Mark of Murder - Dell Shannon (20 page)

The man licked his lips. "No, it wasn't--I was
all right--I wouldn't do a thing like that, I promised Mr. Morley--"

"Oh, so you'd been found drunk on duty before?"

"No, I--only once,” said Telfer sullenly.

"You're going to stay here until you admit it,"
said Mendoza. "You were drunk. When Mr. Tosci here came in--
What time?" he broke off to ask Tosci.

"It would have been about ten o'clock, sir."

"--
you were still competent enough to get him to
sign the register, give him a key. But when the Slasher came in, some
time later, you were blind drunk. My God, you don't even know whether
he came alone, do you? You said so, but he might have brought that
first victim with him. Yes. You handed him a key at random, and he
never signed the register at all. Did he? Look at me! Did you
remember that you'd handed out two keys that night, to two different
men, or was it a complete blank? Well?"

"No-- I----you got it all wrong. There
wasn't--it was just him, I remember all right--"

"Stop trying to cover up and let's hear the
truth for a change! Do you remember anything about that night? Do you
remember what room number you gave Mr. Tosci?"

"No, it's too far back, I--"

"It was number 118," said Tosci.

"Yes," said Mendoza, suppressing rage. The
room where the body had been found was 214. As that had been the last
signature in the register they'd taken it for granted it belonged to
the Slasher. On Telfer's word.

"Damn you," he said rigidly, "do you
know how much you've delayed us on this? Those other four victims are
your direct responsibility! If you'd been in your right mind you
could have given us a full description that next day, and ten to one
we'd have got him within hours. How does it feel, Telfer, to be
responsible for four murders? Two women, one of them pregnant, and a
man and a little boy? They'd probably all be alive now, Telfer, if
you hadn't been drunk that night! Do you realize that?"

"You can't lay it on me!" gulped Telfer.
"I--that's not so--"

"
You were drunk, weren't you? If you go on
denying it, you know, I'm going to begin to think that you knew the
other man--the Slasher--and had some reason to let him have a room
without registering. Did you?"

"Jesus, no, I-- All right, if I got to tell you,
I guess I was high. Only for God's sake don't go telling Morley, or
he'd throw me out! I didn't mean to, and it was the first time
since-- I'd had an awful bad headache all that day, see, and I
thought maybe a couple glasses o' wine'd settle it, that's--"

"Medicinal purposes," said Mendoza
sardonically. "You'd had a good deal more than that by the time
Mr. Tosci came in, hadn't you? Do you remember him at all?"

Telfer looked at Tosci and said, "Kind of.
Listen, you won't go telling old Morley, will--"

"
I wouldn't doubt he'll be finding out for
himself. Do you remember anything about the man who came in later on?
Anything at all? Such as a scar on his face?"

Telfer suddenly came apart. "I mighta never seen
him, I pulled a real blank--see, first I knew about that at all, when
they found the body, and it was 214, and 214'd been empty last I
knew--and there was this name on the register I didn't remember so I
figured I musta waited on him sorta automatic-- I never--"

"Didn't you know that two rooms had been rented
overnight? The maids--"

"I don't go talking with them," said Telfer
sullenly. "How would I know? I'm only on the desk at night. If
there wasn't no other name on the book--"

"
You don't remember anything at all about the
second man?"

"Mister, I pulled a blank, I said. I don't know
if he was white or black. Listen, if old Morley--you won't go and
give it out, will--"

"All right, that's all," said Mendoza. "You
can go. But you might give some thought to what I told you,
Telfer--if you hadn't been drunk that night those four people would
probably still be alive today, and the Slasher would be in the County
Jail instead of roaming around loose."

"I didn't have nothing to do--it was this real
bad headache, see," whined Telfer.

"¡Basta!" said Mendoza. "Get out of
my sight--somebody else can take a statement from you."

Telfer shuffled out quickly, and Tosci, wholly
soothed and friendly now, shook his head gravely and said that he had
always believed it, foolishness caused more evil than wickedness.

"A profound remark," said Mendoza wearily.
"We're very sorry you've been upset, but you can see how the
mistake was made.”

"Naturally, naturally! If I had not been so
outraged, sir, I would have realized that our fine smart policemen
would not make such a mistake without reason--and I must apologize
for anything I said when I--"

"Yes, yes, quite all right, Mr. Tosci."

When they'd got rid of the little man Palliser said
disgustedly, "It shows you how even what looks like solid
evidence can be misleading. That damned old lush--my God, if he'd
given us a description then!"

"Way the hand got dealt," said Mendoza.

Sergeant Lake looked in and said they'd finally
picked up Larry Webster and he was here.

Mendoza said, "O.K., shoot him in." He felt
very disinclined to talk to Larry Webster, and his head was aching
slightly.

Palliser asked, "Anything wrong? You look--"

"Nothing. Nothing
new," said Mendoza.

* * *

He had dropped in at the hospital after lunch, and
for the first time got hold of the senior doctor on the
case--MacFarlane, who had done the operation. MacFarlane, unlike some
doctors, didn't mind explaining to laymen. He was a tall cadaverous
old man with shrewd blue eyes.

"You understand," he had said, "that
there's no certainty about such a case. He is holding his own, but
I'm making no predictions as to whether he'll ever regain
consciousness. If and when he does, it then remains to be seen
whether there's any permanent brain damage."

"What effect might that take, Doctor?"

"Quite impossible to say. It would depend on
what area of the brain was most severely damaged. We might find that
his memory was entirely gone, for instance, or his speech. We're
beginning to find out more about the brain, you know, and we do know
that--in layman's terms--each section controls different functions. I
have known of cases where the learned skills, such as reading and
writing, were lost. I'll not minimize the situation, sir. At worst,
if there's permanent damage, he could be a hopeless mental invalid,
if he lives. At best, he could come out of this coma safe and sound
with his mind intact. I was hoping to see his wife--"

"l don't think she should be told that,"
said Mendoza.

"I've always found that a policy of frankness is
best. If the worst should occur, it would not be as great a shock."

"Well, I don't agree with you," said
Mendoza bluntly. He remembered how his grandmother used to say,
"Don't run to meet trouble. If she's got to be told sometime,
I'll do it. I'll ask you not to tell her, Doctor. For one thing,
she's expecting a child."

"Oh, I hadn't realized that. Well, perhaps in
that case . . . And of course we'll hope that she need never know.
It's quite possible that he'll recover entirely, though it was a
massive fracture." MacFarlane shook his head.

"When will we know?"

"
When and if he regains consciousness. Frankly,
I'd be feeling much more hopeful if he wasn't keeping in such deep
coma. It's been, what, around sixty hours now, and he's showing no
signs of restlessness, which would be encouraging as a symptom of
returning consciousness. When and if he should seem to be regaining
consciousness we'll inform you at once, as I want someone who knows
him, preferably not his wife, to be there when he does. That would be
the immediate test, you see. Whether or not he would instantly
recognize an old friend, understand what was said to him by such a
friend."

"I see. Could you give me any idea how long it
might be?"

"Sir," said MacFarlane sadly, "there
are cases in a number of hospitals where a person has lived in a coma
for months. He might regain consciousness tomorrow and recover quite
normally, or he might lie like this for weeks--or he might die
tonight. I don't know."

"That's frank
anyway," said Mendoza evenly. "Thanks very much .... "

* * *

He looked at Larry Webster with dislike. The ordinary
part-time, small-time pro, and looking it. A grown-up lout, with a
graying crew cut, powerful shoulders; he had a rather stupid, weak
face, with a loose mouth and small eyes. He was dressed neatly in
working clothes, tan cord slacks and a shirt to match. You wouldn't
have turned to look at him on the street, but Mendoza knew the type.

"
Sit down, Webster," he said flatly.

Webster sat. "This is my day off, see, I din't
know you fellows wanted to see me about anything, naturally, how
could I? I been going straight ever since I got out last time, I got
a good job at a garage, sir, the boss'll tell you. If I'd known you'd
wanted to see me-- I'm clean, you ask me anything you want--"

That type. Mendoza looked at him reflectively and
then without speaking to him went out and told Sergeant Lake to put
in a rush on a search warrant for Webster's living quarters.

"Where does he live, by the way?"

"Cheap apartment hotel out on Olive. They picked
him up at a bowling alley."

Mendoza went back to his office. "You know
Margaret Corliss, Webster."

"Sure, sure, I know Madge. Madge is a nice girl;
we been, you know, going around some together."

"How long have you known her?"

"
Oh, gee, quite a while, I guess."

"Make a guess."

"Well--four, five years maybe."

"So you knew her when she was working at the
Sally-Ann Beauty Shoppe?"

"I guess that was the name of a place she worked
once, yeah."

"
Where the proprietors were running a little
mill."

"The cops said so," said Webster. "I
don't know anything about that, nor Madge didn't either. Madge never
suspected such a thing, she told the cops all she knew and they saw
she didn't know anything about--"

"Insufficient evidence," said Mendoza, and
laughed. "Sure. Did you know about the mill Dr. Nestor was
operating? The doctor she was working for until he got himself
murdered last Tuesday night?"

"Well, I knew she was working for this doctor,
but he wasn't up to anything like that, Madge wouldn't--"

"She was working as a beauty operator at that
shop? She's a qualified operator?"

"Sure, I guess so. That's right"

"Then how come she took a job as an office
nurse? Quite a switch."

"Oh well, she said she thought she'd like a
change, kind of. I guess it was like that. And this doctor, he didn't
need a regular trained nurse, it was just somebody to--you know,
answer the phone and put down about appointments and--"

"She certainly did that," said Mendoza
without a smile. "Where were you last Friday night?"

"Friday night--well, I'd have to think----"

"
Then think," said Mendoza .... Because, he
thought, while the Corliss woman wouldn't have had any reason to
murder Nestor, still there was something in that part of the puzzle.
Art Hackett was no fool. He had started to suspect what was behind
the Nestor setup, and maybe by Friday night he'd seen through it. And
seen that possibly, if Nestor had kept any records of his illicit
patients, that list would bear looking into. It could be that some
frightened, ashamed young innocent had confessed to her parents, who
had threatened Nestor with exposure--something like that. Hell, they
didn't even know that the gun hadn't been Nestor's. Or there could
have been an argument about money with a new patient's boy friend.
Anyway, that list would be interesting: and if Hackett had seen
through the Corliss woman's actions that Wednesday morning, he could
have guessed that she'd have it. If, of course, there was one. And
gone to see her . . .

"Think hard," he said. "Miss Corliss
says you were at her apartment?

"Sure, that's right," said Webster. "I
remember now. We had dinner together--"

"
Where?"

"Uh--some grill out on Olympic. And we went back
to her place and--and played cards--"

"
¡Dámelo!
"
said Mendoza. "All very innocent. And how late did you stay,
playing cards?"

"I don't know. Maybe midnight?

"Did anyone come calling on Miss Corliss that
night while you were there?"

What looked like genuine surprise showed in Webster's
eyes. "Why, no, sir."

"A sergeant of detectives? Sergeant Hackett?"

"No, sir. I never heard that name. Excuse me,
why you asking all this, sir? Madge wouldn't be up to anything wrong,
honest, sir. She was awful sorry about Dr. Nestor getting shot like
that, it was some burglar broke in, wasn't it, and--"