Dell Shannon - Mark of Murder

"Try again, Miguel. Think back, hard. He said something to you, and for some reason you felt seared of him, and walked on past-"

"Yes, sir. I don't know why I got scared. He just stood so kind of still-and then stepped out and said something like, ‘Hey, kids.' Like that. I-"

"You told the other officer he was thin and had on clothes that looked too big for him, and had a red face."

"Yes, sir."

"How did you see that, Miguel? It was nearly dark, and the man had a hat on. You said there wasn't a street-light near. And what exactly did you mean, his face was red? Like a drunk?" Miguel, living down here, would know about that: the broken red veins of a lush.

"No, it was-gee," said the boy, "I don't know how to say about it, sir. It wasn't very light, almost dark, sure, but there was some light, from the drugstore on the corner-and he- Well, I guess it was that sort of scared me. It was silly. I could see-it was red all over his face, and-sort of puckered, like. Like Pokey."

"Pokey?" said Mendoza softly.

"Yes, sir. My dad says you shouldn't make like you don't like looking at him, it isn't polite," said Miguel. "It's not his fault he got burned so awful bad like that, one time, on his face. He looks real awful, sir, one side of his face all drawed up like, and all red. But this was even worse, see, it was all over the middle of his face, and I guess it was that sort of scared me, it was silly."

"Who's Pokey?"

"Oh, he sells papers at Figueroa and Third, sir. I guess my dad's right, but-well, anyway, this guy was worse, see. I told the other policeman. Red all over his face, and-”

"Thanks very much, Miguel," said Mendoza fervently.

"A real break," he said. "Something more than definite-it might lead us to him in the next twelve hours. Evidently a bad scarring, from an old burn-red scar-tissue and the skin puckered, you know what I mean. God, if we'd had this before-"

"My fault,” groaned Palliser. "Damn it, if I'd had the sense to press the kid more-"

"You couldn't know. It was just one of those last-resort hopes that paid off. And of course it's not a hundred per cent sure, but damn near, that that fellow Roberto stopped to talk to was the Slasher. We'll get this on the wires right now-tell everybody. Yes, and no wonder it wasn't spotted in those bars, you can't see your hand in front of your face-"

"But why the hell didn't that desk clerk spot it?" said Dwyer.

"Telfer didn't spot it," said Mendoza exasperatedly, "because that night he was probably so full of cheap port when the Slasher came in, he wouldn't have noticed if the man had been painted bright green with red polka dots. I dropped in on him last night. I'd have a guess that, with cops all around, maybe last night's the first time he's dared risk drinking on the job again. It's not a very high-class place but all the same, if the owner or manager found out, Telfer would get fired safe enough. He's the kind who can carry it off-he looked just a little high, you know, and probably if I'd asked for a room he'd have assigned me one and found the right key, automatically. The way they say sleepwalkers never fall over anything. But he'd seen me before and didn't recognize me. I don't think he'd remember now that I came in last night."

"Tight enough to pull a blank, in other words. That's something all right," said Palliser. "I'll be damned. And of course that's why he was so cagey about giving a description. But at least he didn't mislead us by making up some description, and now we've got this-"

"You think he hasn't misled us?" said Dwyer. "So maybe last night wasn't the first time he'd taken the chance since. Maybe he was carrying a load on Friday night and doesn't know whether Art came in or not."

"?Que demonio!" said Mendoza. "I hadn't got that far. My God, that could be so. And we'll have to tackle him on it to make sure… Hell. Jimmy, get this news about the Slasher's scar relayed out-with every cop in town looking for something as noticeable as that, we ought to lay hands on him inside twenty-four hours anyway."

"I've only got one head and two hands," complained Sergeant Lake. "Sure, that's urgent, I'll get it out, but could somebody give me a hand on this damn appointment book? I've been phoning for two days and haven't made a dent in it."

Which was understandable. Building up the fictitious large practice for Nestor, the Corliss woman had scribbled down nearly a hundred names throughout the book.

Under the circumstances, most of them had been very common names, and throughout the county area the same names made up long lists in all five phone books. And every name had to be checked out, that its owner had never been a patient of Dr. Nestor's, if they were going to prove that on her. It was, in fact, one hell of a job. Mendoza suggested that Dwyer lend a hand, and Dwyer groaned.

But as he started downstairs Mendoza felt a great relief at this new break: something as glaringly obvious as that disfigurement ought to mean that they'd pick up the Slasher within hours. Not too many people, even in a city as big as this, would possess such a disfigurement; and he seemed to be keeping inside the one area. Check every rooming house, every flophouse-run extra cars… With any luck, and God knew they were due for some luck, they should get him now. And before he used his knife again…

He found Lieutenant Andrews just arriving and followed him in. "When did you get back?" asked Andrews. "I thought-oh, sure, they'd let you know about Hackett. How is he?… Hell of a thing. Do I come into it?" He yawned and sat down.

"Late night?”

"I sometimes wish I was down in Traffic or somewhere," said Andrews. "Or Records-that must be a nice peaceful place. I never used to believe it, but I'm beginning to-that sins don't get committed until after midnight. I didn't get home until five."

"Too bad. Well, what I want to know is, Percy, do you remember a woman named Margaret Corliss? I don't know whether she was calling herself that then, but an unspecified while ago you evidently had her in for questioning? He described her in detail.

Andrews leaned back and shut his eyes. "It rings a bell," he said. "It definitely rings a bell. Wait a minute, now. Traces of a Cockney accent, you said? What the hell was it on? Oh, my God, yes, sure, it was that Sally-Ann thing. Pierce"-he raised his voice to the sergeant outside-"look up the records on that beauty salon thing-two, three years back-you know, the Finn sisters."

"Have to dig for it," said Pierce. "O.K."

"Twin sisters," said Andrews, "named Finn. Ran this Sally-Ann Beauty Shoppe. Which was a blind for an abortion mill. The Corliss woman was an employee-the only employee. It comes back to me-"

"Very nice, very nice," said Mendoza. "You couldn't prove she was in on the deal?"

"We tried, but no. She is, if I remember rightly, a very canny customer. Kept her head, registered shocked indignation all the way, and there wasn't a thing to tie her in. Just the strong probability, you know."

"That's my girl," said Mendoza. "I think, with luck, we'll get her this time."

"They will go and do it once too often," said Andrews. "She tried it on her own and got involved in a homicide, I take it."

"Not exactly that way," said Mendoza. He was outlining his ideas about that when the sergeant came in with a manila folder. "Dates," said Mendoza. "Let's look at some dates."

Vice had got interested in the Sally-Ann Beauty Shoppe in May of 1961, three years and two months ago. The sisters had been arrested in mid-June, and investigation had continued for a week or so.

"Yes," said Mendoza. "How nice. Frank Nestor graduated from his chiropractic course that very June. He also had a legacy about that time-a little earlier-only it wasn't a legacy. Five thousand bucks. I do wonder, now, if that doesn't represent his first job in this line."