Mark of Murder llm-7

by Dell Shannon

  Mendoza climbed up on the stool at Elger' s other side. Elger was halfway through a martini: probably not his first. The other man, a depressed-looking middle-aged man, was staring silently at a glass of beer.

  "-just got to take it in your stride," Elger was saying heartily. "You know? Script writers always change a book around some. What should you care, you've got the money. You worry too much, friend."

  The depressed-looking man said in a surprising Oxford accent, "But she wasn't a chorus girl, she was the vicar's daughter. It all seems quite pointless to me, and rather silly."

  "Now you just stop worrying, old boy," said Elger.

  The bartender came up and Mendoza said, "Straight rye. Mr. Elger!"

  Elger swung around, looking surprised. "Oh-it's you," he said.

  Mendoza smiled offensively at him. "Business as usual? I thought you'd be keeping a closer eye on your Ruthie. Or have you hired a private eye?"

  Instantly Elger's expression darkened. "What the hell d'you mean by that? That bastard Nestor-and I wasn't surprised when I saw the Times this morning! Ruthie told you how it was, she hardly knew the guy, it was just to spite me she-"

  "Naive, Mr. Elger!" said Mendoza cynically. "They can sound quite convincing, that sex."

  "Damn you-"

  Mendoza picked up the shot glass and swallowed half the rye. "Don't sound so upset," he drawled. "Happens in the best of families-"

  Elger swung on him and he ducked, alert for it, and caught the man's wrist in both hands. It had been an awkward swing, from a seated position; but if Elger had been on his feet…

  He said incisively, "Hold it, Elger! Take it easy. Now what did I really say? Nothing much. You lose your temper that easy very often? Because, if you do, I'm surprised you haven't got stuck with a corpse-or a near corpse-long ago!"

  "What the hell,” said Elger sullenly. He shook his arm free of Mendoza's grip. The other man was watching interestedly. "You talking about Ruth-damn cop-"

  "To see what little thing might set you off. Look at me!" said Mendoza sharply. "Did you lose your temper last Friday night, Elger? Did you? Because of some little remark Sergeant Hackett made to you? Did-"

  "I told you I never heard of that guy!"

  "Did you follow him down to the street and attack him there, Elger? And then find you'd nearly killed him? And there he was, right in front of your apartment-and if he came to, he'd talk-or he might just die, so we'd get you for manslaughter if nothing worse-and there's your business and reputation gone. Was it like that?"

  "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," said Elger roughly. He threw the rest of his martini down his throat so fast he nearly choked on it.

  "So you thought of the clever little plan- If you did that, Elger, by God, I'll get you for it? said Mendoza. In that moment he was nearly persuaded that Elger was his man: Elger so quick to hit out in blind fury, over very little; and the suppressed savagery in his tone, the expression in his eyes, made Elger draw back a little.

  The bartender was looking worried. They didn't like disturbances in a high-class place like this. Mendoza finished his rye. "Make no mistake," he said, "if it was you, we'll get you. I'll be seeing you again, Elger." He slapped down a bill and stood up…

  And where had that got him? He knew that a very small thing might trigger Elger's temper.

  The lab, he thought. They really did work miracles these days, those boys. Would there be any difference in the composition of blacktop-could they tell its age, or degree of wear-something to pin down the locality?

  A forlorn hope. He could ask.

  He ate a flavorless sandwich at a drugstore and went back to the office. Sergeant Lake was leaning back reading a teletype.

  "Here's our boy," he said, handing it over. "Not that it helps us much on catching him."

  Mendoza read the teletype standing. It was from the sheriff of El Dorado County up north of Sacramento. The inquiries on any known knifings with the same M.O. as the Slasher's had been out for nearly three days; this was the first response.

  What Sheriff Jay Hampton had to tell them was that there'd been two murders in a little place called Georgetown, about three months back. Quite a surprise to Georgetown, which had a population of about eight hundred-Mendoza found on consulting an atlas-and probably hadn't had a murder since the frontier was officially closed in 1890, You could read between the lines of Sheriff Hampton's terse statement. The first victim had been Betty Riley, a local girl well known and liked. Engaged to the son of the town's bank president; her father was one of two doctors in town. A pretty girl, popular and virtuous. She had been to see a girl friend, Martha Glenn, a block away from her own home, on the night of April thirtieth. Had left there about nine o'clock to walk home, and next turned up dead on her own front lawn, at ten-forty. Found by her father as he came home. She had been stabbed and slashed to death, and mutilated afterward. The sheriff had called in the state boys, the B.C.I. from Sacramento, and their crime lab had said that the knife used had a partly serrated edge. Absolutely no clue had turned up; it looked like the random killing of a lunatic. She had not been raped, and evidently hadn't had time to scream.

  "?Y pues que?" said Mendoza irritably.

  The second victim, found next day in a field outside of town, had been one Giorgiono Cabezza, an itinerant agricuItural laborer who'd just been fired from his job on a local ranch. Here they turned up something more definite. Cabezza had been seen in several bars the night before; he'd been talking about leaving town, finding another job farther south. Toward the end of the evening, around midnight, he'd been seen with another man, a transient just passing through-nobody in town knew him-possibly a hobo. Nobody in Georgetown had ever seen him before, and nobody had heard his name. But the surgeon said Cabezza had been killed about 2 AM., and the transient was the man last seen in his company. They had a good description of him: a man about forty, very thin, hollow-cheeked, middle height, and he had a very noticeable scar from an old burn across the center of his face. No evidence actually pointed to him as the murderer, but he had not been seen anywhere around since, and Georgetown had had no more knifings.

  "What the hell does that tell us?" demanded Mendoza. "For God's sake!" He'd been hoping that if the Slasher had killed before, especially in a small town, something more definite might have been got on him. This was just nothing but continnation of what they knew. And he should have known it wouldn't be anything more; if any other force had got anything definite on the man there'd have been flyers sent out.

  And the papers yelling their heads off about inefficient police. Mostly. Spare a moment to be grateful to the Times, which had run a thoughtful editorial pointing out all the difficulties of the hunt for the random killer. He put the teletype down and dialed the Hollenbeck station. "Well, I was just about to call you, Lieutenant," said the sergeant he'd talked to before.

  "Anything?"

  "It seems your Ballistics man gave you a false alarm. Our boys just got back from checking. I looked up the record on that break-in-TV store on Soto Street-and it didn't close until eight-thirty so the break-in was after that. This Behrens, the pawnbroker, naturally didn't know from nothing about those three juveniles, never laid eyes on them, never bought anything off them-but he hadn't expected any check, of course, and there were four transistor radios and a portable TV in his back room, and the owner of the TV store could identify them by the serial numbers. From his place, all right. Well, you said your chiropractor was getting himself shot between eight and midnight. Kind of tight times, when you think-and not very likely the kids would pull two in one night, so close together. They probably broke in that store between nine and nine-thirty, or a bit later. The pawnbroker's not talking, but they say they were in his place about ten-thirty. Well, they'd probably-"

  "? Basta ya! " said Mendoza. "I know. Go out on a little spree with the cash from the pawnbroker, with or without girls. Not go looking for another likely place to break in. So the fancy story about finding the gun is probably
-definitely-true. Thanks very much."

  "Sometimes you get a tough one," said the sergeant sympathetically…

  Mendoza stared intently at the desk lighter. So it was back to the private thing. Was it? Not those juveniles, but maybe an older pro? Entirely too coincidental that those juveniles should end up with the gun. No, it had been the private kill, on Nestor.

  Well, what about Elger for it? A gun used, and then that canny, cautious plan to get rid of the gun… Not in character?

  Andrea Nestor, now…

  Some other jealous husband?

  Look thoroughly at everybody in Nestor's address book. That Clay had sounded quite level, but there might be… Palliser came in. He said, "I don't know what anybody else may have turned up, but I've drawn blank on your button."

  "More good news," said Mendoza. "Sit down and tell me who you've eliminated."

  SEVENTEEN

  The man who wanted to kill was seething with hate and anger, where he lay hidden in the place he had found for himself. He had thought of killing, more killing, to pay them all back, but his slow mind had told him that they would come hunting him, they would hunt him out-a place like that room. He needed a secret, safe place to be when they came hunting. So he had come here.

  But for the rest of it, it had all gone wrong. He had only caught one of them to use the knife on, make the blood come. A man more than half drunk, who came lurching up the street toward him in the dark, and was easily pulled into that alley.

  And people looked at him queerly, even more than usual, almost as if they knew what was in his mind. That woman at the place he'd bought food, last night…

  He'd gone into a bar and heard some men talking. They were talking about him-him, the big important one, the Slasher, and what they said did not fill him with panic but with rage. How they knew what he looked like now, there'd been an artist's drawing in the paper, they said, and how they were telling everyone not to go walking alone at night, to be careful.

  There hadn't been people out, near as many as usual -he'd noticed that. He'd drifted, a dark shadow, in the shelter of buildings around many streets, and when they came past him it was in groups, two or three together and walking fast. On account of him. Dim pride rose in his mind; but it was no good, it spoiled everything, if it stopped him killing any more of them. He wanted in sudden furious rage to kill and kill-pay them back. They mustn't hunt him down, to stop him.

  He had almost reached out for the nearest of those two women who had come along, hurrying, not talking-he could take her, let the other one scream and run, he could be gone before… But he was some way off from his safe, secret place, and he didn't.

  Instead, he had taken out his knife and looked at it: not really looked, there in the dark, but felt it. He liked to use it to make the blood come, and it came quiet and easy. But you had to be near, to kill with the knife…

  He'd had a gun of his own, once. Back the first place he'd worked after the orphanage, old man Haskell's farm outside of Younker, back in Georgia. You went out shooting birds, come fall, everybody did, and he got to be a pretty good shot on an old gun Haskell let him use, and he saved up and bought himself a new gun. It was a. zz rifle, and he'd been pretty good with it. That was a long time back. He didn't remember how long, he'd been a lot of places since, and he didn't remember what had happened to that rifle.

  You could kill from a ways oft with a gun. With guns. It wouldn't be as good, there wouldn't be as much blood, but you could kill more of them and still keep safe… He'd laughed and laughed excitedly, thinking about it, how it would be, do it like that. Slip out at night, and he could be maybe half a block away, and get them maybe two, three at a time, and then while they were running around like a flock of scared chickens, hunting him, all the time he'd be back in his secret place-waiting for the dark and to go out again. It would be like that.

  And he knew where he could get the guns. There was a place not far away, guns in the window.

  Vague memory stirred in his mind, about guns… He'd been a lot of places, but mostly country places, because he couldn't do many city jobs. Country places, where people hunted things. Rabbits and birds. Going out rabbit hunting, a man would say, passing along the fence by where you were. That's a nice stand of corn-and you with a day's work ahead… Going out people hunting, he thought to himself, and shook with laughter again. So he'd started up through his secret place, to go there and get the guns. This was a big, dark, strange place, with him the only one in it. He came out from where he'd made a kind of bed from an old broken-down sofa left there, and he was in a vast empty underground room cement-floored and walled. There were shapes against the walls, a big square furnace, pipes disconnected and rusty, a row of ancient refuse barrels, and empty shelves all along one wall. At the far end of the big room were stairs.

  He'd drifted up them silently, though he knew there was none to hear anywhere around. At the top he was on a little square landing and there was a door, but it was half off its hinges, hung drunkenly open so he could see beyond. He stepped past the door, onto bare dusty flooring, to an irregularly shaped wide corridor. There was another door to the right there: it had something painted on it but a couple of letters were partly worn away and he didn't know what it meant-it said L D ES. Down at the middle of the corridor it widened out and there was something like a bar standing there.

  He didn't go that way. He turned to the left and went through an open arch into another vast dark place: but he knew the way. He felt along carefully by the wall, until his feet told him he was nearing the door. The door was very heavy and had an iron bar across it inside; he pushed against that hard, and reluctantly the door creaked open and he came out into the night.

  There was no moon, but he knew where he was. He was standing at the side, almost at the very end, of a big brick building, and ahead of him was a steep cement ramp leading to the street. He went up it.

  It was late; he'd lain a long while thinking about all this, before deciding. There wasn't anybody around at all, streets dark and empty, and he walked quickly. After he'd got the stuff, he thought, he'd like to do one tonight, but it was too late-nobody around, nobody at all…

  And he'd had a little job, to get it all back to the safe place. Because he was going to kill, and kill, and kill…

  They'd never find him, and he'd need lots to kill so many… But he had it all there at last, and he was satisfied. Only, too late to go out and hunt any of them tonight. Have to wait for the dark again…

  All day he had lain here, waiting for the dark. Now he was hungry, and what he'd got at that store last night was gone. He sat up, thinking about that slowly. For the dozenth time he picked up the newspaper and carried it to a place under the ventilation grill in the ceiling where light came in. He'd spelled out the words under the picture. Artist's sketch of the Slasher from his description. Have you seen this man?

  It didn't look an awful lot like him, he thought. Except there was the mark-the terrible red mark-right across the face… They'd laughed at him, they'd called him – And there had been a pretty girl named Ellen, who had screamed and run. In sudden red fury, he crumpled up the paper and flung it away into a corner.

  It wasn't dark yet. It wouldn't be dark for a while. But he was hungry. But they mustn't hunt him down. He was going to After hesitation, he started up through the dark, for his door to the outside. He had his hat pulled low over his eyes, and he thought he could pretend to have a cold, keep his handkerchief up.

  There was a hamburger joint a block up where you could take it away with you, didn't have to eat there. He walked up to it fast. There were some other people there, eating or waiting for their hamburgers. He asked for two; when they were shoved across the counter at him he put down a silver dollar.

  "Buck an' ten cents, mister."

  He found the extra dime. He walked back quickly, carrying the food. Down in his safe place he ate slowly, enjoying the greasy hot flavor of beef and onions and pickle… Now he was lying here hungry for something els
e. For the dark. For the dark to come down, so he would know it was time. The right time to go out and start his night's hunting.

  He held a gun on his lap, and now and then he touched it almost lovingly. The knife was good, but the gun would be good too. Better, now. Better for him. I'm a people hunter, he thought, and laughed. Most important guy in the whole Goddamned town. In all the papers. Everybody talking about him. The Slasher. Be the hell of a lot more important before he was done…

  Laughing at him. Not wanting to look at him. Stupid, they said. The girls, the pretty girls looking at him and-He was on his feet, pacing excitedly, cradling the gun. A pretty girl named Ellen, screaming when he tried to kiss her…

  Suddenly he yelled in a high savage voice, " What d'you think of me now, you bastards? All you Goddamned bastards-show you-show all of you- "

  Nobody heard him at all, and after a while he stopped. Jesus God, wouldn't it ever get dark tonight?

  ***

  Dwyer and Scarne came in while Palliser was still talking. Nothing had shown up, of course. Palliser had been a little excited to find a button missing from Cliff Elger's topcoat. "But it was a bigger button, and a different color, and who'd be wearing a topcoat in July?" And as for asking whether anybody had given away any clothes for salvage lately, you couldn't expect anything on that. If X had belatedly realized he'd left that button behind, and couldn't replace it on the jacket or cardigan, and gave it away to be rid of it, he wouldn't say so. The canny way he'd got rid of the gun…

  Mendoza agreed inattentively. He had a county guide open in front of him and was studying the big detailed map of the downtown area.

  "I only dropped in to report no progress too," said Dwyer. "I'm on my way down to Santa Monica to have a look at the wardrobe of a fellow named Ross. Don't know how well he knew Nestor-he's just there in the address book. And you'll likely be getting a formal complaint from a Wall Street type by the name of Marlowe. He wasn't home when I got there-seems he has a butler who also acts as his valet, all veddy-veddy, but it was his day off; the maid was scared of me and my warrant, and let me in. The master arrived just as I was looking over his second-best evening jacket, and he didn't like me at all. He said so. Police, he said, and it was a dirty word coming from him, pawing over his clothes-very highhanded, and the idea of trying to connect him to a sordid crime- Quite a little pile there, I'd say."