Murder Most Strange

by Dell Shannon

  The ticket seller came in at nine o'clock, a luscious dark girl named Maria Ortiz. The movie house was a big one, running exclusively Mexican films, and usually drew a full audience at night; the heister had gotten away with around a hundred and fifty bucks. She described the heister graphically.

  "He was very big, he had light hair, oh, rough and long"—she touched the lobe of her ear—"and he was very sure of himself, very confident, you know? I was frightened, I had never seen a gun so close before, and at first I didn't know what to do—and when I didn't open the register he put the gun closer to me and he said it again in Spanish—give me the money."

  "Oh, really?" said Mendoza, interested.

  She nodded. "It wasn't good Spanish, you know, but understandable. He said, Deme la moneda, chica."

  She signed the statement and Higgins filed it away. He said, "Well, if he is one of these jokers we heard about from NCIC, somebody should know if one of them speaks bastard Spanish. But if you ask me that singles out this Leroy Rogers. He's originally from Texas, and there's a lot of coming and going over that border. Rogers is wanted in Atlanta, but I don't know if they've got his whole record on file." He got on the phone to Atlanta; a Captain Moreau told him that Rogers had been fingered by the pal who'd pulled the job with him, he hadn't any record with them, and he was also wanted for a bank heist in Dallas, where most of his record had been piled up. Higgins called Dallas, where a Lieutenant Fitzwilliam pulled Rogers' record and confirmed that he spoke some Spanish. They had a mug shot and would wire a copy immediately.

  "And probably," said Higgins, “if we do pick him up, Atlanta will have priority, damn it. But come to think, Georgia still has the death penalty in force, doesn't it?"

  Grace came back and said that SID had picked up a lot of latents in the Patterson house, and was still processing them; they had gotten all the family's prints for comparison, and it might take a while.

  * * *

  "It's a great tragedy, of course," said Bernard Seton. "The loss of a very able man, who'd have been a credit to our government, I'm sure." He looked at Hackett and Landers firmly, very much in control of the situation, which was something of a feat under the circumstances. He had been caught completely off base when they knocked at his door ten minutes ago; he hadn't heard of Upchurch's death; and he was just out of bed, unshaven, and wearing a bathrobe over pajamas. For about thirty seconds he had been startled and shaken, and then some inward automatic mechanism had operated to erect the smooth facade. "A very mysterious accident, it seems to be."

  "We're still investigating," said Hackett. "We found a note from you in his pocket. Could you tell us—"

  "Oh, yes," said Seton. He was a very sleek product: about forty, tall and lean, with a lantern jaw and swift dark eyes, the dark coloring that would make a second shave necessary if he was going out of an evening. He sat in the one armchair in this untidy colorless hotel room with the unmade bed behind him, talking easily up at the two standing detectives, and explained the position carelessly. His firm, Douglas-Hocking Public Relations, handled all kinds of publicity matters as well as political campaigns. "The days are gone, you know, when politicians wrote their own speeches and went around kissing babies, a good campaign needs professional planning and management. I was out here—our headquarters are in Chicago, of course—to evaluate how Upchurch's campaign was going, attend a few speeches, but I had a few other clients to see for the firm on other business, as long as I was here. Upchurch had come to Los Angeles primarily to tape an interview for a TV program, a public service thing called ‘Meet the Candidates,' I suppose you've heard of it. Then he had this speech in San Diego on Tuesday, and he was flying back to Sacramento that night. Yes, I knew he'd be at this big Rotary meeting at eight A.M. on Saturday morning, I'd arranged it—it was in one of the banquet rooms here—God," and he shuddered, "deliver me from Rotarians, the hearty breakfast meetings! However. I left that note for him there, I had an appointment later that morning."

  "And did you see him that afternoon‘?"

  "Yes, he came here about one-thirty Saturday afternoon."

  Seton had ordered coffee sent up, and sat sipping it; he had offered some to Hackett and Landers, politely. "We sat and talked for a couple of hours. I made a few suggestions about getting important points across, and so on—not important now—oh, it was all on a perfectly friendly basis—and he left around three-thirty, I think."

  "Do you know what his plans were for the rest of the day?" asked Landers.

  Seton gave him a friendly smile. "Do you know," he said, "you really don't look old enough to be a detective, Mr. Landers. Or maybe I'm just getting on myself. Well, that's why I can't quite understand why he was found where he was. As far as I know he intended to go out to dinner, go back to his hotel and spend the evening going over his speech." They had found the typescript of the speech in Upchurch's hotel room, yesterday. "And you see, he wasn't at all familiar with Los Angeles, he didn't know anyone here, and he asked me about restaurants. He liked French cuisine, and I suggested the restaurant right here, L'Escoffier, and La Bella Fontana at the Beverly Wilshire, Chez Claude, Frangois's or Jimmy's in Beverly Hills. He said they all sounded fine, and did I know a place called the Granada at the Century-Plaza, somebody had recommended it to him, and I told him I'd never been there but it was probably good, that was a good hotel. He was going back to clean up a little, and then going to a restaurant, that's all I could tell you."

  "That's the last you saw of him? Well, thanks very much."

  "You know something," said Landers as they waited for the elevator, "we ought to have some of that campaign literature, Art. There's a good picture of him splashed all over all of it. If we're going to be asking about him at these restaurants, it'd be useful."

  "Occasionally you use your brains, Tom," said Hackett.

  "Let's go and get some." They went back to the Beverly Hills Hotel about ten blocks away, got the keys to Upchurch's room from a subdued desk clerk and abstracted a handful of the campaign brochures with Upchurch's virile, trustworthy, smiling photograph prominently displayed. As they came out the front entrance and turned toward the parking lot, Hackett said, "Wait a minute. They've got valet parking here, haven't they? Separate parking accommodation for guests' cars. I just wonder. If the attendant happened to notice which way he turned out, or if he asked directions, it might give us a clue where he did go."

  They found the private hotel parking lot around at one side, and the attendant lounging there in a canvas chair in the shade of the building, reading a sports magazine. Hackett showed him the badge and explained. "Say," he said interestedly, "I heard something on the grapevine about some big shot we had staying here dropping dead or something." He was a lank young man with a very deep tan. "Tell me what car he was driving and I might remember something? Hackett handed him one of the leaflets. "This him? Oh-oh, sure. He had a renter. Gee, he's a good-looking guy, isn't he? Yeah, I remember him some. He showed up about two-thirty on Friday afternoon, and went in the hotel, and then about five-thirty the desk called and he wanted the car brought around to the front entrance. It was just before I was due to go off, I'm here until six and then Chuck comes on."

  "Fine," said Hackett. "Do you remember about Saturday? Happen to notice which way he turned out of the lot when he left, about five or five-thirty?"

  The attendant shook his head. "Sorry, I'm not on on Saturdays. I'm on Friday I remember. I brought the car up to the front steps, and this guy was there with a cute little blond chick maybe twenty, really stacked—they were laughing and talking, and he gave me a buck and I walked back to the lot and that was it."

  Hinted at, Hackett gave him a dollar. They started back to the car. Landers said darkly, "The devoted family man—hah. He gets here on Friday afternoon, doesn't know a soul in L.A., and three hours later he's picked up a pretty dolly to play with. For God's sake. And I wonder where?"

  "By what the fellow said, the car wasn't out until then, after he checked in. It could hav
e been at the bar here, I suppose. But that won't be open until two o'clock. I don't know about these other restaurants, but we can go and ask."

  “Politicians!" said Landers.

  * * *

  The wire photo came in about ten-thirty, and Higgins took it to show the Ortiz girl and she identified it, so he took it to Clyde Burroughs and he identified it. "Why didn't you show me this one in the first place?" he asked indignantly.

  So now they knew that their hair-trigger heister was Leroy Rogers, but they had no idea what car he was driving, where he was living or where he might hit next. Higgins came back to the office. Mendoza was closeted with a couple of feds, Grace was talking about babies with Wanda, showing her the latest I pictures of plump brown Celia Anne. There were other heisters to look for and Glasser was probably out on that.

  "Oh, the autopsy report on Barker came in," said Grace. "There's not much in it."

  There wasn't, except that it sounded like the same knife. "That," said Higgins abstractedly, "is a very queer thing."

  He thought about Rogers. That heist job in Atlanta—when had it been?—he'd taken some notes, talking on the phone; he looked them up and checked. The date had been March 4, and Atlanta had picked up the pal on the eleventh and he had fingered Rogers, but Atlanta couldn't find him. He could have landed here anytime between then and his first job here, and he wouldn't have had much money; they hadn't made a big haul on the Atlanta job. He wouldn't have bought a car. He could have stolen one in another state, but there was no way to find out about that. Or he could have stolen one here. He passed on all that to Grace. "It just occurs to me," he said thoughtfully, massaging his craggy jaw, "just to be on the safe side, because he seems to be very handy with that Colt, it might be a good idea to brief all the Traffic men to use extreme caution in approaching any car in this area. Or any out-of-state cars."

  “I think," said Grace, "that is a dandy idea—just to be on the safe side."

  Higgins started downstairs to see the watch commander in Traffic. At least all the Traffic shifts would be briefed, beginning with the swing at four o'clock.

  * * *

  Mendoza had been pessimistic about the proposed trap for the brotherhood. "Damn it, the rest of them would know he's dead, nobody's going to show up at that place again."

  "We don't know," said Grady patiently. "It's very possible they don't know, that is, aside from the one who killed him. I'll say this, Mendoza. These people—one of the ways they get their kicks is the secrecy of the whole thing. Like the little boys' secret clubs, you know? They're unimportant people, as I said, having to pretend to be important, and the idea that they're part of a secret group of superior beings provides a big thrill. They tend to stay away from each other except for the secret meetings—and your man's murder wasn't spread all over the papers, if it was mentioned at all."

  "True."

  "Now we don't know when they met, or how often. But Carroll here has been doing some research on what we know about this outfit, and most of the local groups seem to meet about every couple of weeks, on week nights. That might not apply to this one—who knows?—but we can give it a try."

  So they were sitting here, on three of Mr. Parmenter's folding chairs, in the back room of Mr. Parmenter's pharmacy, at eight o'clock on Monday night, Mendoza and the two feds.

  They had put on all the lights in front and left the door unlocked. Mendoza, feeling rather sleepy, had just worked it out that Parmenter had probably left the lights on until everybody had gathered and then turned them off for the secret meeting, which was the only reason that Rauschman had been able to notice them, when Carroll beside him tensed and put a hand on his arm. Somebody was walking in the front door. They waited, and whoever it was came down the store and around the corner toward the back room. "Gregory?" said a fretful voice.

  "Come right in," said Grady cordially. He had his gun in one hand and his badge in the other. It was a little rabbit-faced man who stared at them and suddenly looked ready to faint. "Do sit down," said Grady; they had set out a few chairs just in case. The little man seemed transfixed, and sat down meekly under the gun. Somebody else came in, and this one turned out to be a tall weedy kid about nineteen; he tried to put up a half-hearted fight, and Grady shoved him into a chair roughly. The third one was an elderly man with a limp, and then they waited for five minutes with nobody saying anything, until the door opened again out there, and by the footsteps two men came in.

  Without warning the rabbity man made a dive for Grady's gun arm and shouted an inarticulate warning. Not expecting it, Grady stumbled against the chair. The footsteps out there began to run, and the two feds ran too, and Mendoza pulled out his own gun to hold the ones they had.

  "That wasn't very sportsmanlike," he said to the rabbit. "I thought you people went in for all the high principles."

  "One can't fight evil with fair tactics," said the rabbit smartly. "How did you know where to come? And where is Gregory?" As a matter of fact he was still at the morgue, because no one quite knew what to do with him; there wasn't a soul to arrange a funeral.

  Grady and Carroll came back emptyhanded and Grady said shortly, "So this is the bag. Those two looked just a little more important from the back view, one of them a big fellow, but they had a start and they made it around the corner to a car, I heard it start up. What a haul."

  "Listen," said the kid unhappily, "it's only my second time here, I don't know much about—"

  The other two looked at him disapprovingly. "Oh, come on, let's see what we've got," said Carroll tiredly.

  They didn't have much. The kid was Jim Ferguson, a student at LACC. He said old Parmenter had given him some stuff to read, it had been kind of interesting, he'd been to one meeting but he hadn't joined yet, and he didn't know there was anything illegal about it.

  The elderly man was Richard Cooke, a retired janitor for the Board of Education. At intervals he kept invoking the Fifth Amendment, and aside from that he wouldn't say anything except to ask what they'd done with Parmenter. The rabbit was Edmund Bond, a salesclerk at a men's shop in Hollywood, and he was relatively voluble. He refused to give them any information about the other local members, but he told them he'd be proud to become a martyr for the cause.

  "Are you," asked Mendoza, "the leader or chairman or whatever you call it?"

  Unguardedly Bond said, "Oh, no, that—" and shut his mouth.

  "That was one of those who got away. I didn't think you looked like leadership material," said Mendoza distastefully. They left them sitting there and went into the front part of the store to discuss it.

  The feds had been all over this store and the house without finding anything in the nature of a membership list. Mendoza agreed that very probably Parmenter had supplied the meeting place, but wasn't the local group leader; that one would keep what records were kept, and that one was probably one of the two who had got away.

  "Damn it," said Grady, "we can't hold them on anything. As I told you, this bunch doesn't build bombs. Yet."

  "You were really obliging me," said Mendoza, "looking for a murderer. Gracias. We don't know how many others were just arriving, and got away too."

  "But those two back there, the regular members, don't seem to know that Parmenter's dead. If it was one of this bunch who killed him—"

  "For a personal and private reason," said Mendoza. "He wouldn't be boasting about it to any of the rest of them, and also, of course, he'd innocently turn up here tonight, to show the rest he didn't know and be all mystified when the place was locked up. And equally, when he spotted the lights on, he'd have stayed away. Altogether an abortive evening."

  "No, we haven't helped you much," said Grady. "And we'll let those poor idiots go. You can't change them, that's for sure."

  "And I really can't feel," said Mendoza, picking up his hat, "that Mr. Parmenter is any great loss."

  At least the electric eye had been installed in the gate today, and tomorrow he'd be driving a loaner while the gadget got installed in the
Ferrari.

  * * *

  "And just look at this damned night report!" said Hackett on Tuesday morning. He waved it at Mendoza. "Four new heists, and the boys didn't have time to go out asking questions on Upchurch. Damn it, those hotels have got little bars and restaurants all over, we haven't begun to cover them all yet. I suppose we'll have to do the overtime on it, most of them aren't open till afternoon."

  "Yes, business picking up," said Mendoza. It was Grace's day off supposedly, but he had come in, being sent an SOS from the desk. They were missing Nick Galeano. Everybody else was there too, taking quick notes on the night reports, outlining the day's work ahead.

  "Morning, Luis." Dr. Bainbridge came waddling in, stouter than ever, with the inevitable black cigar, and took the chair beside Hackett's desk, where Mendoza had perched one hip.

  "I knew you'd be anxious to have the details on this one, I did the autopsy myself last night. Press is giving it a play, aren't they?"

  "In spades." Not getting anything useful from the police, the press had had to fall back on the highlights of Howard Upchurch's career and public life, and there had been pictures of, an interview with, his attractive wife—who, the press said, was prostrate with shock and grief. Pictures of four handsome children, teen-age on down. The press was calling it a mysterious accident, and Bainbridge repeated that now, rather thoughtfully.

  "It's as useful a phrase as any. Wife's good-looking, isn't she? Well"—he sighed—"you want chapter and verse, and I can't give you much. He might have been attacked suddenly, but he hadn't been in a fight, his hands aren't marked. He could have had a sudden hard fall, onto a cement sidewalk or something like that. Just as I told you, he died of a depressed skull fracture—it's just behind the right temple. He might have lived half an hour or an hour, but probably unconscious. Times—we'll call it between six and ten on Saturday night. He'd had the equivalent of about two double high-balls." Bainbridge puffed at his cigar and added mournfully, "Fine healthy specimen, by the way. Man in the prime of life. And he sounded like a very good man, too—kind of man we need more of in Washington, hah? Well, there's your report, and we're busy." He laid the manila folder on Hackett's desk and stumped out.