Mark of Murder - Dell Shannon (8 page)

"Mendoza? Cablegram f'r you--"

"Oh," said Alison.

But Mendoza was out of bed, finding small change on
the dresser top, ignoring the polite, " 'Kyou, sir." He had
the yellow envelope ripped open before the door was shut.

"Luis--," said Alison, watching him.
"What--"

He had gone white as death, and his mouth tightened
to a grim line. He thrust the sheet at her, sat on the bed, and
picked up the phone. "Travel service .... When's the next plane
out? I don't care where, Washington or New York, wherever I can get
the quickest flight to Los if Angeles .... Well, look it up, for
God's sake, and make it snappy!"

"Oh, my God," said Alison. She read it
twice before she took it in. Hackett attacked on critical list
outlook bad hell of mess here can you fly soonest. It was signed by
the captain of detectives. "Angel," said Alison. "She'll
be--"

She stopped, looking at his face as he spoke
impatiently into the phone. She opened the closet door, got out
suitcases, began hastily to pack. Thirty-five hundred miles, she
thought distractedly. Whyever did I say Bermuda? Not Art, she
thought. Not Art--and Angel--

"Can you get seats on it? All right. Two. Make
sure of that right now, will you? Give me the desk again. Mendoza,
room 284. We're checking out in an hour, I want the bill made up,
please. Yes. N0. There'll be two tickets on the eight-forty plane to
Washington, in my name, delivered at the desk. See they get into the
right slot. I'll be down in twenty minutes." He flung off
pajamas, started to dress.

"Luis--it'll be all right," she said,
knowing how foolish that sounded. "Not Art--it couldn't be--"

"
¿Y cómo no?
"
said Mendoza hardly. "It's not the safest job there is. You get
on with that--we've got an hour or so to wait. God--ought to have
some breakfast, I suppose. There's a plane to New York at noon, but
this one being earlier, we might get better connections, get there
sooner. We'll see."

"I'll never say you aren't psychic again,"
said Alison.

She found she was folding
clothes blindly, through a haze of tears. Not Art, Art mustn't-- And
Angel hadn't anybody, they had to get back.

* * *

It was the longest hour Mendoza had ever got through
in his life. He ate an anonymous breakfast; they were at the airport
by eight-fifteen, with twenty-five minutes to wait, but after several
eternities the plane was there, and taking on passengers.

They hadn't talked much; there wasn't much to say. He
sent a cable, and then they just waited. For the plane to take off,
and then for the plane to land in Washington. There wasn't any use
making idle speculations.

They landed in Washington a little before noon, and
had all the nuisance of Customs to go through. There wasn't a flight
direct west scheduled until nearly four, so they got the twelve-fifty
flight to New York and landed there at one fifty-five. And then they
waited some more, for the next flight scheduled to L.A., due to take
off at three-ten.

"You ought to have something to eat, you didn't
have any lunch," said Alison. "Coffee, anyway . . ."

He felt empty but not hungry; he got down a sandwich
without tasting it, and a couple of cups of coffee. "At least
with jet flights we can get back in a hurry. Ten years ago--"

No use in speculating. They'd know when they got
there.

The three-ten flight from New York to Los Angeles was
scheduled to land at International Airport at eight o'clock, but
traveling east to west they gained three hours, and it was just
five-thirty by L.A. time when they landed. "Can you cope with
the luggage?" asked Mendoza.

"Of course, darling. Go and call right away."

He felt as tired as he'd ever felt in his life, and
at the same time taut as a coiled spring. It was nearly six o'clock
before they got to the taxi rank outside. Mendoza said to the cab
driver, "Take all this stuff to 311 Rayo Grande Avenue in
Hollywood." He passed over a bill and took the next cab in line
from under the nose of an elderly dowager, thrust Alison in, and
said, "White Memorial Hospital," to the driver. "Take
the freeway for God's sake."

Alison held his hand tightly. "It's got to be
all right," she said. "I don't mean to sound like a fool,
Luis, but--whatever happened--they know so much more these days, and
there's plasma, and--"

"Yes,
querida
.
Wait and see."

It was six thirty-five when they got to the hospital.
A brisk thin nurse directed them to the third floor, and a brisk fat
nurse there directed them to a small waiting room at the end of a
long corridor.

Angel was sitting there, dry-eyed, looking down at
her clasped hands. She had dressed in haste, carelessly, and hadn't
any make-up on; she looked as if she'd been sitting there, numbly, a
long time. Hackett's older sister sat opposite her, and she'd been
crying. Alison went to Angel at once. Mendoza went to find somebody
who knew something, and ran into Scarne in the hall.

"Lieutenant--God, am I glad to see you! You must
have made time back. They hadn't called in so long, I got chased up
to see-- They said they'd call if there was any change, but--"

"Let's find a doctor, for God's sake. What
happened and when?" snapped Mendoza.

"It's a miracle he's still alive. He went down a
cliff off Canyon Drive, in his car--the car's one sweet mess, you
should-"

"
¡Vaya por Dios!
How--"

"He was sent over, Lieutenant. He didn't get
found until 2 AM. this morning, but then they got searchlights up
there, the works, and you could see by the tracks. The car was aimed
to go over--and he'd been tied up before--"

"
¡Dios!
You've got casts of the tire marks, you've--"

Mendoza caught the arm of a white-smocked intern
passing. "Doctor--"

"That one," said the intern when they'd
identified themselves. "If he hadn't the constitution of an ox
he wouldn't be still with us. I'm sorry, we aren't committing
ourselves yet, he's still in a deep coma. There was an extensive
skull fracture and internal injuries--broken pelvis, both legs, a
couple of ribs, and one a bit nearer a lung than we liked .... Dr.
MacFarlane operated to relieve the pressure, but as I say he's still
unconscious. We don't know when or whether he'll be conscious. All I
can say is-- Well, you can see him, but--"

"
Who've you got stationed here?" Mendoza
asked Scarne. He knew there'd be somebody, to get whatever Hackett
said when and if he regained consciousness.

"Fellow named Evans."

Mendoza knew Evans, a uniformed man bucking for rank.
He nodded at him, installed in a chair beside the door not too far
from the high bed. He stood over the bed and looked at Hackett.
Hackett lay on his back, breathing slow and irregular. His face was
drained of color; he looked gray. His head was bandaged, and one arm.
A watchful nurse had a hand on his pulse, and they had an I.V. going.

"All I can tell you is we're doing everything we
can," said the intern. "He's got a very sound constitution
to help him fight. But we can't say one way or the other, not yet."

"Yes, Doctor. Will you please see that somebody
calls in if there's any change? I know you've been briefed, but just
remind the desk. You've got the headquarters number--ask them to call
this number too, please." He scribbled their home number on the
back of an envelope, handed it over. He looked at Hackett again and
led Scarne out, to the little waiting room.

Angel was crying now. "I'm sorry, I don't mean--
I c-couldn't, somehow, until you c-came in and I--"

"Yes, all right, darling." Alison looked at
Mendoza and, seeing his expression, asked no questions.

"Angel said-- I took the baby to your place,
Mrs. Mendoza--your nurse--" Hackett's sister Elise Dunne looked
at them helplessly.

"That's fine, Mrs. Dunne. Now, Angel--"

Mendoza came up and squatted down before Angel.

"You're doing no good sitting here, either of
you. They're doing all they can, and they'll call when there's any
change. I've asked them to call our number too, and"--he looked
at Hackett's sister--"you can give them yours. Come on now."
He urged Angel up. "Scarne, drive them to our place, will you?
O.K. Alison, you look after her. God knows when you'll see me, but
I'll be in touch."

"
Yes, darling. Come on, Angel, it's only
sensible--"

"And get back downtown as fast as you can,"
said Mendoza to Scarne. He kissed Alison, held her hard for a second,
and went out and downstairs. He called a cab and waited for it
impatiently. He had work to do.
 
 

SIX

He walked into the homicide office at seven-forty,
and he didn't feel any particular joy at getting back home; he was
intent on the job. Most of them were there--Palliser, Dwyer, Higgins,
Landers, Glasser, Farrell: on one like this they weren't punching any
time clocks. And they didn't waste any time asking about the
vacation, making welcoming noises at him. They all looked relieved to
see him; Palliser said tiredly, "Thank God. You made time,
didn't you?"

"I want a breakdown on it," said Mendoza
without sitting down. "In detail. From one of you who knows the
detail."

"
Me," said Palliser. "We knew he was
missing, from about twelve-forty. Mrs. Hackett called in. He'd left
home about seven-thirty, and we're not sure where he was going. He
said to me he wanted to see that desk clerk again, at that Third
Street hotel. That was on the Slasher--" He gave Mendoza a terse
briefing on that, enough to put him in the picture. "He meant to
see Mrs. Nestor again, that's another business, and you'd better hear
about that too--"

"I want the facts on Art, John.”

"
It's relevant," said Palliser, and told
him about Frank Nestor. "Higgins called me back in and we had
everybody alerted, everywhere around any area he might've been, but
he didn't turn up until about two o'clock. An Edward Charlton, on his
way home up Canyon Drive, spotted the wheel marks going off the road,
in his headlights, and looked. The Ford had rolled about two hundred
feet down--it's not a sheer cliff, just a steep hill, with underbrush
and so on--turned over at least once--it was lying on its side."

"Dios," said Mendoza softly. "Why
wasn't he killed?"

"Coming to that. When we got the ident from
Traffic, we converged up there in strength. Because Traffic said it
wasn't an accident. Anybody could see that by the tire marks. The
Ford was backed around to face the drop square--there's a two-yard
soft shoulder either side, loose dirt that takes marks just dandy.
And gunned over. Not a sign of any attempt to brake. Traffic's taking
the car apart looking for anything, they're the experts on that. And
we figure, with what the lab came up with, that the reason he wasn't
killed is that he was already unconscious, lying across the front
seat, face down."

"I did wonder why there weren't any facial
cuts," said Mendoza. He sat down at his desk and lit a
cigarette. The desk needed dusting, and somebody had overfilled his
ashtray. He didn't do anything about it.

"So did the interns in the ambulance," said
Palliser.

"And for a civilian, we might not have committed
lése majesté
, but as
it was we hauled Dr. Erwin himself out of bed and shot him over to
the hospital. He saw him before they did the surgery, and went over
his clothes." They were all avoiding Hackett's name; maybe the
impersonal pronoun would help to keep this on the objective level, if
anything could. As cops, they had all seen other cops killed on the
job, and that was always bad; but this was something worse. Something
really bad. The deliberate thing.

Dwyer got up in silence and took the lid off the shoe
box sitting on the desk. "Erwin said," said Palliser, "he'd
been tied up. Wrists and ankles. For one or the other, his own belt
had been used." Dwyer lifted out the belt and passed it over. It
was a worn brown steerhide belt with a plain buckle, and it was
twisted out of its normal flatness still, where it had been used as a
rope would be used. The fifth hole in it was the most worn and
frayed, but evidently more recently the fourth hole had been in use.
Hackett and his diet . . . Mendoza's eyes stung suddenly. He put the
belt down. He said, "Yes."

"He'd got the worst knock on the head at the
back of the skull, a little to the side, not the front. The interns
said he was half on the floor, head on the passenger's side of the
car. Glass all over from the windshield but he hadn't a cut on him."

"Yes. I see. You've printed the car. Anything?"

"What do you think?" asked Higgins
savagely. "His, that's all, and his wife's. Steering wheel and
gear selector clean. Naturally."

"Naturally. All right. Why?"

Dwyer looked at Palliser, "It's your fairy
story," he said. "Tell the detective man,"

"
And it's no fairy story,” said Palliser
equably. He sat smoking quietly; he looked relaxed, but his mouth was
grim. "What else could it be, for God's sake? Nobody's got any
private reason for murdering Art Hackett. I'll tell you what it has
to be--something he spotted on one of those cases. He was out
looking, and he found out something, something definite, a giveaway.
And somebody knew he had, right then. So he got knocked on the head
then and there, and tied up, and the faked accident was set up
later."