Murder Most Strange

by Dell Shannon

  "Police? What's wrong? Is anything the matter with the senator? I'm his secretary, Martin Unger, you can tell me anything in perfect confidence, I assure you, I'm quite familiar with—"

  "I'm sorry to have to tell you that the senator's just been found dead." Hackett started to go on to ask how to contact the family, explain about the handling of the body, but Unger didn't let him.

  He just said in a startled wail, "Dead? Dead!" And then the line crashed down at the other end, and hummed emptily.

  * * *

  Grace and Higgins had been wandering around all day trying to find out who might have seen Edna Patterson last. An autopsy wasn't going to pin down any exact time. She could have been killed anytime on Tuesday, since the refuse truck came early and nobody remembered seeing her take her can back to the garage. Linda Gilman had told them where she usually shopped, given the names of her closest friends; she'd kept her address book in a drawer of the phone table and it was gone with everything else.

  A market clerk at Von's remembered seeing her at about four o'clock on Monday afternoon. She'd talked to a casual friend on the phone at seven o'clock Monday night. For a while that looked as if that was it; they tried six or seven other places and people, but nobody remembered seeing her, talking to her, since the week before.

  Then they found a salesclerk at a drugstore who had seen her on Tuesday morning. Mrs. Patterson didn't drive, and shopped close to home, along Vernon, along Hoover. The clerk volunteered that Mrs. Patterson hadn't looked so good. In the midst of all the legwork, they were also wondering if that rapist would hit again, with a new victim in mind for this nice April Sunday. And wondering where Eileen Mooney's body was. When it was found—if it was found—there might be some evidence on it to tie in Rudy Bartovic, or there might not.

  After they'd stopped for lunch they tried another close friend, a woman named Agnes Sherman, who used to live around here and had attended the same church, but had gone to live with her son and his wife after she'd had a heart attack. They hadn't, said Linda Gilman, seen each other often anymore, but used to talk on the phone. Mrs. Sherman lived in Redondo Beach. "Pity to give her another heart attack, breaking the news," said Grace. So when he called, he just told her he was calling for Mrs. Gilman, who wanted to know if she had talked to Mrs. Patterson lately, and when.

  "Why, is she worse?" asked an anxious voice. "Yes, I talked to her on Wednesday morning, and she had a bad cold coming on, said she wasn't going to church that night. Is she all right? What—who is this?"

  What a tangled web, thought Grace: and just trying to be diplomatic. He asked to talk to her son, and explained it to him. Let him take it from there.

  He'd been using a pay phone at the restaurant where they'd had lunch; he went back to the table where Higgins was finishing another cup of coffee, sat down and said, "I've just had a brainwave." He told Higgins about Mrs. Sherman. “We said nobody would murder the woman for her furniture, but how do you like the idea that it was never meant to be a murder at all, just a nice neat pro burglary? And whoever planned it knew enough about her to think she'd be at church on Wednesday night? And then they walked in and found her home?"

  "Now you just may have something there," said Hackett. "The back door wasn't locked. She wasn't feeling well, she could have overlooked a thing like that. And then, having killed her to shut her up, they thought they might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb."

  "It did look like a pro job," said Grace, "so the lab may not give us anything."

  They went back to the office, and were surprised to find the press swarming around.

  * * *

  On this peaceful Sunday afternoon, Alison was sitting in the living room brooding over brochures and estimated prices on the concrete-block wall: she had seen two firms about it yesterday. Ken Kearney had started energetically to erect his wire-and-post fence, which looked like something out of a concentration camp, but it was a large house and he still had a long way to go. The Five Graces, meantime, were mournfully occupying the corral.

  During lunch El Senor had proudly brought in a very large, very dead field mouse, and Alison and Mairi had sent an SOS to Ken, who had just gotten back to work after his own lunch. "A dead bird, now, I can just do something with," confessed Mairi, "but mice I canna abide."

  The twins had been riding for a short while this morning, and after lunch had wandered off, probably to watch Ken digging postholes. Except for the monotonous sound of his vigorous hammering, the house was peaceful, and Alison leaped up quivering as he let out a roar just outside the open window.

  "For God's sweet sake! Here, you, get out of that! Damn it to hell- Johnny! Terry! You pair of young devils, I'll scalp you—"

  Alison rushed to the window. "What's happened?"

  Kearney turned a flushed angry face to her, and just pointed. "I told that pair to stay out of the corral, that latch is damned stiff. If I hadn't run out of staples just now—"

  "Oh, my Lord!" said Alison. All the while he'd been busily building fence around the other side of the house, the Five Graces had been enjoying the expensive landscaping on this side. Another Italian cypress tree was denuded, and several hibiscus shrubs. "I'll murder them!" said Alison, making for the door. "Johnny! Terry!"

  * * *

  ". . . And I couldn't get anybody to answer the damn phone again," said Hackett, "and nobody answers Upchurch's home phone, and we've been stymied. Evidently he was going to make this speech on Tuesday, but—" Higgins, Grace, and Mendoza were listening to the tale of frustration interestedly.

  "We don't know who this Bernard Seton is or who else Upchurch may have come here to see—"

  "Why not ask the press?" said Mendoza. "They ought to know. A politician would want advance publicity."

  "It was the first thing we thought of, damn it," said Landers. Detective work could be boring and frustrating, but it was even more frustrating to have it there to do and be unable to get on with it. "He was going to make a speech to the League of Women Voters on Tuesday, in San Diego, and we got hold of the chairman or whatever, but she didn't know what his schedule was up here." It was three o'clock and they hadn't got anywhere on this all day; and Landers didn't much like politicians. "The only damn thing we've found out is that he flew in from Sacramento on Friday, and picked up a Hertz car at the airport. He already had a reservation at the hotel."

  "If we knew who this Seton is, he'd probably know something. They don't know anything at the hotel. He was out all day yesterday, came in about five and went out again a little later, and that's the last they saw of him."

  "¡Ca!" said Mendoza, brushing his mustache.

  Palliser looked in with Glasser behind him. "Conference on your politician? We had to wade through the press. You'll be glad to know we just cleared one—the big fat Negro with the big gun. He was the last one out of Records, of course, but he's scared of cops and came apart right away. We've just applied for the warrant. What happened to the politician?"

  "We don't know yet," said Mendoza. "I can't raise anybody in Bainbridge's office."

  "I can't resist quoting Hilaire Belloc," said Palliser. "You know the one. ‘Here richly, with ridiculous display, The politician's corpse was laid away; While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged, I wept—for I had longed to see him hanged.' "

  "Oh, that's very nice," said Landers in the general laughter. As it died, a man came rushing into the office like a scalded cat. He was a young man in very natty brown sports clothes, with a shock of wild blond hair and flashing blue eyes. Lake was behind him looking outraged.

  "I had to give a statement to the press downstairs," said the young man rapidly, "and I hope to God you won't foul me up by saying something different. I said he was seriously ill and would cancel all engagements until— You don't really mean he's dead? I came as soon as I could get a flight—"

  "Mr. Unger‘?" said Hackett. "Good. Yes, of course he's dead, as I told you. No, we don't know of what yet. There'll be an autopsy. His wife ought to be inf
ormed, I couldn't get any—”

  "They're in Europe. The whole family. I sent a cable," said Unger. "Oh, my God, gentlemen, you don't understand what a goddamned awful thing this is!" He ignored the chair Mendoza offered him; he ran a hand through his wild hair, and there was a sudden sob in his voice. "You—who didn't know him—don't realize what a terrible, terrible loss to our country this is! Howard Upchurch was the finest man I ever knew, the most honorable patriot I ever met. It was foregone he'd have won the nomination, and become our new junior senator, and who knows, gentlemen, after a few terms in the Senate he might have ended in the White House. He was most certainly potential presidential timber. I simply can't believe this terrible thing—"

  "Now just calm down, Mr. Unger, you'll have to answer some questions," said Hackett.

  "Certainly, certainly, any way I can help you— Oh, God, the problems this is going to make—poor darling Nora Upchurch, such a dear woman and they were so devoted—"

  Lake was gesturing wildly at Mendoza over the babble, and Mendoza went out to the corridor. "It's Harbor," said Lake in a dropped voice. "They've just pulled a body in, past the Long Beach breakwater."

  "And it's hardly the lesser of two evils," said Mendoza hardly. "But let Art deal with that-that—"

  "Lackey," said Lake, unexpectedly.

  "What did they say?"

  "Well, they don't think anybody could identify it," said Lake unhappily.

  "Dios. I probably won't be back," said Mendoza, and went to get his hat.

  * * *

  He looked at the thing lying there in the morgue tray, and it was a very ugly thing, but he had seen a lot of ugly things like it. He said, "You'll have had some experience, what do you think?"

  "Well, God," said the Harbor precinct man, and scratched his head. Harbor patrolled in boats, not squad cars. "What happens in the ocean, it makes times damn difficult. The fish, you know. This one, it could have been out there four-five days or four-five weeks. But you wanted to know about any female corpses, and I'd take an oath that's female, by the size and all."

  Mendoza thought of that photograph of Eileen Mooney, the pert red-blonde with the tip-tilted freckled nose. There wasn't any hair left on this thing, there wasn't much but a skeleton and withered flesh, and if it was Eileen there wasn't going to be any way to nail Rudy Bartovic for it, and he felt coldly savage about that.

  "Dental records," said the Harbor man.

  "Yes. Obviously the only way we'll get identification. I'll get back to you on it," said Mendoza.

  It was the beginning of rush-hour traffic, and the freeway was jammed. He got held up at the Stack where he got off the San Diego Freeway, but he got to the apartment on Clinton at six-twenty. "Oh—" said Rose Mooney. "Oh—is there—is there anything—"

  "Miss Mooney," said Mendoza, "I just don't know. What I came to ask is what dentist your sister went to."

  "D-dentist. Dr. Westfall on Sunset Boulevard. Why? Why?" Her eyes widened in fear.

  They knew, now, about the background of the Mooney girls. Orphans, the parents killed in an accident, and raised by elderly grandparents who were both dead now. Two nice girls, making a life together, and then the stupid irrational punk like Bartovic—

  He said, "There's a body. We don't know that it's Eileen. There's only one way to be sure."

  "Oh—my—God," she said dully. "Oh, no—"

  "Now it might not be," he said.

  She huddled on the couch, her head down. She said thickly, "Yes, I know." And there was a sudden rattle at the door, and her gaze fixed over his shoulder, and she screamed.

  "Eileen—"

  "Yes, darling, here we are—surprise, surprise!"

  SEVEN

  "Where have you been? And what's Randy—"

  "Why, what do you— Darling, we sent you a wire! Do you mean to say— They swore you'd get it by five o'clock, of course I knew you'd worry when I didn't come to work, so you could tell Mr. Fox too— Didn't you get it?"

  "You left— All that— Everybody thought Rudy Bartovic had kidnapped you and m-murdered— He just came to tell me they'd found your body—"

  "What?"

  "Your tote bag—with all the blood—and you didn't come home—the police have been looking and looking, and I was so scared—"

  They turned blank gazes on Mendoza, and he said, "And just what did happen to you, Miss Mooney?" She was even prettier than her picture, the copper-blond hair in a flip short-cut, the tip-tilted nose impudent with its freckles. He was a stocky young fellow with a square amiable face, genial blue eyes, sandy hair.

  "Not Miss Mooney, it's Mrs. Penner!" She held out her left hand proudly to show. "You mean you never got it? You didn't know? Whatever do you—"

  "The police—everybody thought— They had Rudy in jail but— All the things in the park, it looked as if—"

  They both started to laugh hysterically. "Oh, darling! Oh, dear, I know it's really not funny, but we couldn't know you wouldn't get the wire, how could we? I'm as sorry as I can be, but it's all right now, isn't it? You see, we'd both been so miserable, and of course I knew Randy would come back and apologize—and of course he knew I liked to sit in the park, and so when he came that morning—I suppose Mrs. Lally just didn't see him—and I wasn't there, he came down to the park—"

  "Oh, my God!" he said, choking on laughter. "The blood! Oh, my God, that's funny—the police—a murder—" They were giggling helplessly. He pulled himself together with an effort. "I'd had this accident at work—I work at the big Sears warehouse on Olympic—case of glasses fell down and I got this bad cut on my arm—reason I was off work—" He pulled off his jacket, and still had a bandage on his left arm. Suddenly he doubled over again, laughing. "That blood! The police! Looking for a body! Oh, my God!"

  "Darling!" she said. "You see, he came, and we made up—" They beamed at each other fatuously.

  "My lucky day. I'd just won a thousand bucks on a horse, and I'm not usually good with the ponies—"

  “And I promised to marry him if he swore solemnly he'd never bet more than five dollars on anything ever again. So we decided just to go and do it—"

  "Oh, my God!" he said. "The police thinking—" They were both highly amused. "Well, we were clinching each other, we were both pretty excited, we'd sat down right there, and I knocked my arm against the tree and started the damn thing bleeding again. By the time I noticed it, it'd made a little mess. I just tied my handkerchief around it—"

  "And just why didn't you come home for some clothes?" asked Mendoza coldly. "If, as I gather—"

  "Oh, that was my fault. I said we'd just live it up and have a blowout, damn the money, maybe we'd never have that much to blow again, and we'd get clothes over there. We didn't have to stay at a fancy place, but make it a honeymoon to remember—so we just drove up to the airport and got the eleven-o'clock flight to Vegas—"

  "And I was so excited I never thought about my knitting—oh, it's all too silly! And we got a suitcase and new clothes and everything in Vegas, and we were married that night—and of course we thought you knew all about it! We didn't know how long we'd stay, so I didn't tell you that, but of course we thought—"

  "Well," said Mendoza, brushing his mustache. "All's well that ends well, but I do hope you both realize that you've cost us a good deal of time, work, and taxpayers' money. We really thought we had a homicide to work.”

  They went into gales of laughter again, and Penner controlled himself to say contritely, "We're very sorry, sir—but my God, of all the ridiculous—that blood—oh, God!"

  "Well," said Rose shortly, looking at them with cold eyes.

  "I'm going to call Western Union." She looked up the number and dialed, explained, waited a long time while they checked records, and finally said, "I see. Well, thank you . . . They couldn't get anyone to answer the phone. I was over at Mrs. Lally's—we were just wild, of course, worrying. The police were hunting for Bartovic and looking for your body— And of course they don't deliver telegrams by hand anymo
re. They sent it by mail. On Wednesday."

  This was the culmination of the joke. They broke down again, leaning on each other in helpless mirth. "The m-m-mail!" wailed Eileen. "You'll p-probably get it tomorrow—Oh, darling, I am sorry but it's such a scream—"

  "That blood," he said happily. "Police out looking—oh, my God—"

  Mendoza went out to the Ferrari and started home. Eileen was a very nice girl, but at the moment he could have murdered her himself. At home, after a belated and warmed-over dinner, he called the night watch and gave them the news.

  * * *

  And of course on Monday morning everybody was interested to hear about that, and did some cussing and laughing about it. Overnight, by the description, the hair-trigger heister had pulled another job—he hadn't gotten much loot on the last one—at a movie house down on Main; the ticket seller would be coming in to make a statement. At least, as far as they knew, the rapist hadn't been out again yesterday. And Martin Unger, said Hackett, had told them who Bernard Seton was: a representative of the public relations firm managing the political campaign for Upchurch. "He's staying at the Beverly Hilton, but I couldn't raise him last night up to eleven, and he's probably not up yet."

  "Yes," said Mendoza, "and we still don't know whether the man died of a heart attack or what." He took up the phone and told Lake to get him Bainbridge's office. Bainbridge came on himself.

  "Well, I was very sorry to hear about it, when I came in yesterday. Upchurch had impressed me as a very sound man, I was going to vote for him. I wonder what in hell could have happened to him."

  "Well, that's what I called to ask you, Doctor."

  "Oh. Well, I haven't done the autopsy yet, but as far as cause of death goes, there's not much doubt about what I'll find. Depressed skull fracture. Bang on the head—however it happened—you can feel it under the hair just behind the right temple. Probably sometime on Saturday night, yes. It could have been caused by a fall on some hard surface—could have been an accident, of course. I'll be able to tell you more later."

  Mendoza relayed that. "By that note, Seton saw Upchurch sometime on Saturday afternoon, and may have known where he intended to go that evening. And there's also this great white brotherhood bunch; if possible I suppose we should try to find which brother took Parmenter off. There's enough to do." Hackett and Landers went out, and Mendoza listened to Grace's conclusions on the Patterson case, agreed with them. Higgins could wait for the ticket seller. Grace went down to SID to see if the lab had anything for them yet.