Mark of Murder - Dell Shannon (12 page)

"Yes, that's right," said Marlowe, leaning
back.

"Seemed a very pleasant fellow. He wanted to ask
Andrea about a few things. That's a tragedy indeed, poor Frank
getting killed that way. Just when he was doing so well. Probably one
of these juveniles, or--"

"I understand that you left before the sergeant?
Mrs. Nestor said--"

"Why, yes. Why?"

"I'd like to hear all the details," said
Mendoza.

"Well, I'm afraid I don't quite see the point .
. ." Marlowe looked puzzled.

"Sergeant Hackett had a most unfortunate
accident later on that night," said Mendoza. "We're trying,
just for the record, to trace his movements, see where he'd been and
why he might have driven up to--the site of the accident, you see.
Did he say anything at that time about where--” And that was very
unlikely, but you never knew.

"Oh," said Marlowe. "Oh, I see. That's
too bad, he seemed a very nice fellow. I hope he's not badly
injured?"

"The hospital isn't very hopeful," said
Mendoza. They had kept any hint out of the papers that it hadn't been
an accident. Another accident wasn't very interesting news, and
there'd been only a brief article about it on page eight of the
Times. It was salutary that X should go on thinking that his faked
accident had been accepted at face value.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," said Marlowe
politely. "Well, let me think back. I'm afraid I can't help you
much. I only stayed, after he came, because I thought Andrea
might--er--feel the need of a little moral support. He asked her a
few questions about Frank, his usual routine and so on, and--"`He
stopped, and then went on, "And I saw he was, ah, perfectly
polite and so on--"

"Not likely to bully the poor girl, in other
words," suggested Mendoza, smiling.

"Oh well, we ordinary citizens so seldom come in
contact with the police! You'll have to forgive me, that was in my
mind, the reason I stayed." Marlowe laughed deprecatingly. "Yes,
when I saw that, I left."

"I see. And he didn't say anything to give you
an idea where he was going next?" Of course he wouldn't have;
that was clutching at straws. Marlowe said he hadn't. "Yes. Mr.
Marlowe, you know Mrs. Nestor quite well, I understand. Did she and
her husband quarrel much? Do you think she might have a--man friend
outside her marriage?"

Marlowe stared at him. "What on earth gives you
that idea? Absolutely not, I'd say. Oh, they didn't care for the same
things, perhaps, but I think, between us, she was more or less
resigned to his--call it extracurricular activities. And even if she
hadn't been, I don't see what on earth you're getting at there ....
After all, that could have nothing to do with--" Marlowe
stopped, his mouth open foolishly. "Unless you're thinking it
wasn't a burglary, that . . . ? Why, good God, it never crossed my
mind--but Andrea! No, really, Lieutenant, if you're thinking along
that line, it's quite ridiculous! I've known her since she was a
child, and--" He stopped again, looking thoughtful, and then
shrugged.

"Well, we try to be thorough," said
Mendoza. "Do you mind telling me where you went from there?"

"Well, I came home," said Marlowe stiffly.
"Here. I was here for the rest of the evening. Paul could tell
you that. The rest of the family was out, but--"

"Thanks very much," said Mendoza, getting
up leisurely. Marlowe hadn't quite recovered from his little
surprise; covertly he was still studying Mendoza, from his sleek
widow's peak, trim mustache, Sulka tie, and gold links to the
custom-made shoes. And feeling puzzled. Let him, thought Mendoza. And
he wondered what had suddenly entered Marlowe's mind just then, when
he'd stopped and looked thoughtful, about Andrea Nestor.

He'd crossed her off--on Art--because she'd admitted
he'd been there. But the assault on Art could trace back to the other
case. So maybe Andrea had got fed up with her charming, crooked
husband and got rid of him the permanent way.

Crooked. Pro crooked, he
thought. And that was going to be one hell of a tricky thing to
prove, all legal.

* * *

The Elgers lived at a nice upper-class address too,
on Normandie in Hollywood. At eleven o'clock on Sunday morning he
hoped to find them home.

Cliff Elger was listed twice in the Hollywood phone
book: at the Normandie address and as Cliff Elger and Associates on
Hollywood Boulevard. Mendoza deduced that that meant he was an agent
of some kind.

The nearest parking slot that would take the Ferrari
was half a block away from the apartment. Walking back, Mendoza was
thinking that he'd been out of touch with the hospital for several
hours. For a second something seemed to constrict his breathing.

Nothing he could do, nothing, but what he was doing.

Trying to do.

How many years had it been? Art had just made
rank--detective--and he'd been new in the homicide office, as
sergeant, after eight years down in Vice. Eleven years. A little
better than eleven years. You got to know a man damn well, working
with him for eleven years.

Not the safest job in the world, no. But the risk of
a random bullet from some hood's gun, the unavoidable crash in a
high-speed pursuit, you expected. The deliberate, private
assault--that was something different. He had a moment of
unprecedented black pessimism. This Nestor thing could easily be just
what it looked like: the casual break-in. And that Slasher so damned
anonymous. Trying to wreck the Daylight. Somebody who liked to watch
train wrecks. So maybe somebody who'd set up another kind of wreck.
And where to look for him? A thin man with a red face, said a boy
....

He thought it might be a useful idea to get the
newspapers to run a photostat of that signature in the hotel
register. Somebody might recognize it.

The apartment was a new one, very square and modern.
There was a sign in front: Now Renting, 1 and 2 bedrooms, from $250.
The hell of a lot of money to pay out every four weeks, he thought.
He went into a square carpeted lobby and looked at the mailboxes. The
Elgers were in apartment 1A.

It was the second door down, and there wasn't a bell,
only a brass knocker, shield-shaped. He used it. He had to use it
three times before the door was opened to him. If this was Ruth
Elger, maybe Nestor had figured she was worth a black eye. She was
about five-five, with a luscious figure and big dark eyes, a tilted
nose; probably mouse-brown hair originally, but she wasn't letting
nature dictate, and it was an expensive attempt at imitating Alison's
burnished bright copper. Dressed and made up, she'd be something to
look at. Right now, she was wrapped in a rather dirty silk housecoat,
and she looked pale and sick, with dark circles under her eyes.

"Well?" she said.

Mendoza introduced himself, said he had a few
questions to ask.

"Oh, God, it's a cop," she said, turning
into the room.

"What did we do last night, Cliff? I don't
remember going out anywhere."

"Didn't," said the man lying on the couch.
He groaned. "Don't talk so loud, honey, I'm a tender plant 's
morning." He was simply clad in a pair of red and white
polka-dotted shorts, and he had an icebag balanced on his forehead.
He opened one eye and squinted up at Mendoza, and groaned again.
"False alarm. Maybe he's a cop, but I know why he's come. He
wants to break into TV. It takes more than looks, brother."

"I really do want to ask you some questions,"
said Mendoza mildly.

"Oh, God, I feel awful," said Ruth Elger.
"Why did we, Cliff?"

"Celebrate," said the man on the couch.
Very slowly he rolled over, hauled himself to a sitting position,
planted both feet on the floor. He pressed the icebag into place with
one hand and managed to get both eyes open. He looked at Mendoza.
"Looks, all right, you got. Latin lover-boy, mustache and all.
Can you act? Can you sing? Besides, you're out of date. Ten years ago
the Latin type was fine--maybe five years from now. Right now, what's
wanted is clean-cut crew-cut red-blooded American boys, snub noses
and all. God. They make me sick."

Mendoza produced his badge. "Hangover, Mr.
Elger?"

"God," said Elger.

The woman came back from the kitchen with a cup of
black coffee. She sat down and raised it to her mouth with both
shaking hands.

"
Celebration," said Elger. "I landed
the Stoner contract for Jeffie. Bless little Jeffie's heart. Little
two-hundred-grand-a-year Jeffie. Seemed reasonable at the time,
celebrate. We didn't go out any place, I couldn't have hit anything
or got a ticket, or did I?"

"About Frank Nestor," said Mendoza.

"
Oh, my God," said Ruth Elger. "That
awful thing.”

She put a hand to her head. "Poor Frank, getting
shot by a burglar. Oh well, he was a bit of a bastard, but you
couldn't help liking him."

"
You couldn't," said Elger a little
sulkily.

The room was--expectable, thought Mendoza. A lot of
expensive modern furniture, everything wildly untidy, clothes flung
over the backs of chairs, an empty gin bottle sitting on the color
TV. "You gave him a black eye a couple of weeks ago," he
said to Elger.

"
That I did," said Elger. He put the icebag
down on the couch beside him, stood up, and stretched. And Mendoza
watched him, fascinated. Art Hackett was the hell of a big one, and
it would take quite a lot of man to handle him. Maybe this was the
man. Elger, naked except for the shorts, was quite something to see.
He must be almost six-five, and he had a torso like the ads in the
back pages of True Detective: You too can build muscular power. He
might tip the scales at two-fifty, and all of it bone and muscle.
Thick mat of hair on his chest, hairy legs. He had a square-jawed,
nondescript face, shrewd blue eyes that right now were bloodshot and
not quite focusing. "That I did," he said, and yawned
widely.

"Oh, Cliff," she said, pouting. "I was
mad at you about that idiotic Warren female. I didn't really think
you'd-- But when you got plastered at the Andersons' party you were
pawing her like mad, and I-- You know I wouldn't've--"

"Damn right,” said Elger. "That Goddamned
little would-be charmer, twisting his damn mustache at you--"

He broke off, looked at Mendoza again. "Of
course," he said seriously, "your type's always useful for
villains. Funny thing, seventy-four per cent of all heavies always
have mustaches. I made a graph on it once. It's damn funny, because a
lot of females go for them. I'll bet you do right well with the
females, cop or no cop."

"
So I used to," said Mendoza. "Some
straight answers, please, Mr. Elger. You thought--or knew--your wife
was, shall we say, dating Dr. Nestor on the side. You had a fight
with him--"

"I only met him twice," said Ruth Elger
defensively, plaintively. "I wouldn't have-- But Cliff--”

"Suspected it," said Elger laconically.
"Knew it was just to spite me. Didn't think it'd do any harm to
teach him a lesson. Fight? Good God, man, him and me? I found 'em in
Mike De Angelo's bar together, and sure I gave him a black eye.
Pleasure. That's all. I hit him once and Ruthie and I left. What the
hell? Ruthie said she was sorry, and I said I was sorry about the
Warren girl--not that I'm admitting anything--and that was that. What
the hell are the cops sniffing around for?" He eyed Mendoza
interestedly and patted his crop of dark curly hair. "I'm
feeling better, Ruthie."

"Oh, God, I wish I was," she said.

"Did a Sergeant Hackett of my office come to see
you on Friday night?”

Elger turned away and sat down again. Mendoza
couldn't see his eyes, read his expression. "Never heard of him.
Was he supposed to? What about?"

"Where were you on Friday evening?"

"Where were we?" ruminated Elger. "Friday.
What happened to Thursday? Oh, I remember, I had lunch with that guy
from New York--that won't come to anything-- and we had dinner at
Sardi's. Friday. Friday, I spent mostly with Jeffie, coaxing him to
sign that Stoner contract. God, that man. Why do I stay in this
business? Thinks he can ask half a million guarantee because he's
made one picture and sends the teens. Maybe he can, eventually. I was
beat. And we were meeting the studio lawyers yesterday--was yesterday
Saturday? I've got a dim recollection-- Yeah, so I came straight
home. Didn't I, Ruthie?"

"
Friday," she said vaguely. "Yes,
that's right. You said you needed a quiet night for once, on account
of the lawyers next day. We had dinner here and didn't go anywhere."

"You were both here alone all that evening. And
Sergeant Hackett didn't come to see you?"

"Nope, never heard the name. Why?" Elger
cocked his head at Mendoza. "Now I look at you a second
time--Knight Productions is doing a rehash of the Joaquin Murrieta
thing, and you're just the type. You ever done any acting?"

"
Only," said Mendoza, "in the line of
duty, Mr. Elger. You were both home alone all Friday evening and no
one came to see you."

"I said so," said Elger. He stood up again,
towering over Mendoza, suddenly motionless, hands on hips. The only
man Mendoza had run across in quite a while who would be capable of
putting Art Hackett down and out.