Dell Shannon - Streets of Death

Mendoza burst out laughing. "I only hope to God he isn’t right-I want to hear about this!"

It was Thursday morning before Offerdahl was sufficiently dried out to talk to them coherently. Flat in the hospital bed, the first time they’d seen him sober and halfway sensible, he was weak and wan and remorseful. He blinked up at Mendoza, Galeano, Marta, and said, "Fleming. I was sorry for the poor fellow. Haven’t-haven’t you found him yet?"

And he’d asked them that before, but they hadn’t realized how he meant it. "No, Mr. Offerdahl," said Mendoza. "We thought you could tell us where to look."

"Poor damned young fellow," said Offerdahl. "Felt sorry for him. Don’t know what you think, but talk about sin, seemed a sin and a shame t’ me he should have to go on living-maybe fifty years. Damn shame. Nice young wife, have to support him, take care of him. He said so. Said he wanted to die and be out of it. That day, I forget just when it was, I went down to see him-took a bottle along, cheer the poor fellow up. But he kept saying, better be dead-he wanted to be dead. Better for everybody. Like to go drown himself, he said. He asked me to help him and I said I would. Reservoir in Griffith Park, he said, and his wife had some money hid away, he’d give it to me if I helped him. So I did. He had keys to the car, and I carried him out to it. Used to be strong as a bear," said Offerdahl, weakly flexing his muscle. "He left a note for his wife. Didn’t she find it?"

"Eventually," said Mendoza. "Then what, Mr. Offerdahl?"

"I couldn’t find the damn reservoir up there. Drove and drove, all round little winding roads, and it was raining like hell. Then we came to this place-that big building up on top of the hill." Griffith Park Observatory, the planetarium. "There wasn’t anybody around, place all empty. He said, a cliff just as good, fall off it, bang. I drove right up there, helped him out-place where there’s a wall round the building, big drop off the hill. He pulled himself up on the wall, and he said, just as good, and he fell over. The poor fellow. I ’greed with him-best for everybody. Sin and a shame-"

"And you drove the car back and put it in the garage, and put the keys back in the apartment," said Mendoza.

"Of course," said Offerdahl with dignity. "Wasn’t my car. I’m an honest man."

When they went to look, they had to call the Fire Department with their ropes to get down there. But they found him after a while, deep in the underbrush there at the foot of the sheer drop from the wall around the observatory. It wasn’t such a long drop at that to the first slope, maybe three hundred feet, and springy thick undergrowth below, but he was dead, and had been since that day. That was all wild growth in there, as through most of the park, and he might not have been found for years, until only bones were left.

"Of all the damned queer things!" said Galeano. "If that silly old bastard hadn’t spent all Marta’s hard-earned nest egg on whiskey-Yes, and didn’t she and Mrs. Del Sardo tell us he’d never been so bad before, we might have wondered where he suddenly got the money-we’d have heard all about it as soon as it happened. If Marta hadn’t grabbed up that note with her 1etter-"

"So simple when you know," said Mendoza. "Coming right back to human nature, Nick. And that girl-mmh-Alison said, prickly." He looked at Galeano with veiled interest.

"What the hell do you mean, prickly? With all she’s had to put up with-"

When the autopsy report came in, Mendoza was sufficiently fascinated to carry it over to the other office to share it with somebody. Only Hackett was there. "Fate," said Mendoza. "By God, this is a funny one, Art- Fleming.

He drowned, just the way he said he wanted to. The drop didn’t kill him. He must have landed in a spot where the rain had collected in a pond, and the fall knocked him out and he drowned. Alla va. Of all the queer things, that is one for the books."

"Very funny," said Hackett inattentively.

"I must call Carey-he’ll be interested. Little lesson for all of us, tal vez, about the automatic cynicism."

"Yes," said Hackett. "There’s this new thing, Luis-you haven’t heard about it yet-and it’s damned funny too. This Hilda Gilbert. Divorcee, thirty-six, good job as a legal secretary, and alimony coming in. Found dead in bed this morning, strangled with a wire coat hanger. And she had quite a collection of good jewelry, a fur coat, new color TV, and it’s all there-no sign of burglary or forced entry. I got S.I.D. on it, but it looks like an offbeat one-"

Isabel Hopper and her latest heart interest came back from Las Vegas, and Grace and Conway picked them up for questioning. And Galeano finally got up nerve to call Marta and ask her to go to dinner with him on Sunday.

"It is not very proper, so soon after my husband-If it was a quiet small place, perhaps-"

"We’ll find one. And I’ll buy you some brandy, you seem to be a different girl with a drink or two."

"Now you are joking." But she laughed. "Very well, I will be ready at seven o’clock."

"Fate," said Alison absently. "Yes, it does make you wonder. That was one of the queerest you’ve had in quite a whi1e." She was feeling fine, she said, and looked her usual self, red hair neat, in her favorite topaz robe. The cats were dispersed around her on the sectional, Cedric sound asleep at her feet. She was looking at the brochure from the real-estate company. "Luis, I’ve found a place I like. It sounds perfectly fascinating, let’s go look at it on Sunday-por favor, mi amador?"

Mendoza opened his eyes and groaned. "I might have known."

"It’s not new, but I think it’d be lots of fun to do up an old place. It’s got six bedrooms and three fireplaces-I’ve decided it was a mistake not to have a fireplace here, there’s something about an open hearth-and a wine cellar, and it’s on four acres-such lovely room for Cedric-"

"How much and where?"

"Well, it’s a hundred and sixty thousand, but when you think of the space-Hidden Hills," said Alison. "Well, really, Luis, you needn’t yell at me, with the freeway it wouldn’t be more than forty minutes-"

" Sin mujeres y sin vientos, tendramos menos tormentos," said Mendoza. "Females!" He leaned back in the armchair and thought about that divorcee. Hilda Gilbert. That could turn out to be an offbeat one indeed…