Dell Shannon - Mark of Murder

"Did Sergeant Hackett come to see you last night, Mrs. Nestor?"

"Why, yes, he did. Just for a short time. Mr. Marlowe was here. Why?"

"Mr. Marlowe?"

"Mr. William Marlowe, he's a very fine man, he was an old friend of my father's."

"What time was Sergeant Hackett here?" He was watching her. She answered him readily, without hesitation, but without interest either.

"Why, let's see, it was early. About eight o'clock, I think. He asked me a lot of questions all over again, things he'd asked before. I must say it seemed very inefficient to me. And about Miss Corliss too. I don't know much about her, I never interfered in Frank's business. Come to think, it'd've been a little before eight, because I happened to notice the clock when Mr. Marlowe left and that was ten past."

"Mr. Marlowe was here when the sergeant came?"

"That's right. It was nice of him, he came to see if I might need a loan to pay for the funeral, you see. He's a very wealthy man." And all the while her expressionless eyes stayed fixed on him as if she was memorizing him.

"He left before Sergeant Hackett?"

"Oh yes. Mr. Marlowe said he knew I was tired and didn't want company, and he left, and Sergeant-whatever the name was-he took the hint finally and left too, about half an hour later."

"And that was the last you saw of either of them?"

"Well, yes," she said. She dabbed at her mouth with a wadded-up handkerchief. "Why do you want to know all that? I'm sure, you all ask the oddest questions-I should think you'd be out looking for whatever burglar it was shot Frank, instead of bothering me."

"We're wondering whether it was a burglar, Mrs. Nestor," he said casually. "Whether it wasn't someone your husband knew. Or someone you knew."

"I?" she said blankly. "Why on earth should you think that? I don't know any burglars, for heaven's sake. Of all the ridiculous ideas. And to come asking questions at this hour of night, when I'd already gone to bed-"

Essentially an ignorant woman? Concerned with the practical matters only? The self-made martyr so wrapped up in herself she was oblivious to anything outside? Or something a lot deeper?

The tiredness was catching up to him now. The long, long day, most of it spent in enforced inactivity in the planes, with the frantic worry gnawing at his mind.

Art… He got up, and he had to haul himself up by the arm of the chair.

"All right, thanks very much, Mrs. Nestor," he said. "We'll be in touch with you." He pulled the door open.

"I'm sure I don't know why," she said. "That's the queerest thing I've heard yet, thinking I might know the burglar. I don't know why you have to come bothering me.”

"Don't you?" said Mendoza, swinging around on her suddenly. "Was there a burglar at all? We don't think so, you know. Have you ever owned a gun, Mrs. Nestor?" She stepped back, but there wasn't any shock or fear in the shallow eyes. "Well, for heaven's sake," she said flatly.

"I should think anybody could see how Frank came to get murdered. Of course l've never owned a gun. I must say I don't see the point of all this. That sergeant getting me down there for some kind of test, now I think it over, it's nothing more or less than an insuIt. I'm a good Christian woman and-"

The cordite test. Negative, but it wasn't always reliable by any means.

"We'll be in touch with you," said Mendoza wearily, and went out. It was ten o'clock. He got into the car and drove back downtown to drop it at the garage. He called a cab and had himself driven home, to the house on Rayo Grande Avenue.

There were lights in the living room. It seemed years since he had last walked up this flagstoned path, opened the wide oak door to the square entry hall.

"You shouldn't have stayed up, amada," he said as he kissed Alison. Bast and her daughter Nefertite ran to meet him, talking loudly, and he bent to pick them up, stroking the sleek heads. He sat down heavily in the nearest chair.

"You'll not sleep without you have a bit of whiskey in you," said Mairi MacTaggart. "Wait up indeed. Would we be going off to bed and you not in, as long a day as we've all had even so? I'll fetch it." Her kind, wise blue eyes smiled a little; she trotted out.

"Luis-"

"Well, they're not saying one way or the other," said Mendoza. "The longer he hangs on, of course, the better his chances-I suppose. He could stay in a coma for days." He roused himself to tell her the details, briefly, and what they thought about it.

"Oh, God," said Alison tiredly. She had, probably, had a bath and was wearing her newest housecoat; she had probably also had a meal, if he knew Mrs. MacTaggart.

"We got Angel to bed-she'd been sitting there since three this morning, you know-and Mairi coaxed some hot broth and toast into her, and I got her to take three aspirins, I hadn't anything stronger. But if it's going to be that long before we know-" She wandered around the room distractedly, sat down on the couch to stroke Sheba, who was diligently applying herself to the last bath of the day. Bast and Nefertite purred on Mendoza's lap; dimly he realized that it was nice to be home again, with the cats, and presumably the twins safely asleep in their own beds.

Mrs. MacTaggart came trotting back, looking like a plump little lamb in her woolly white dressing gown, gray hair standing out in little curls; she handed him an overgenerous supply of rye in a juice glass.

"Get that down you, man," she said in her soft Scots burr. "You're doing nobody any good getting yourself fagged to death so you can't think proper. It's a caution, imagine you two traveling more than three thousand miles since this morning.

You'll get that down and you'll both be going to bed.

And," she added to Alison severely, "you will not be up at the crack of dawn worrying about that poor young thing in there, her man at death's door and her carrying. She'll sleep in, all the pills you gave her, and I'll see to her when she wakes."

Alison smiled at her wanly and said, "You're a tower of strength, Mairi. I don't know what we'd do without you. She even remembered Silver Boy, Luis-”

"Somebody's needed to keep a little common sense. Why wouldn't I? When Mrs. Dunne fetched the wee boy here and told me of it, of course I would think of Mrs. Hackett's cat. And that Bertha was here by then, so I just ran over in Miss Alison's car-knowing you wouldn't mind it, mo croidhe -and took him to Dr. Stocking's where he'll be safe until we can sort matters out. And you'd best take the man and put him into his bed, achara, or he'll fall to sleep where he sits."

It had been a long, long day. But he wouldn't sleep, not with Art

…

He shook his head muzzily. The rye had hit his empty stomach like a small bomb. He thought vaguely, Passing the love of women… He hauled himself up to his feet. "What would we do without you, Mairi? I haven't even said hello to you… The twins O.K.? That's good… Dejelo paras manana… It's got to be all right, hasn't it? Alison-"

"Come on, darling, bed. You look like death. Mairi-"

"You'll not be fussing. I'll see to everything. The wee boy's snug asleep in his cot by my own bed. You see to your man. They're troublesome creatures to love," said Mrs. MacTaggart, "and often enough bringing sorrow on us, but nought to do about that but the best we can."

In the big master bedroom Mendoza flung off his clothes carelessly. The whiskey-damn the whiskey-had turned his mind numb; he couldn't think.

El Senor, the miniature lion, had officially retired on the foot of the bed hours ago, and gave them a very cold green glare for disturbing him at this hour. "Senor Malevolencia!" said Mendoza sleepily. "Alison-"

"Here, let me help you."

"Don't be silly. Quite all right. Alison, you talk to Angel, tomorrow. Find out what he said before he left-anything he told her about those cases. Explain-"