Dell Shannon - Mark of Murder

"Yes." Detective sergeants with families couldn't afford nice new cars. "Doesn't say much, no." Mendoza looked at his watch. "You've all had a day and so have I, but there's a little of it left. I want Art's notebook." Palliser handed it over. "I'll go see the desk clerk and check back on Mrs. Nestor. John, would you feel like checking back on the Corliss woman? O.K. The rest of you can keep trying to locate the other names in his address book." He got up.

The Ferrari was home in the garage. He went downstairs and commandeered a patrol car, drove over to Third Street. The hotel was called the Liverpool Arms, ostentatiously. It was a fourth-class place, old and shabby: probably had more semi-permanents than transients. The block was solidly filled with parked cars; he left the squad car in front of a hydrant. It was just nine o'clock: the clerk would be here.

Inside, the lobby was narrow: bare wooden floor, a steep flight of stairs, uncarpeted, at the back; one ancient-looking self-service elevator. The desk was no more than a long narrow counter, with a sagging old armchair behind it, a makeshift shelf of mail slots hung on the wall. A door there led into some inner room. The register, closed and dusty, was on the counter; the clerk was in the chair, leaning back with closed eyes, half asleep.

Mendoza tapped on the counter and the clerk jerked upright. "Oh-all right, right with you," he said in a grumbling tone. He wasn't a very prepossessing specimen. About sixty, bald, with sagging jowls and a gross big paunch above his belt. His gray-white shirt and stained, wrinkled trousers had seen better days. He hadn't shaved that day or, probably, the day before, and he showed about five snaggly yellow teeth in his upper jaw, none below. He blinked at Mendoza. "You wanna room?"

"I want to ask you a few questions," said Mendoza sharply, and showed his badge. "A Sergeant Hackett's been here to question you before?"

"Yeah, but he wasn't here last night. I told 'em that. I ain't lyin' about it, why'd I lie about it?" The clerk's eyes shifted.

"I could imagine reasons," said Mendoza. "Look at me! What's your name?"

"Telfer. Adam Telfer. I got no reason-"

"Listen to me, Telfer. I'm in no mood to go the long way round on this! Look at me, not the floor. You know the man I mean?"

"I know him. Great big sandy feller. He's been here, but not last night. I ain't lyin'-" But his eyes kept shifting.

Mendoza reached out, took him by one shoulder, and shook him savagely. "Look at me! I can take you in, you know, and grill you better at headquarters! The truth, now!"

"You leave me be- Why'd I lie about it? He wasn't here.”

"All right. You saw the other man-the one who rented the room where the body was found. Keep looking at me!" He tightened his grip.

"Yeah. I said so. But not good, see? It was only a minute."

"Tell me what he looked like."

"I told 'em-them other cops-I don't know. I didn't see him good at all. Honest I never. It was only a minute-he stood sidewise to the counter and he had a hat pulled over his eyes-I didn't-"

"He paid you two-fifty for one night and he signed the register. He was standing right here for at least three minutes, probably more, right under the overhead light. Tell me more, friend. What age was he? Dark or light? What was he wearing?"

"I didn't-" Telfer swallowed; he looked panicky. "I-they was a couple of bulbs out o' the light, it wasn't as light as it is now-”

"I don't want excuses, I want answers," said Mendoza very gently. He wanted suddenly, violently, to use his fists on this stupid creature obstructing him. He let go of the man's shoulder. "Begin at the beginning. It was about ten o'clock. He came in. What did he say?"

"Said he wanted a room, I guess. I told 'em all that before."

"You guess? Don't you remember?"

"Sure I remember. I remember that. But, like I say, the light wasn't so good then as it is now, and I-"

"Did you know him? Had you seen him before? Pal of yours maybe?"

"Jesus, no! Me, knowin' one like that? I said-"

"You saw him, God damn you, and you're going to tell me more or I'll take you in right now! Brace me, Telfer. We can help your memory down at headquarters-"

"I told 'em," said Telfer. He was nearly in tears. "He was-sort of medium, 's all. And he kept turned sideways, and he had this hat. .. And the light--"

"Anybody back you up about the dead bulbs?"

Telfer looked away, cringing. "I dunno if anybody else noticed, why should anybody-"

"Who put in new ones?"

"Damn it, I did. I don't hafta take- I told 'em all I-"

Mendoza looked at him, feeling very tired. He said abruptly, "You'll be seeing more of us," and turned on his heel.

The apartment building on Kenmore Avenue where the Nestors had lived was an old one but reasonably well maintained. According to the mail slots, they had the left-hand front ground-floor apartment. The small lobby was a little dusty; the whole place was very quiet.

He pushed the door button and heard the shrill buzz from beyond the door. After an interval he pushed it again. He wondered if she'd gone away somewhere. But presently the door opened, a cautious few inches on its chain. "Who is it? What do you want at this time of night?”

He brought out his badge. "Just a few questions, Mrs. Nestor. May I come in?"

"Well, I must say it's a peculiar hour to come bothering at me. But I suppose if you must, you must." She unhooked the chain, stood back ungraciously to let him in. "I haven't seen you before. There were two other officers-"

"Yes. Lieutenant Mendoza. You remember Sergeant Hackett, who questioned you on Wednesday? You saw him again?"

"Why, yes. I expect we can sit down." She sat on the edge of the couch. She had undressed and was wrapped in an aged and ugly striped flannel bathrobe, hugging it round her primly. She had put her hair up in curlers, covered it with a pink scarf, and her sallow face was bare of either make-up or vanishing cream. She had on a pair of old run-down black mules with little pompons on the toes.

The room said this and that. Old furniture, most of it belonging to the apartment, very little ornament-the two pictures probably had come with the apartment too. But everything very neat and clean. The one floor lamp she had switched on in the living room cast light into the visible corner of the kitchenette, and it caught reflections from newly waxed linoleum there. She was, without much doubt, one of those persnickety housekeepers. He didn't wonder that charming, easygoing Frank Nestor had sought diversion elsewhere. He had a suspicion that when she'd made up her mind that he'd married her for her expectations and nothing more she'd subtly-and maybe unconsciously-taken revenge by turning herself into the obvious martyr.

He sat down facing her. "Where have you been all day, Mrs. Nestor? We've been trying to get in touch with you." "Oh, have you? Well, I had to go up to Forest Lawn to make the arrangements about the funeral. They had the inquest yesterday, and then that other officer told me they'd released the body, so I could make the arrangements. And then I went to buy a black dress because I didn't have one, and it will look better at the funeral."

Her voice was quite flat, expressionless, and her shallow eyes were empty. "But I was meaning to get in touch with you too, because they told me at the bank that you'd been asking questions and they'd showed you all about Frank's account there. I shouldn't think that would be allowed. And I don't understand why I can't have that money-I'm his widow and he hadn't any other relations at all-at least I never heard of any. Do you know, he had nearly five thousand dollars in his account. I never suspected he'd saved up that much."

And it was another interesting thing, thought Mendoza. Considering that Nestor hadn't stinted himself in any direction-his star sapphire ring, the Buick convertible, the four-hundred-a-month office-he must have been raking it in from somewhere, all right. Just the marked-up vitamins?