago you
evidently had her in for questioning? He described her in detail.

Andrews leaned back and shut his eyes. "It rings
a bell," he said. "It definitely rings a bell. Wait a
minute, now. Traces of a Cockney accent, you said? What the hell was
it on? Oh, my God, yes, sure, it was that Sally-Ann thing.
Pierce"--he raised his voice to the sergeant outside--"look
up the records on that beauty salon thing--two, three years back--you
know, the Finn sisters."

"Have to dig for it," said Pierce. "O.K."

"Twin sisters," said Andrews, "named
Finn. Ran this Sally-Ann Beauty Shoppe. Which was a blind for an
abortion mill. The Corliss woman was an employee--the only employee.
It comes back to me--"

"Very nice, very nice," said Mendoza. "You
couldn't prove she was in on the deal?"
 
"We
tried, but no. She is, if I remember rightly, a very canny customer.
Kept her head, registered shocked indignation all the way, and there
wasn't a thing to tie her in. Just the strong probability, you know."

"That's my girl," said Mendoza. "I
think, with luck, we'll get her this time."

"They will go and do it once too often,"
said Andrews. "She tried it on her own and got involved in a
homicide, I take it."

"Not exactly that way," said Mendoza. He
was outlining his ideas about that when the sergeant came in with a
manila folder. "Dates," said Mendoza. "Let's look at
some dates."

Vice had got interested in the Sally-Ann Beauty
Shoppe in May of 1961, three years and two months ago. The sisters
had been arrested in mid-June, and investigation had continued for a
week or so.

"Yes," said Mendoza. "How nice. Frank
Nestor graduated from his chiropractic course that very June. He also
had a legacy about that time--a little earlier--only it wasn't a
legacy. Five thousand bucks. I do wonder, now, if that doesn't
represent his first job in this line."

Andrews made an incredulous sound. "Five G's?
For a lock-picking job? I've run into a lot in that trade, but I
never heard of prices like that."

"No, it does seem a bit steep. Well, anyway, for
whatever reason, he's thinking it might be very profitable to set
himself up in that trade. He's inexperienced, and he sees right away
that the main difficulty is publicity. The right kind of publicity.
And--I suppose the Sally-Ann business got press coverage--one morning
he opens his paper, and lo, here's mention of a woman who's recently
been involved in such a business, and reading between the lines he
could make out that it's only for lack of evidence you're not holding
her. Very likely her address was given--it usually is. I'll have to
check with the papers. But, yes, I can see him waiting for the
all-clear until he saw she'd been released without charges, and then
going to see her and propositioning her. Another little piece of the
puzzle, explaining how they could have got together. Well, this fills
in a little, thanks very much."

"Good luck on it," said Andrews through
another yawn.

He got back to his office just in time to take
Alison's call. When he heard her voice he found he was gripping the
phone too hard, and felt a sudden constriction in his chest.
"Luis--Luis darling--they just called, the hospital I mean--"

"Yes,
amada
."

"They think he's just a little better! Oh, the
nurse was awfully cautious and--you know--roundabout, and said it
didn't mean he'll be all right, he could easily have a relapse--you
know how they are--but his blood pressure's up a little and his pulse
is better. I didn't know if they'd call you, and I-- But it's got to
mean-"

"Yes," he said. "Good news. We don't
know whether it means- Thanks,
querida
.... "

He'd just put the phone down when Palliser came in,
smiling. "The hospital just called, he's better, his pulse--"

"I know. But they're still not waving any flags.
And there's the other question."

"Yes, there's that. But it's something."

"Something,"
said Mendoza. "And the more I think about that, the
more--confusing--it looks. How the hell did it happen, let alone why?
I don't know--" He passed a hand over his forehead. "Like
to take a little ride with me before lunch?"

* * *

The first difficulty about it was, he thought, how
had Art been put down~and out? If it had been Elger, no question
there; so, on one like Elger, if he'd had reason to suspect him,
Hackett would have been watchful--but Elger was enough bigger to have
taken him.

But anybody else they knew of in either case would
scarcely be a match for Hackett. Larry Webster was big, and he might
be tough, but the women . . . Of course there was that truck-driver
husband of one of Nestor's girl friends; he ought to go and see her,
get what details on that he could.

And he hadn't asked the Elgers where they'd been on
Tuesday night.

Cliff Elger, who had the hell of a temper. And also a
reputation and a good business, which he'd want to protect.

"Just ahead," said Palliser beside him.
"Stop here."

Mendoza pulled up the Ferrari and they got out. "We
can probably see some traces," said Palliser. He led Mendoza up
thirty feet and pointed silently.

This road wound up into the hills above Hollywood,
through one of many little canyons. The lots were cut out of the
hillside, and many of the houses looked down on the road from twenty
or thirty feet up; a good many of them were set back, behind trees,
fifty or sixty feet. Here and there the hill at one side or the other
fell away, and dropped rather abruptly down to a tiny box canyon.
There had been a cycle of dry winters, and the underbrush looked
scrubby and brown--tall wild grass, a little sage, wild flowering
shrubs. Few trees; these foothills didn't grow many trees except
those deliberately planted.

At the roadside here, above a steep drop of several
hundred feet, there were still traces in the loose earth where they'd
taken casts of the tire marks. Some of the marks still showed.
Palliser led him across the road and showed him others--the wheel
marks of a car pointed straight across the road toward that drop.
There had been a two-bar post and rail fence, and about ten feet of
it was carried away. It had never been intended as a barrier, being
only a couple of feet high; white-painted, it was meant for a
guideline at night. No street lights up here, and not every house had
a light by its drive.

Where the Ford had gone over, a great swath was cut
in the underbrush, ending about two hundred feet down where a young
pepper tree had been violently uprooted. "If that hadn't stopped
him," said Palliser, "he'd have gone on down another
hundred feet. God. And the ignition on--it could have gone up
like----"

"Yes. Maybe that was intended," said
Mendoza. "X wouldn't have noticed that tree in the dark."
He looked around. The nearest house was just a glimpsed roofline
about fifty yards away. "We've been very glib about this,"
he said slowly.

"I don't get you."

"Well, _in the first place, this is something
very damned unusual," said Mendoza. "Not a cop getting
attacked, but getting attacked in this way. Why did it happen?"

"He found out something on----"

"Yes, I know we said that. But, so he did, and X
somehow managed to put him down and out. Why did X go to some trouble
to fake this accident?"

"Because, obviously--"

"How much easier it would have been simply
to--well, for instance, bash him again until X was sure he was dead,
and leave him in the handiest dark street. Or--well, the point is, to
start with, this is probably a long way from wherever the first
attack happened--"

"Which is probably why," Palliser pointed
out.

"Yes, that could be. What's in my mind,"
said Mendoza, "is a funny little discrepancy. Look, John. After
the initial attack, wherever and whyever and however it was made, X
could have disassociated himself in several much easier ways. He
didn't need to make it look like an accident in order to disassociate
himself. As I say, he could have bashed Art's head in, left him in an
alley, to make it look like a mugger. But he went to all this trouble
instead. What does that say?"

"He's overcautious?" guessed Palliser,
following slowly.

"I don't see what--"

"We said, to disassociate himself, he set up
this faked accident. lf he was working alone, he went to quite a
little trouble on it. Another thing, was there any reason he picked
this particular road? Was he familiar with it, for some reason? It'd
be lonely and dark, but I don't think it's the kind of road to appeal
to neckers, somehow .... Quite a little trouble. He'd have to drive
up here, from wherever it happened. Stage the accident. Then he'd
have to walk down, in the dark, to where he could pick up a
bus--because he wouldn't have risked a cab, he might be remembered if
we ever did ask--though at that he might have, considering. And you
know, John, if it was after ten-thirty or so, there wouldn't be any
buses running. Except a very occasional one to L.A.--I'll look it
up--only about two between midnight and 6 AM., I think."