Dell Shannon - Mark of Murder

He couldn't sit here the rest of the afternoon. Where now?

They had the bullet out of Nestor's skull, and not too much damaged: a. 22. When, as, and if they ever found a possible gun, Ballistics could probably say whether it was the right one.

Well, all right. Go and see Ruth Elger, whose husband had presumably given Nestor a black eye. Go and see everybody listed in his address book. See Mrs. Nestor again…

While the berserk killer roamed around loose. Hell. Hackett started the engine. It was Friday afternoon, getting on to five o'clock. He'd promised Angel he'd be home for dinner, but he thought he'd go out again afterward. See that desk clerk: he was on the night shift, wouldn't be on until nine o'clock. See Mrs. Nestor. See-

Hackett went back to headquarters to report in, see if anything had turned up that looked interesting. Something had, and how much was it worth?

"I happened to be in," said Palliser, "so I talked to her.

A Mrs. Constance Brundage. About fifty, too fat, nice motherly soul but not much in the way of brains. She made a statement. Your guess is as good as mine whether it's worth anything. She said she was waiting for a bus at the corner of Western and San Marino, last night about eight o'clock, when a man came up to her. She was alone on the corner. She said he looked ‘sinister' because he had a hat pulled down over his eyes and his jacket collar turned up, which looked funny on a warm night. Said he had a sinister voice too, like a gangster, she said."

"Yes," said Hackett. "Naturally.?Que mas? And how much of that is imagination?"

Palliser shrugged. "What with all this press hysteria-Anyway, she said he came and stood ‘too close' to her, and she got nervous, and then he said he needed bus fare and she looked like a nice kind lady, would she give him a dollar? And she said no, and backed away, and he followed her-and goodness knows," said Palliser in obvious quotation of Mrs. Brundage, "what would have happened, except that the bus came just then and she got into it in a hurry, and the sinister stranger didn't. But on thinking it over, she was sure it must have been this terrible Slasher, and it was just the Lord's mercy she hadn't been his fifth victim. And-”

"?Basta!" said Hackett. "Description?"

"Very vague-it was dark. Just one little thing made me think twice, and get a statement. She can't say anything about his features, and says vaguely he was about medium-sized. But she did say that his clothes didn't seem to fit, looked too big for him. And Miguel Garcia-who's a much better witness-said the same thing about the man Roberto stopped to talk to."

"So he did," said Hackett slowly. "Food for thought. I'll be damned. On the other hand, John, a lot of bums around town are wearing hand-me-down clothes that don't fit."

"True. I just mentioned it," said Palliser.

"And asking for money. Of course we don't know the hell of a lot about him. It could be. Corner of Western and San Marino-if so, out of the territory where he's been operating. Nice."

"You get anything new on Nestor?"

"This and that-maybe," said Hackett. "I don't know. I've got a funny little idea, but how the hell to prove anything? I want to see the wife again, and the people in his address book. And Ruth Elger's husband. I also want to have a heart-to-heart session with that desk clerk. He must have noticed something more than we've dragged out of him."

"I don't know," said Palliser. "It's not the kind of hotel where they give guests the eagle eye to see if they're respectable. And it was about ten o'clock at night."

"All the more reason for him to notice, damn it. Business'd be slow," said Hackett. "I want to talk to him again, anyway."

"Wish you luck," said Palliser, shrugging again. It had been a hot day, and he was tired. But he had a date with Roberta Silverman and was anxious to get away, to a cool shower and a shave and a clean shirt, and Roberta's dark eyes smiling at him across a table and a long cold drink. He didn't know then that this was an important conversation, that tomorrow he'd be racking his brains to remember just exactly what Hackett had said to him. 'The night shift was coming on. He told the night desk man where he'd be and went down to the lot for his car.

That night, at ten minutes past ten, the man full of hate took his pleasure in blood again. He had been with the old lush Rosie, but it hadn't lessened the taut violence in him. He had taken the half-empty bottle with him when he left, and on the street he stopped to drink from it. The raw spirit didn't seem to get to him, though he'd had four or five drinks before, with Rosie.

He walked on down the dark street, the vague hatred churning inside him. At the corner he turned; he had taken a room at a place on this street, just today. But he didn't feel like going there, to sleep.

There was a full moon, a great silver circle of serenity riding high above the city, casting clear silver light on the streets. He walked under it, hating.

At a corner two blocks up, a young and pretty Negro girl waited for her husband to pick her up. She had been visiting her sister and her sister's new baby, just home from the hospital; and her husband, Joe Lincoln, would pick her up here on his way home from work as a clerk at a local supermart. She was smiling, thinking about her new niece, for she was expecting her own first child in two months.

It was a nice warm night, and there was a bench here; Joe would be along in a few minutes. Besides the moon, there was a street light at the corner, it wasn't dark.

The man full of hate came up behind the bench and stopped to drink from the bottle again. She heard his steps and turned her head, and saw him clearly. Small shock registered in her eyes, and she turned quickly away. Another one, looking at him as if- And a nigger girl too. Everybody always- His hand closed on the knife in his pocket and he lurched toward the bench.

Most of the night shift were out on that one from ten-twenty on. The husband found her there-not fve minutes after she'd died, said the surgeon, in all probability, blood still flowing. She'd really been cut up, it was quite a mess, and they called every car in the vicinity to stop any and all pedestrians within six blocks. But again they drew blank-the Slasher seemed to have vanished into air. When they'd been that close, it was irritating to say the least. They'd go on hunting, but the longer he stayed loose the colder the trail.

Higgins came back off that at twelve forty-five, talking bitterly to himself about it. Really a mess. By all rights they should have picked him up as easy as- He couldn't have been more than a couple of blocks away when the husband found her. Of all the Goddamned bad luck.

Sergeant Farrell, on the night desk, welcomed him in and said he'd go off for a coffee break, then, somebody to mind the desk. Higgins sat down at the desk dispiritedly and lit a cigarette.

He was still sitting there three minutes later when the call came in.

He said, surprised, "Why, yes, Mrs. Hackett…

What?" As he listened to the distrait, carefully controlled voice, his hard-bitten face went grim. "I see. All right, we'll get on it. No, he hasn't been in tonight so far as I know… Yes, I see. We'll find out. I'll be in touch."

As a realist, he didn't tell her not to worry.

He put the phone down. He thought something had happened all right. Not like Art Hackett, not to call her if he was held up this late somewhere.

Ten minutes to one.

Accident.

The first thing to think about. He called down to Traffic. "Just check it out, will you? Put an Urgent on it…

He'd have had identification on him, but just in case-better take it down-yes. Arthur John Hackett, thirty-six, six three and a half, two hundred and thirty, medium-brown hair, eyes blue. He'd be driving a dark blue four-door Ford sedan, 1957 model… "