Dell Shannon - Mark of Murder

He looked at the scrapbook full of high-society doings, and the start of a very tentative theory formed in his mind about that. He went down to the nurse's desk and looked that over very thoroughly, but evidently she'd been allowed to clear it of personal belongings. There were all five of the city telephone books there. A tedious little job for somebody, probably Sergeant Lake, but they'd have to be gone through; some people jotted down things in phone books, or underlined numbers. He took them out to the Ferrari.

He went back and looked at all the rooms again. He opened the top of the sterilizer; it was empty. He wished (as Hackett had before him) that Hackett hadn't overlooked the precaution of leaving a guard here that day, or had come back a little sooner. Couldn't be helped now. He took down the white smock hanging in the locker; it was unstained. But, after thought, he took the rubber gloves along with him. Give the lab boys a little more work.

He found, in the nurse's desk, a ledger. Whoever had kept the accounts had kept very sketchy ones. Maybe on purpose. He took that along too.

He had looked up the address and phone number before he left the office; now he dialed and asked whether Mr. Marlowe were home.

Yes, he was, who was calling, please?

Mendoza thought that sounded like a servant. Did anyone have butlers these days? A man's voice, anyway. He identified himself, said he'd be obliged if Mr. Marlowe could give him a few minutes, if he came by.

The address was on Kenniston Avenue, the other side of Rimpau. A very classy district indeed: wide quiet streets of big, very expensive houses. A good many houses sprawling over two or three city lots, with outsize pools behind them and walls everywhere for privacy. The Marlowe house, when he found it, was one of those. It looked vaguely as if it had been modeled on a French chateau,‘it had a three-car garage, and what looked like an honest-to-God butler opened the door.

He was a small man, pale-faced, in a neat dark suit; and Mendoza was a little surprise to him. He repeated his name doubtfully, taking a second glance at Harrington's tailoring, the Sulka tie, and the conservative black homburg he'd taken from Mendoza's hand. Mendoza suspected he'd check the brand name in that behind his back.

"If you'll come down to the library, sir," he said, wooden-faced. Mendoza followed him down a very wide carpeted hall, past a pair of double doors and several ordinary ones, all closed, to a door at the end on the right. The man opened this and stood back. "The-ah-lieutenant," he murmured. Very likely, before he saw the tie he'd have said, "The policeman."

Mendoza went into a large square room filled with heavy furniture that belonged in a British men's club and was another little surprise to the man who rose to welcome him. "Ah, yes-" said William Marlowe, and stopped as if he'd blown up in his lines. He eyed Harrington's tailoring and the tie too; he couldn't keep the brief flicker of surprise out of his eyes. Mendoza let his expression go very bland. He knew Marlowe's type at a glance, and he knew what Marlowe had expected to meet in a Lieutenant Mendoza.

"Well, and what can I do for you, Lieutenant? Do sit dowr1, won't you?" Marlowe was not a big man-about Mendoza's own height, Five-ten--but broader and stockier. He was about sixty, and well preserved: he'd kept his hair and not taken on much weight. He had a roundish face, regular features, the inevitable important-executive horn rims. His voice was an unfortunately high-pitched tenor, with the hint of a British accent. More probably New York and/or Harvard, thought Mendoza.

And Marlowe, prepared to condescend to a police officer, had expected one out of a 1930 detective story, had expected possibly the accent and low-class grammar, the deference to a rich man.

Harrington's Italian silk had shaken him. Mendoza sat down, smiling at him. Marlowe was wearing a dark blue suit of excellent and conservative cut, and a plain navy tie. Mendoza glanced at his shoes and said affably, "Do you visit England very often, Mr. Marlowe?"

"I-why- Usually once a year or so," said Marlowe, taken aback. "How-"

Mendoza smiled. "The very British tailoring. Savile Row? Personally I like Harrington quite well, if you keep an eye on him." Marlowe would probably know how Harrington charged. "Just a few questions, Mr. Marlowe. You know Mrs. Nestor. You went to see her on Friday evening, I understand"

"Oh, it's about that," said Marlowe. "Yes, I did. I've always felt rather sorry for Andrea-I knew her father, poor man. She's always-" He hunched his shoulders. "She's one of those people, nothing ever turns out right for her. Perhaps it's partly her own fault-I shouldn't say so, but she's a rather stupid woman. That husband of hers, poor fellow, had all the drive and the brain."

"I believe you lent him the money for the chiropractic course?"

"Yes, so I did. I saw he was-in earnest about it, you see, and I had every confidence that he'd repay me. Which he did. That's a tragedy there. Such a wanton thing. I most certainly hope you'll find out who was responsible."

Marlowe bent to proffer a silver bowl of loose cigarettes.

"Thanks so much, I'll have one of my own," said Mendoza. "When you were at Mrs. Nestor's apartment on Friday evening you met one of my men there-Sergeant Hackett."

"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.