by Dell Shannon
Mendoza was aware that they didn't ask for identification. It was like a driver's license-anybody could apply for one under any name. In this big, busy place, very likely whichever librarian had issued the card had hardly glanced at the female who announced herself as Ruth Hoffman. In fact, the library card told them only one thing, that it had been a female who took it out. Young, old, fat or thin, whatever color. Mrs. Daggett? Mrs. Garvey? Or Anonyma?
It said, of course, something else. It said, for about ninety percent sure, that the pseudo suicide of Ruth Hoffman had been planned at least since the date on that card and probably before.
And he was no stranger to homicide of any kind. But at the thought a small cold finger touched his spine. He picked up the photograph and glanced at it before he slid it back into the manila envelope. The lovely face with its pert nose, wide mouth, tender skin, looked so very young. And death didn't reckon by age. But suddenly he saw again, as he had seen it only once, the rather shy, friendly smile of the pretty girl on the plane. Whatever was the reason, it was a sad thing that she was dead and cold down there in the morgue. Being thorough, he talked to every one of the librarians on duty. They all shook their heads at the card, except one, a Doreen Minor, who said brightly, "Oh, I know the name. Ruth Hoffman. But now I see it can't be the same one. The same Hoffman. This is a new card-August sixth-and Ruth Hoffman's been coming in for years, She's a student at L.A.C.C., I know her pretty well. But she only got her card renewed last year. So it must be a different Hoffman. Of course, it's a common name."
So it was, and that had been part of the plan, too. There wasn't anything to be got from the library card. Mendoza hadn't really expected there would be.
He had talked to the coroner's office and asked for the autopsy to get priority. The lab report on that apartment would be along sometime. It was never any use to prod the lab boys. They took their own time.
***
Patrolman Dave Turner was on swing shift, and at this time of year he was just as glad. The darkness after the sun finally went down gave a sort of illusion of coolness, and by the time he came on shift at four o'clock it must have gone up into the high nineties. Turner was only twenty-four, but he'd heard a lot of old folks claim that it never used to get this hot in Southern California, that it was the rise in population and all the watering of gardens that had changed the climate. He would just as soon live in a cooler climate, but he'd also like to make rank on this top force.
He took over the newly gassed-up squad after the briefing in the Traffic squad room, at one minute past four. He was on a beat right in the heart of the oldest part of the city, and parts of it were quiet as the grave and parts of it could get pretty hairy. But they didn't have the manpower to run two-men cars anymore. He had covered the beat once by five o'clock and had just turned back onto Alameda when he caught the light a half a block down. As he sat waiting for it to change, somebody honked at him urgently and he looked around. There was a big truck looming up at the left of the squad and its driver was leaning across the seat of the cab beckoning at him. Turner pointed up toward the side street, and the driver nodded and put up a thumb. The light changed, Turner pulled into the side street and parked and in the rearview mirror saw the truck ease cautiously across traffic into the right lane to follow him. It pulled into the curb ahead of the squad. It was a Goodwill truck, the familiar logo across each side of the body. Turner got out, automatically putting on his cap, and the driver slid down from the cab. He was a thick-shouldered, stocky man in the forties with thinning red hair and freckles.
He said to Turner, "Say, I don't want to give you a bum steer, you know? God, it's hot. What a climate. Seems to get worse every year." He brought out a handkerchief and l mopped his forehead. "I was just figuring maybe I oughta tell somebody about it, just in case it is anything."
"About what?" asked Turner.
"Well, I figure I got sent to the wrong address, see. Nobody down here in this neck o' the woods would have much good salvage to give away. It's an address back there on Banning Street," and he gestured. "I nearly didn't get out of the truck. Old shack of a place. But it was the address the dispatcher gave me so I went up and rang the bell. This was about ten minutes ago. Had to wait awhile, nobody ever did answer the door, but I could swear I heard somebody callin' for help from inside. Kind of a weak voice- Help me, somebody."
"I'll be damned," said Turner.
"I come away, but I was still thinking about it when I spot your squad car, and I just figured I'd feel better if I told somebody about it."
"Yes, sir," said Turner. He got the man's name for the record, Bill Cotter. "Thanks very much, Mr. Cotter. We'll check into it."
"I suppose it could've been kids, but you never know. Helluva thing. Kind of scared me."
"Yes, sir, I'll have a look."
Cotter went back to the truck and pulled out. Turner went around the block and headed back to find Banning Street. He knew generally where it was, a short and very narrow old street on the wrong side of Alameda, not far from the railroad yards. A street of ramshackle old houses dating from the turn of the century and never very fancy to start with, houses unpainted, with narrow front yards bare of grass or flowers. Peering against the too-bright late afternoon sun, he spotted the address. It was an ancient frame house ready to fall down. One of the front windows to the right of the tiny porch was broken-a whole pane missing. He parked the squad in front, went up to the porch and pushed the bell. He listened and in thirty seconds he heard it-a thin, faint voice moaning, and then "Somebody-please help me-somebody." He pushed the bell hard again. There was a shuffling step inside and the door was pulled half open to reveal a tall thin old man in stained cotton pants and a ragged shirt. There was about a week's growth of gray stubble on his chin. He looked at Turner and he said, "I got no time for niggers. What do you want?"
Turner showed him the badge. "There seems to be somebody in trouble here, sir. May I come in?"
"Ain't no trouble here," said the old man brusquely. And the faint voice came again, "Please, help me-help me-"
"Iet me in, sir," said Turner gently. For one moment he thought the old man would slam the door in his face, and then he stepped back reluctantly.
Turner went in past him to a little living room nearly bare of furniture, only a sagging armchair and an old console T.V. He turned right into a short hall and faced a closed door which must lead to the room where that broken window was. He opened it, took one look and said sickly, "Oh, my God! "
It was a bedroom containing only an old twin bed, a small table, a rickety unpainted chest. It was a shambles of squalor and filth. There was long-dried excrement on the floor and bed, a thousand flies zooming around, and on the bed, in a tangle of dirty bedclothes, was an old woman, emaciated to skin and bones, gray hair wild about her witless face. She was moaning weakly.
Turner swung back to the old man. "What's your name, sir?"
After a dragging moment he said, "Leach. Ben Leach."
"Is this your wife?"
"Ain't got no wife. No use for females. She's my sister."
"What's her name?" `
"Mary. Mary Leach. I don't purpose to have no dirty niggers asking no questions nor coming in my house-"
"Please leave the door open, Mr. Leach," said Turner sharply. He went back to the squad and put in a call for an ambulance. While he waited for it, he went back into the house.
The old woman's eyes were dazed, unfocused, and she twisted her thin body feebly. "Please-help me-so hungry-"
The old man had the television on.
"My good God," said Turner to himself. "People." On this job you saw everything.
***
THE NIGHT WATCH came on. "At least," said Bob Schenke cheerfully, "we get to stay in air conditioning part of the shift."
Piggott was studying the real estate section of the Times.
"There's nothing within reason," he said dismally.
"Take it to the Lord in prayer," said Conway flippantly.
"Oh, don't think we haven't. If it's intended-" Piggott sighed.
"You're just the born pessimist, Matt," said Schenke kindly. "Hold the positive thoughts."
"You're not looking for a home with reasonable payments," said Piggott peaceably.
"Well, no. Maybe I was born to be a bachelor."
At least the day watch hadn't left them anything to do. They didn't get a call until nine-forty, from a squad out on Alvarado-a mugging. Piggott and Conway went out on it. The victim was D.O.A. and there were witnesses: people up the block, one elderly man, who had also been waiting for a bus at the corner like the victim.
"They just came up and-and attacked him. Slugged him and knocked him down-and I guess got his wallet and just ran off. It all happened pretty fast, and I got a pacemaker- I couldn't do much even if it hadn't been so fast-" The couple of people farther up the block hadn't seen the assault so clearly. There were, of course, no descriptions. Only that there were two muggers, both men and probably young.
About twenty feet up the street they found a worn old billfold. It was empty of cash, but there was identification in the plastic slots. At a guess, of course, homicide hadn't been intended. He'd been knocked down hard against the bus-stop bench and probably died of a fractured skull. His name was Vincent Carmody and he'd lived on Coronado Street in the Silver Lake area, by the driver's license. He was twenty-five and he had been good-looking. Piggott and Conway went up to break the news and tell the family about the mandatory autopsy, when they could claim the body.
"He was just going to see Judy," wept Mrs. Carmody, "the girl he was engaged to-such a nice girl-just waiting for a bus to come home, his car was on the fritz in the garage. Just coming home from seeing Judy-it doesn't seem fair- It isn't fair-"
Carmody had been a clerk at a Sears warehouse, with a blameless record. It didn't seem fair, but that was the way things went.
THREE
HACKETT WAS THE FIRST MAN in on Friday morning. The heat was getting to him. It had been consistently in the high eighties for weeks, but lately it had been a lot worse. He'd be ready for his vacation six weeks from now-they weren't going anywhere, they couldn't afford it and they couldn't take Mark out of school-and that monster of a dog Angel had saddled them with ate as much as a horse-but it would be nice just to relax and not have to get up so early.
They hadn't got much from Joe Bauman yesterday, just profane denials. They'd tackle him again today. But before Landers came in Sergeant Lake buzzed him and said somebody at the hospital wanted to talk to police, a Dr. Richter at Cedars-Sinai. Hackett picked up the phone and said,
"Robbery-Homicide, Sergeant Hackett."
"Rob- Well, I just wanted to report the death," said a doubtful masculine voice. "We understood the police were concerned. This Mrs. Leach."
"Ieach. I'm afraid I don't know-"
"Well, she died last night. I don't know the details, but the ambulance man said it was a police officer had called him."
"I don't know anything about it. What did she die of?"
"My God, she was in a terrible state- I was at the end of my shift in Emergency when she was brought in- I never saw anything like it," said Richter. "Gross malnutrition, in and she was filthy. Hadn't bathed or eaten in God knows how long. We took it that she lived alone and hadn't been able to look after herself, and she was probably in the late seventies. She was dying when she was brought in, there wasn't much we could do. She went into a coma about seven P.M. and died a couple of hours later. The heart just gave out. All we have is the name. I understood the police had the background-it was an officer called the ambulance."
Hackett was a little annoyed at new business. He called down to Traffic-they would have the records of what went on in all the beats in Central Division, if it had been Central business-the fact that the hospital was Cedars-Sinai said nothing, that was the emergency hospital. Traffic eventually found the record for him. The patrolman was a Dave Turner, the address Banning Street. It didn't sound like any business for Robbery-Homicide, a natural death; but he got Turner's phone number and woke him up.
What Turner had to say put a little different look on it. They'd better talk to this Leach anyway. "I mean, Sergeant, he acted a little bit senile as far as I could see, but he looks O.K. physically. He could've helped the old lady if he wanted."
"Yes," said Hackett. The other men were drifting in. It was Galeano's day off. It still didn't sound like much and it would take some time, but he started out to talk to Leach. Palliser and Grace were talking to a couple of witnesses-probably on that mugging last night. The paperwork went on forever.
It was already at least ninety outside. He had to look up Banning Street in the Country Guide. At the ramshackle little house he waited awhile before the door was opened.
"Mr. Leach?" He proffered the badge. "I'm sorry to have to tell you that your sister died last night. I'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."
The old man peered at him blearily. "I got no money to pay for a funeral," he said.
"How long had she been ill?"
Leach said indifferently, "Awhile. It' was a damn nuisance. Leave me to do the cookin'. She allus did. But it sure saved on grocery money. Yes, sir. Time she took sick"- He worked his slack mouth as if savoring something-"said all she wanted-tea and toast. I brung it to her a time or two, but it was a damn nuisance. But it sure cut down on expenses." Suddenly he cackled gleefully. "I come to see that, first week or so-reckon I got by for no more than six, seven bucks a week."
"Why didn't you call a doctor for her?" asked Hackett.
Leach said, "Doctors, they cost a lot of money."
"You hadn't been giving her anything to eat?"
"She wanted, let her get up and get it. Leavin' me do all the cookin'. She allus been a pretty good worker up till then." Leach gave Hackett a furtive, silly smile. His mouth was slack and he dribbled a little.
Hackett swore to himself. The old man going senile, that poor damned old woman left helpless. They'd have to find out if there were any responsible relatives, get Leach safely tucked away. It was a little mess and not really police business. It wouldn't add up to any charge but contributory negligence, and Leach obviously wasn't in possession of all his faculties.
He started to ask another question, but Leach suddenly turned and went over to the T.V. and switched it on, blaring.
Hackett looked through the house. There wasn't much in it and it was filthy. The kitchen was piled with dirty dishes, alive with flies, and the whole place stank like a sewer. He didn't find an address book or any letters. There wasn't a phone.
The house to the left side was boarded up and empty. The house on the other side was occupied by a fat, mustached Mrs. Sanchez who said in thick English that she didn't know none of the neighbors-she just moved in.
Hackett went back to headquarters and talked to the Health Department. Then he called the appropriate Social Services office and talked to a Mrs. Peabody. They would get the old man committed, sort out who owned the old house, get the old lady buried. And by that time he'd wasted half the morning on it.
Nobody was in the office but Higgins, sitting at his desk, smoking and staring into space.
"Goofing off," said Hackett. "Where is everybody?"
"Tom went to talk to that heister, and Baby Face's latest victim came in to make a statement and Jase took him down to look at mug shoots-not that he'll make one."
"No," agreed Hackett. "I don't think Baby Face is in anybody's records. What's the boss up to?"
***
MENDOZA WAS TALKING to a Sergeant Donovan in Chicago. "Listen," said Donovan plaintively, "what do you expect, bricks without straw? All you give us is a name-Ruth Hoffman-you know how many pages of Hoffmans there are in the phone book?"
"I can guess," said Mendoza. "We're just going through the motions, Donovan. But we'd like you to prove there never was a Ruth Hoffman who came out here last month from Chicago."
Donovan groaned. "Not a hope in hell, ei
ther way. There could be a dozen Ruth Hoffmans, anywhere in greater Chicago-you want us to check through the whole damn phone book?"I
Mendoza said brusquely, "Just the usual cooperation. If you can't find a trace of a Ruth Hoffman who left Chicago recently, that'd be very gratifying?
Donovan groaned again. "I'll set a couple of boys to phoning. Just hope we can get you to return the favor sometime."
Mendoza put the phone down and wandered out to the big detective office. Hackett and Higgins were there and he passed on what Chicago had to say, which was expectable, and heard about Leach.
"And damn it, no lab report on that apartment yet. We should get an autopsy report today or tomorrow or something from the French police, or the airlines, or Customs. Where the hell is everybody, on what? Anything new down?"
Higgins said, "A squad called in about an hour ago. Body in an alley on Skid Row. John went out to look at it. Probably nothing to work. I'd just as soon nothing new went down to take us out of the air-conditioning."
Palliser came in and said, "My God, it must be nearly a hundred out there." He looked tired and yanked his tie loose, sitting down at his desk and pulling the cover off his typewriter, rummaging for report forms in the top drawer.
"What was the body?" asked Hackett.
"Nothing much. Looked like an old wino. Either natural causes or the alcohol. Man about sixty, little I.D. on him-Manuel Garcia. Lived at one of those dollar-a-night flophouses on the Row-the city will have to bury him." Palliser started to type the triplicate report.
It was getting on for noon. Landers came in looking hot and tired and said, "There's going to be a riot over at the jail-the air-conditioning's broken down and it's like a damned oven. My God. But Bauman had been thinking things over and decided to tell us who his pal was-one Albert Gerber."