Dell Shannon - Exploit of Death

Higgins passed one hand over his prognathous jaw.

"Maybe he has."

Mendoza shut his eyes. " Muy bien. Not operating on all cylinders you can say. Grandfather may not be a villain. He could live anywhere from Malibu to Monrovia, Tujunga to Lakewood-and he may have reported her to one of a hundred police forces. Thank you, George."

"Well, it was just a thought."

"So we get on the phone and start asking. The logical force would be Inglewood where the airport is. But what in God's name it's all about- Por Dios, I swear that was a cold-blooded killing, and it was planned out right here, whatever the hell was behind it-and there have got to be some leads if we dig deep enough." He picked up the phone again. "Jimmy, I want to talk to some cab companies."

Higgins yawned. "There must be people who knew where she was heading. She'd have had friends-there's the boyfriend."

"Don't suggest that I cable to the Surete again," said Mendoza bitterly.

HACKETT AND LANDERS were trailing Albert Gerber in ninety-eight-degree heat. Gerber wasn't at the Houston Street address, which was an old four-story apartment building, and the only tenant at home didn't know him, but the manager lived on the premises and said helpfully that he knew Gerber had a pal who worked at the Shell Station up on the corner of Soto. He didn't think Gerber had a job since awhile back but he was up to date on the rent all right. They had queried the DMV about a car and knew Gerber was driving a ten-year-old Chevy, plate number so-and-so.

They tried the Shell Station. An indolent-looking fellow with a big paunch, shirt opened to his belt, looked at them lackadaisically over a canned Coke and said, "Oh, him. Yeah, he hangs around here some-working on his car. He's a a friend of Mike's-Mike Sullivan, he spells me part-time and nights, he's supposed to show up at four if you want to talk to him."

"Do you know where he lives?" asked Landers.

The man said reluctantly, "Oh, hell, I got it wrote down somewhere." He moved slowly into the grubby little office, rummaged and found an address scrawled in a ragged ledger. It was Cornwell Street, only a couple of blocks away, a shabby old duplex. The girl who answered the door had a luscious model's figure, clearly visible in a pair of shorts and a halter, and she didn't know where Mike was but she knew where Gerber might be. He'd been dating Marlene Foster pretty heavy lately, she said, she and Marlene had been to school together, and Marlene had just got laid off her job so she might be out somewhere with Al. That address was Pennsylvania Avenue. The air-conditioning in the Monte Carlo barely had time to get going when they found the place, a single frame house with peeling paint. A shapeless woman in a wrinkled tent dress opened the door.

"Oh," she said to the question. "No, Al's not here. Him and Marlene went to the movies. Mostly for the air-conditioning. They went to the first show when it opened at one o'clock."

"Do you know which one?" asked Landers.

"Sure, the Bijou over on Whittier. Unless they changed their minds. You're cops, aren't you?" She looked doubtfully at Landers. "Even if you don't look old enough to be."

Landers with his perennially boyish face would be hearing that one until he was a grandfather.

It was a little past three-thirty then and the first show was probably about over. They looked up the address at the nearest public phone and got to the theater fifteen minutes later. There was a public parking lot half a block away. They looked and spotted Gerber's old Chevy, so they waited.

There wasn't any shade and the sun beat fiercely on the sticky blacktop. They waited another fifteen minutes and a couple walked up to the car laughing and talking.

"Albert Gerber?" asked Hackett.

"Yeah, that's me." He recognized them for what they were instantly and said, "What the hell you want anyways?" He was tall and dark with a heavy tan and bulging muscles. The girl was small and blond. She looked scared.

"You," said Landers and brought out the badge. They had already applied for the warrant.

Gerber came out with a string of obscenities and the girl began to cry. "You promised you wouldn't get into any more trouble," she wailed.

"I haven't done a thing, the dirty fuzz just pick on anybody got a little pedigree-"

"Well, Joe Bauman says you were with him on that heist the other day, and it's a charge of murder two this time, Gerber. That pharmacist is dead."

Gerber said this and that about Bauman. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Come on," said Landers. "We're taking you in."

Gerber fished out his car keys and gave them to the girl. He said, "You get hold of Mike and tell him I'll need some bail money. The goddanm fuzz."

They ferried him down to the jail and booked him in. Hackett said, "We can talk to him some more later on, Tom-after they've got the air-conditioning fixed."

The air-conditioning was still off at the jail and it felt hotter than it had outside, stuffy and stagnant.

Mendoza left early and got home by six o'clock. It was a little cooler up in the hills above Burbank, but the sun was still fairly high and unrelentingly bright. Beyond the tall iron gates which opened politely as he shoved the gadget on the dashboard, the green pasture on either side of the drive looked pleasantly pastoral. The Five Graces, the woolly white sheep to keep down the weeds, were peacefully huddled in a little cluster grazing industriously. Ken Kearney had the sprinklers going on the pasture. The Kearneys would be relaxing over dinner in their apartment attached to the stables for the ponies, Star and Diamond.

At the top of the hill, where the big old Spanish ranch house sprawled behind its concrete block wall, Mendoza slid the Ferrari into the garage beside Alison's Facel-Vega and Mairi's old Chevy and went in the back way. In the rear patio, Cedric, the Old English sheepdog, greeted him amiably. His long pink tongue was out; in this weather his heavy coat must be a burden. He followed Mendoza in through the service porch.

Mairi MacTaggart was at the stove, Alison busy making a salad. She glanced up. "You're early, mi vida. The rat race just as usual?"

He bent to kiss her. " Estoy rendido – I'm exhausted, for no good reason."

"Is there anything new on the Martin girl?"

" Nada -and maybe nothing ever will show," he said moodily.

"Now that," said Mairi, shaking her silver curls at him, "is a verra strange business indeed. I wonder what happened to that poor thing? Now, you go and sit down with the man, achara, I'll finish that."

"I need a drink," said Mendoza.

El Senor, the half-Siamese, could hear that particular cupboard opened the length of the house away, and came floating up to the counter top demanding his share in a raucous voice. Mendoza poured him half an ounce of rye in a saucer. "Shortening your life,"' he said.

"I'll have a glass of sherry, carina."

In the living room the twins scrambled up from coloring books to greet him. Baby Luisa was staggering around with a stuffed dog in her arms. The other three cats, Bast, Nefertiti, and Sheba, were dozing in a tangle on the couch. Cedric sprawled at Alison's feet and Mendoza gratefully sank into his big armchair and sipped rye. It cost a fortune to run the air-conditioning in the big house, but it was worth it.

"Have you heard from the French police?" asked Alison.

"That's a dirty word," said Mendoza.

"I wish to goodness I could remember anything else she said. I've got the definite feeling there was something more, but it just won't come."

"And it could turn out to be a dead end." Mendoza sipped rye and tried to turn his mind off. No use worrying at the thing; it was futile. He sighed and leaned back. Someday maybe he would retire and be rid of the thankless job.·