Mark of Murder llm-7

by Dell Shannon

  "Money and family," said Mendoza, sounding faintly amused. "But you're not going anywhere else. All that can be put off-our Slasher is the hell of a lot more important. That one we've got to get, and in a hurry."

  "You have any bright ideas how to do it, beyond what we're doing? Somebody'll recognize him and say so-he's got to eat, he'll be showing somewhere-”

  "Eventually!" said Mendoza. "It's not good enough. Yes, I've got a bright idea. Jimmy! Call down to Traffic and ask Fletcher to come up here. Now look." He pointed at the map. "He's stuck to the downtown area up to now, and never above Third. This is his part of town. Incidentally, remembering what we got from up north, the part of any town where that sort does land-the drifters, the almost bums. On and around Skid Row. All right. We had one quite promising lead, you remember, from that leg work on men with scarred faces. A man like that had rented a room over on Boardman, said his name was John Tenney. Had, we subsequently found, paid the landlady partly in silver dollars. Only he skipped before we laid hands on him. He could have skipped because he heard our man questioning the landlady-we don't know."

  "Are you heading any particular direction?” asked Dwyer.

  " Paciencia. After that we got the attempt on the Rollen girl and the murder of this late unknown. Both along San Pedro, four blocks apart. I'll tell you where I'm heading. I think he's just smart enough to have realized that, with his description in circulation, he's got to have cover, some safe hole to lie up in. I think he's found one, and it'll be somewhere not too far from where he attacked those two. I can't offer a guess where it might be, an empty building-if there are any-or what. But he's got to be somewhere around there, and he won't be coming out of his hole until after dark. We're going to get a lot of men, the more the merrier, and conduct a building-to-building search in a twelve-block square between Main and San Pedro, between Temple and Third."

  "For God's sake!" said Scarne. "Do you realize how much territory that covers?"

  "Some of it," said Mendoza, "is taken up by the Civic Center. We're sitting on one perimeter of it right here. I know. A lot of residential streets, a lot of business-and part of Skid Row. Nevertheless, we're going to do that. We're going to pry into every nook and cranny-"

  "Now?" said Dwyer.

  "There's four and a half hours of daylight left. Set it up, get it started. After dark, they can search in pairs. And-" Mendoza stopped, and said, "Yes. The dogs. I want the dogs. Damn it, where's Fletcher?"

  The L.A.P.D. had been slow to start using dogs. Maybe some prejudice of the chief's; the chief liked dogs and maybe was reluctant to see them used that way. But with increasing evidence of their great usefulness, the force had finally acquired a few. Oflicially they were under the Traffic office; Mendoza wasn't quite sure how many there were yet, fully trained and ready for action. But on this kind of action, as on many others, a trained dog would be worth two men-seeing and hearing and smelling where a man wouldn't.

  "My good Christ," said Dwyer mildly. "Look at it." He flung the map down. "Dozens of little side streets and courts-rooming houses, apartments-along the main drags, warehouses, all those joints on the Row with flop-houses and a few cat houses, probably, upstairs-my God, with a hundred men it'd take three days to be sure you'd covered-"

  "So we take three days, or three weeks!" said Mendoza.

  "Did you like the afternoon headlines, Bert? We're going to work this the only way we can. Damn." He massaged his temples, elbows on the desk. "I've fumbled around at this… I thought Art's business tied up to the Nestor thing, I've been concentrating on that-but-I don't know…"

  "Who's called the hospital last?" asked Palliser.

  "Jimmy. Just before I came in," said Mendoza. "They say he's getting a little restless, which they seem to think is a good sign. But of course-"

  "Yeah," said Dwyer. They all knew about that. A clean dying one thing: the permanent brain damage another. "You don't think now it was tied up to either case?" He looked at Mendoza thoughtfully.

  "?Que se yo? ” said Mendoza. "I don't know. There's nothing really that says yes or no. I'll say this much, I doubt very much whether that is linked with our Slasher. In spite of his being the one who derailed the Daylight. It doesn't fit-it isn't the right shape. But it could have been the outside thing. And if it was"-he sat up straighter, automatically brushing ash off the desk, aligning the desk box and blotter-"if it was, by God, or if it wasn't, we'll get the X on that and get him but good. But-"

  "Amen to that," said Palliser.

  "But in the meantime we've got the Slasher on our hands. I say, let's go all out to get that one, and then we'll have the slate clear-and the damn press off our necks-to hunt down the other one. Plural or singular? Hell, I don't know," said Mendoza. "I don't even know whether the motive on Nestor came out of his abortion trade or something else-his girl friends, his marriage.?Basra! Forget about that for a minute-" He looked up as the door opened.

  "What's the urgent summons to my lowly office?" asked Fletcher of Traffic. He was a big, heavy, amiable man, about due for retirement.

  "How soon can you get me about fifty men?" asked Mendoza. "More if you can. And all the dogs available? For a house-to-house search of about one square mile of downtown?"239

  Fletcher just looked at him. "Are you serious? Right now? What the hell on? Not-"

  "That's just what," said Mendoza. "We've got to get this boy, Jack, and the sooner the better. I've got a hunch he's holed up somewhere inside that area, and I want a thorough hunt. Leave the rest of the citizenry to its own devices awhile, and haul in some men off tour. I can't make rules for your department, but everybody in this office is working round the clock as from now. Maybe you saw the afternoon headlines too."

  Fletcher laughed shortly. "I did. The citizenry! It's been told often enough, by a lot of people who should know, it's got one damn good police force, but let a thing like this come along, you'd think we're a bunch of morons, way they talk."

  "Some people," said Mendoza, "just naturally think we've got to be morons, to be cops in the iirst place. Sometimes I almost agree with them." And he thought, If Art died…

  Fletcher rubbed his jaw. "Use your phone," he said, and it wasn't a request. He used it, ruthlessly, for ten minutes. When he put it down for the last time he said, "God help the innocent citizenry tonight. And bless the Hollywood boys-they can pull men off a lot of nice genteel places where nothing ever happens, without much danger

  … Crews of twenty cars to report in within fifteen minutes, that's thirty-six men. Another twenty called in from stationary traffic duty, and God help the drivers at downtown intersections. Lessee, it's four-forty. Call it five o'clock for briefing. Where?"

  "Your sergeants' office. I want every man issued with extra ammo," said Mendoza. "I know our Slasher isn't on the Most Wanted list-not on any list, his prints unknown-but he's the hell of a dangerous boy. We don't want any more casualties, do we?"

  "I'll see to it," said Fletcher briefly. "O.K., twenty minutes." He went out.

  "We're going to be fairly busy for quite a while," said Mendoza. "Maybe you'd all better snatch a sandwich or something while you can." Dwyer and Scarne drifted out after Fletcher. The outside phone rang and Mendoza picked it up… "Yes, querida," he said. Palliser watched him for a moment, saw he wasn't getting any bad news, and went out unobtrusively.

  "They said he's been restless. They seem to think-it might be a sign that he'll be conscious soon. I-oh, damn," said Alison. "I know they're doing all they can, and-and they know so much more now, but they're so horribly impersonal about it. That afternoon nurse-they've got specials on, you know-talking about the patient this and the patient that when it's Art."

  "I know," said Mendoza. "Just how they are, amante. All in the day's work to them."

  Alison said forlornly, "She's a Seventh-Day Adventist. She gave us some Improving Literature to read, about vegetarian diets. Well, she seems kind enough, but-”

  "Yes, darling. What about Angel? I said she ought to see h
er own doctor."

  "Yes, he gave her some tranquilizers but she won't take them. Luis. Did you mean what you said-about r-resigning? I don't know what you'd do. I don't know-"

  " No se preocupe," said Mendoza. He thought, Have to borrow a gun somewhere. He couldn't go home for his own. 38 in the handkerchief drawer, the shoulder holster, or Alison would know…

  "-Luis?"

  "No," he said. "I won't be home. We've got a little project on down here. It's expect me when you see me, I'm afraid."

  "Yes," said Alison. A little silence, and then she said, "It's just, it feels as if everything's in slow motion, somehow. That it's days since I've seen you, and-everything taking so long to happen-Luis-"

  "Yes,” he said. "It does feel rather like that."

  "Mairi says to tell you to get a proper dinner somewhere." Alison uttered a little laugh.

  "I will if I have time."

  "And El Senor broke that jardiniere you don't like. The green one the Mawsons gave us for a wedding present. He knocked it over quite deliberately--"

  "?Senor Comedido!" said Mendoza. "How tactful of him… I don't know when I'll see you, amante. Take care… " He put the phone down and said to Sergeant Lake, "Get me a gun somewhere, will you? And a cup of coffee if you can."

  "See what I can do," said Lake, and got up. In the doorway he collided with Lieutenant Goldberg of Burglary, just coming in.

  EIGHTEEN

  "Well, and what can we do for you, Saul?" asked Mendoza. Goldberg asked first about Hackett and shook his head at the latest report. "It's more the other way around, I'm afraid. I just thought it'd be neighborly to mention it, in case anything does happen."

  "Make it short, we've got quite a night's project mapped 0ut."

  "Well," said Goldberg, "there was a break-in last night at a gunsmith's shop over on Spring. Quite a lot of stuff gone, and-"

  "Your problem," said Mendoza.

  "It could turn into yours. I don't like it," said Goldberg. "All they took was guns-and the hell of a lot of ammo for them. There was other valuable stuff there-he had a color TV in the back room he was keeping for his wife's birthday, and he does a side line in transistor radios, there were about twenty of those. And he'd left a few bucks in the register. Well, the first thing a burglar looks for is cash, usually. But all somebody, or several somebodies, was interested in, was guns. We've been all round the suspected fences and pawnbrokers today, and not a smell has turned up. Which makes it look as if whoever the somebodies were, they just wanted guns-as guns."

  "Oh,” said Mendoza. "I begin not to like it too. My God, on top of-"

  "Listen to the list," said Goldberg, unfolding a sheet of paper. "They or whoever took an old Springfield. 22 rifle, a Ruger Standard Single-Six. 22, an S. and W.. 357 Magnum, a. 38 CoIt Trooper, an Iver-Johnson Supershot. 22, a Whitney Lightning. 22 automatic, and three of the gunsmith's own target revolvers-he's a pro shot-a CoIt Python. 357 Magnum, a CoIt Cfficers' Match Model. 38 revolver, and an S. and W. Target. 45. And about twenty rounds of ammo for all nine guns."

  "?Santa Maria! " said Mendoza. "Is he starting a little private war?"

  "That may be too close for comfort," said Goldberg soberly. "Tell you what just crossed my mind-a gang of juveniles. Planning a rumble with something new added."

  "?Por Dios! And you could be right," said Mendoza. "God, on top of all the rest of this- We can only hope, if that's so, the rumble isn't planned for tonight. Thanks for the warning, anyway."

  "I could be just woolgathering," said Goldberg, sneezing and groping for the inevitable Kleenex. "Just thought you ought to know. All but one of them handguns, you know, and all that ammo-"

  "Yes indeed."

  Sergeant Lake came back and handed Mendoza a. 38 Police Special, a shoulder holster, and a box of ammunition.

  "Hey, what's up?” said Goldberg. "You never pack a gun unless it's something damn serious."

  "I think," said Mendoza, taking off his jacket, "we're on damn serious business tonight, Saul."

  ***

  Nobody else thought so for quite a while. Dwyer said to Scarne, "Work our tails off on an all-night job, just because he gets a wild hunch! There's nothing to say the Slasher's holed up in that area. Why just that area?"

  "First cast," said Scarne gloomily, "I guess."

  "My God, sure, we sweat it out all night and don't find him because he's a block outside the line our Luis drew on the map!"

  But Mendoza was the one who gave the orders. They set it up, with the fifty-six men from Traffic and those available in the homicide office-Dwyer, Scarne, Palliser, Piggott, Landers-and Higgins and Galeano would be in later.

  There were some residential streets in the area they were covering, but more of it was business. The residential streets were shabby and poor, and a lot of those old houses had derelict shacks built at the rear of the lots; a few still had henhouses standing from years back before the town was a city. But along the main drags-San Pedro, Main, Los Angeles, Third and Second, First and Temple-were many kinds of small business and some large: a solid block of warehouses, some, they discovered, empty. Store owners were called, keys to the empty buildings were sent for, the men were briefed. They assigned one crew of men, in pairs, to two-square-block sections, and started them out. It was, of course, very unlikely that their boy was holed up in a private residence; but if there was an empty house somewhere even that was possible.

  They got the men all down there by five-thirty, with seven cars roaming at random, and the operation started. Dwyer, paired off with Landers, was still grumbling. They were let out of a squad car with the other two men, both uniformed, who were on this particular block with them; Dwyer looked at the building on the corner, a four-story warehouse, blank-faced. "Hell of a waste of time," he said. "Just because Mendoza the brain gets a hunch-"

  "Hey, I've heard of him," said one of the uniformed men interestedly. "Is this one of his deals?"

  "One of his wild deals. We're supposed to look for an open window or something this boy could have got in by-but I've got the keys. You go round to the side and look, and then come back."

  In many streets other men were dropped, began their search. They made polite requests of householders and shopkeepers; in almost all cases they met no resistance. Over on Stevens Street, Officers Carlson and Ramirez ran into a belligerent householder who tried to start a fight, so they hailed a patrol car, put him in it to cool, went through the house, and found several hundred gallons of homemade beer in the garage. But there weren't many cases like that.

  The dogs and their handlers arrived. By that time the word had got out that a mass raid of cops was in the neighborhood, and people came out to stare, form little crowds. The dogs fascinated them, of course.

  And then it was getting on for eight-thirty, and the dark had come down full, not insidiously and reasonably as it does elsewhere; the sky changed from pink-streaked silver blue to full dark within fifteen minutes, and after that the dark was studded with the men's flashlights, little eyes of light moving along the sidewalks, and, here and there where a house or building was empty, moving past windows inside.

  Mendoza was over on Temple Street with Palliser then. "For God's sake," he said to the driver of a squad car at the curb, "can't we get these people off the streets?" Little knots of people stood about, at front doors, under street lights. "They've been warned-they ought to know-"

  "You think he might try another one, with all this force out and about?"

  "We don't know," said Mendoza. "With one like that, who can say?"

  "Well, we can tell 'em to go home," said the driver, "but it's supposed to be a free country." He gunned the car up to the nearest little group, got out, and began to talk to them.

  ***

  That kind of job was always a tiresome one; at the same time, tonight, the men were all a little keyed up at the thought that they might, just might, find themselves unexpectedly facing the Slasher

  …

  It was ten twenty-three when P
atrolmen McLelland and Leslie, both of the Wilcox Street station, came out of an ancient brick office building on Los Angeles Street and paused to light cigarettes. The office building was on a corner, and a little wind had got up; they went round the side of the building to get their lights, and Leslie said, "Half these old places ought to be knocked down. Did you see the state of those lavatories?"

  McLellar1d opened his mouth to answer, and there was a sharp crack; Leslie staggered, dropping his cigarette and shoving McLelland against the brick wall. "Jesus!” he said. "That was a-" A second shot barked and the slug hit the building an inch from McLelland's right ear.

  Both men dropped flat in the next second. "You hit?"

  "Just nicked me, I think." Leslie explored, said, "Went through the shoulder padding. VK/That the hell-Where's he shooting from? Can you-"

  "Over there-kitty-corner across the intersection, I think. Try to cover me." McLelland, gun out, crawled up toward the corner and around it. The side street was all dark, across there, and the street lamp at the corner was out. This block of Los Angeles Street was deserted at night, and not well lighted.

  About four buildings up, just passing under one of the feeble street lights, were two men walking in his direction. McLelland debated about calling to warn them to stop. Then a gun spoke again-a heavy gun, by the sound-and one of the two men spun round and fell flat. The other one stopped in his tracks and then stooped over the first man, so the second bullet flew over his head and made a sharp spat on the building front.