Mark of Murder - Dell Shannon (32 page)

"No, please, I--" Marlowe gasped. "The
disgrace--my wife would--" He turned suddenly, blindly, pulled
open a drawer; Mendoza was on his feet in a flash, but Marlowe turned
holding a small revolver in shaking hands.

"I hope you won't be silly enough to use that,"
said Mendoza. "But you seem to be silly enough 'for anything.
Didn't you think we had any sense, Marlowe? To look at the tire
marks, test the car for prints? You had heard of fingerprints--you
wiped yours off everything a driver would touch. But that in itself
looked very funny, you know .... Why Canyon Drive? Maybe you know
somebody who lives in that very classy section, and knew the road?
Anyway, you"--he stopped, controlling his voice to
steadiness--"set up your accident, and a very God-damned stupid
way you did it too, and you walked down the mile or so to where you'd
left your car. You knew the rest of the family would be out
late--yes, there are probably quite a few prenuptial parties going on
for Susan, aren't there? . . . For God's sake, do you really think
we're all such fools, Marlowe? I think you really did put us down as
a bunch of morons. The way you went to work at it. Well, as you see,
we've got a lot of nice evidence on you now, and I'm taking you--"

"No,” said Marlowe. His eyes were wild, but
his hand had steadied on the gun. "No--I can't face that--the
disgrace, my wife, Susan--this can't be happening--there was no way
for you to find out--"

"Give me that," said Mendoza softly,
advancing on him. "Let me--"

"
No!" shouted Marlowe in sudden savage
desperation. He sprang up and plunged for the door, slammed it behind
him before Mendoza could reach it. And before Mendoza could turn the
knob there was the sharp crack of a shot in the hallway outside ....

They looked at the sprawled body in silence for a
moment. He had put the muzzle of the gun in his mouth, and there was
a little mess. "God damn him to hell!" said Mendoza
viciously. "So he does get away after all! I was looking forward
to seeing him pulled down in the mud--"

"Vindictive," said Palliser wryly. "Not
so good for the family .... How much of that was bluff, by the way?"

"Not much of it," said Mendoza, "really.
Once I knew by the button it was Marlowe, there was only one logical
motive. Only one way it could have happened. Damn him. Of course, if
he hadn't caught Art off guard, he'd never have stood a chance
of--but--"

The colorless manservant came quietly up the hall and
looked down at the body. He said to Mendoza gravely, "I thought
that was a shot. The rest of the family is all out, sir. I trust
you'll be attending to the--er--formalities?"

"Quite right," said Mendoza. "Are you
accustomed to your employers committing suicide?"

"
Dear me, no, sir," said the man. "What
a tragedy. I presume, sir, you'll be wanting that suit back from my
brother-in--law?"

"You presume quite right," said Mendoza,
and went back to the library to call the office and an ambulance. . .
. The bastard, slipping away from him at the last minute . . .

He left Palliser, Scarne, and Landers to go through
the house, pick up any more desultory relevant facts. So, on this
one, there'd be no publicity after all, just the relevant evidence
quietly attested to and the file put away marked closed. A nice
discreet verdict of the usual suicide while temporarily insane, and
that was that.

God damn him. To protect his precious name and
position . . .

Still filled with cold wrath, he came into the
office. "Understand you've broken the Nestor thing. Who and
how?" asked Sergeant Lake.

"Marlowe--damn him." He was in no mood for
long explanations. He went into his office. Dwyer was still there,
fiddling nervously with the cards. It was five minutes past one. Of
this new long, long day.

"I keep expecting it to ring," said Dwyer.
"Damn it, they said--"

And at that moment the outside phone rang. And
Sergeant Lake called in to them, "Hospital, Lieutenant."
Mendoza picked up the phone. His hand tightened on it, and his mouth
drew to a grim line. "Yes, Doctor .... Yes. I'll be there in ten
minutes--"

"Let me go," said Dwyer.

"No.” Mendoza almost ran out, toward the
elevators, and went all the way down to the garage; he commandeered a
patrol car and had the siren going before he was off the ramp onto
Temple Street. By God, he'd have one installed in the Ferrari
tomorrow.

He made it in just over ten minutes. The doctor was
waiting for him; they started for the elevators. "You
understand, Lieutenant, if he doesn't recognize you, or seems
mentally hazy in any way, it doesn't tell us definitely that he won't
make a complete recovery. After all, he has been in a deep coma for
something like five and a half days. And we know something about
mental therapy, too, to help. But this will be a useful--ah--test."

"Yes," said Mendoza. The elevator landed;
they walked down the corridor. The hospital atmosphere was thick all
about them. No noise, only a faint hint of ether, of medicines, in
the air; but the aura of professional busyness, of impersonal
efficiency.

There were two nurses in the room, at the far side of
the bed. The rails were up on each side. One of the nurses said, "I'm
sorry, Doctor, we had to discontinue the I.V. He was so restless--"

"Quite all right," said McFarland absently.

Hackett's big bulk was moving uneasily on the bed; he
had thrown off the sheet. His color was bad, an ashen gray, and all
the bandages looked alarming. He was muttering incoherently. "His
pulse is up to nearly ninety," said the other nurse.

"Yes," said MacFarlane. "I think it
should be very soon now. I'm sorry, Lieutenant, we just have to
wait--”

"Yes," said Mendoza.

"Mmh . . . mmh . . ." Hackett was mumbling;
he sounded to be making a desperate effort.

"How is his wife standing up?"

"All right," said Mendoza, watching
Hackett.

They watched in silence as Hackett tossed and
muttered. Five minutes. Ten minutes. The nurse said, "His pulse
is very fast, sir, I don't like--"

MacFarlane bent over the bed and used a stethoscope.
"Constitution of an ox," he murmured. "His heart's
sound enough. Don't worry."

Hackett quieted down and lay still for a little
while, and then quite suddenly he opened his eyes. He stared vaguely
up at the ceiling for a moment, and the doctor touched Mendoza's arm
and mouthed, "Wait a minute."

"His pulse is down to normal, sir," said
the nurse. Hackett turned his head weakly in her direction. Mendoza
stepped closer to the bed. He had his mouth open to speak Hackett's
name when Hackett said, "Nurse. You're a--"

"That's right," said the nurse, smiling at
him.

"Marlowe," said Hackett with great effort.
"Tell--”

"Art," said Mendoza. "Art?"

Very slowly Hackett turned his head on the pillow.
His blue eyes looked slightly unfocused still, and his voice came
weakly in little gasps. "Luis," he said. "They--hauled
you back--off vacation. Sorry. Have--a nice--time?"

Mendoza managed a grin. "I never want another
one like it, boy," he said. And then the doctor was leading him
out, and he sat down rather suddenly on the bench along the corridor.

"Very satisfactory indeed, of course," the
doctor was saying. "He'll probably make a quite normal recovery
now. Say three months. Very gratifying indeed--such a deep coma, and
that massive fracture--but that looks very conclusive, of course."

Mendoza thought, Ought to find the nearest phone: let
the girls know, call the office. Everything O.K. He heard himself
laugh, and belatedly realized why: Art could forget his diet for a
while, anyway.

"--as I said, Lieutenant."

"Yes," said Mendoza. Lieutenant. It sounded
a lot better than Mister: the hell of a lot better. He started to get
up, to go and find that phone, and suddenly all the lack of sleep,
the worry and strain, the long, long days had caught up with him, and
he had to lean on the bench.

"Doctor," he
said, "maybe you'd give me a shot of benzedrine or something? I
might just manage to make it home .... "

* * *

"I am not going to wake him up," said
Alison's voice. "I should think you'd realize--"

Mendoza opened his eyes. He knew where he was at
once. On the long sectional in the living room of the house on Rayo
Grande Avenue. He'd just made it that far before it all caught up to
him and he went dead out as if he'd been knocked on the head.

It was almost dark. A little past eight o'clock, he
thought vaguely. Around there. Somebody had taken off his jacket and
tie and shoes, and unbuttoned his collar. And there was a cat coiled
up on his chest, and he thought another one near his feet.

"You know what he's been through," said
Alison's voice. Alison trying to keep her voice low. Sounding
annoyed.

Mendoza lifted his head an inch and squinted down at
his chest. He identified El Señor by the blond mask and slitted
green eyes. Automatically he lifted a hand and rubbed behind El
Señor's ears.

"I absolutely refuse--" said Alison.

Mendoza yawned and sat up, bringing El Señor with
him in one arm. Annoyed to have his position changed without his
official consent, El Señor hissed at him and escaped to the far end
of the sectional, where he sat down on top of Bast and began to
smooth his ruffled coat.

Nearly dark, but light enough still to see Alison
with her back to him, shoulders looking very stiff, at the telephone
table across the room. And Angel in the entrance-hall doorway
watching her. Somewhere in the distance one of the twins was wailing.

"
He can't possibly--"

Mendoza yawned again. He felt, he decided, all right.

He got up and crossed the room, put one arm around
Alison, and took the phone away from her. The twin stopped wailing
abruptly.

"
Oh!" said Alison. "Luis--"

"
Mendoza here."

"Well, I'm sorry to wake you up," said
Higgins, "but we've got a sort of funny one down here. Just
turned up."

"Luis!" said Alison. "You are not----"

"Mmh?" said Mendoza. He felt, on the whole,
pretty good, he thought.

"Woman strangled with her own belt, it's
obviously murder, but there was the damnedest odd note left beside
the body----"

"
¡Qué interesante!
"
said Mendoza. "All right, I'll come down and look at it.” He
put the phone down.

"Luis, no!" exploded Alison. "You
ought to sleep the clock round--"

"But you've got," exclaimed Angel from the
door, "to have something to eat before you--"

"With," said Mrs. MacTaggart firmly, coming
up the hall, "a wee drop of whiskey to hearten you beforehand."

Mendoza kissed Alison and started toward the bedroom
for tie, jacket, and shoes. "Get me a cup of coffee, that's all.
I'm O.K."

And Alison and Angel sent one unanimous bitter
comment after him.

"Cops!" they said.