Ross thought for a time, then smiled at the cop. “Thanks. Maybe I will.”
He’d just solved the case.
He went back inside the house and his horn-rims fogged up again. Taking them off and wiping the lenses with his handkerchief, he went down the hall and found Sam Vincent in the dining room with the four suspects. Vincent glanced up.
“Hello,” Ross said pleasantly, putting his glasses back on. “Anything yet?”
“Nobody’s confessed to shooting Hendrix, if that’s what you mean,” Vincent replied dryly.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Ross said. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”
“That’s a crime scene,” Vincent said irritably. “Use someplace else, can’t you?”
“I’ll be out in a minute,” Ross told him, and entered the bathroom.
He pushed the door shut. The killer had kicked it in, so it would no longer lock, but it stayed almost closed. Ross went over to the small window and shut it. There was a toilet, a sink and shaving mirror, shelves crammed with the usual stuff — aftershave, soap, toothpaste, toilet paper, Band-aids, good quality towels and washcloths. Hendrix’s disposable razor lay on the sink. There was an old fashioned tub with feet, and a white plastic shower curtain.
Ross reached down and turned on the shower, all the way over to HOT, as hard as it would run. He stepped to the sink and turned the hot water tap full on. Then he stood there, waiting.
The cop’s wife had a good idea, Ross thought. He pulled a tissue from a box on the back of the toilet and used it to wipe some soap onto his glasses lenses. As the bathroom gradually filled with steam, the shaving mirror over the sink began fogging over but his glasses remained clear.
Ross stood there for a while, smiling and humming a little tune and looking at himself in the mirror. With all the fog on the glass he couldn’t see much. He combed his thinning hair once, then gave up. I’ll be bald before I’m fifty, he thought.
After a time he turned off the sink faucet and the shower. Someone rapped hard at the door and Sam Vincent’s voice came loudly:
“Ross? What the hell you doing in there?”
“Come in,” Ross said, opening the door. “Quickly,” he added.
Vincent came in, and Ross shut the door behind him.
“What’s going on?” the detective asked. “What the hell you doing in here — taking a bath?”
Ross smiled. “How’s it going out there? Figure it out, yet?”
Vincent shook his head, frowning. “No. Geez, why’ve you got it all steamed up in here. You nuts? Out there, it’s rotten. Not one guy has an alibi. Three of ’em own guns, two of ’em have revolvers. All four of ’em disliked Hendrix for one reason or another. They all four got to the loan office within twenty minutes of the time of the shooting and did paperwork in their own little cubicles. Any one of the four could’ve sneaked out, walked a block, kicked in the back door, come in and shot Hendrix, and beat it back to the loan company again, maybe tossing the gun in a trash barrel on the way. My men are searching the alleys now. I’m gonna have to start interviewing all their female clients to get any lead at all. This is gonna take forever.”
“Maybe not.” Ross pointed at the mirror. “There’s your murderer,” he said.
Vincent stared, blinking in the steam-filled room.
“You do that, Ross?”
“Not me. Hendrix. Before he died.”
“How?”
Ross said, “Hendrix is in here shaving. If he steams up the mirror he can’t see to shave, so he opens that window. It’s cool and airy, the mirror doesn’t fog over. Right?”
Vincent nodded.
Ross continued. “The killer kicks in the back door. Hendrix hears it. Hendrix already knows he’s going downtown today to talk to us and put the finger on an extortionist. Maybe the extortionist overheard Hendrix on the phone or found out about it in some way. Hendrix is halfway through shaving. He looks out and sees the killer, the extortionist, coming for him, holding a gun. Hendrix knows he’s about to be shot. He locks the bathroom door, but it’s a flimsy lock and a flimsy door. He doesn’t have a chance. What’s he do?”
“You tell me,” Vincent said.
“He decides that if he’s going to get shot, he’ll at least name his killer. The name of the extortionist and killer. He grabs the bar of soap, the one you found in his left hand. He jabs the end of his right index finger against it, getting soap under his fingernail. He writes the killer’s name in soap, on the shaving mirror. When the killer breaks in, he won’t see it — there’s no steam in the room, and it’s not really visible on the glass unless you get very close and peer. And probably the killer fired from the doorway and never even saw the mirror.
“The killer kicks in the door and fires. Hendrix goes down, holding the bar of soap. If anybody steams up the room, the mirror will fog over — all except for the soap. The killer’s name.”
Vincent scratched his head. “That was a long shot, wasn’t it? How’d he know anybody’d bother steaming up the bathroom?”
“I guess he just hoped.”
“Maybe now we can get a search warrant and look for the gun,” Vincent said. He looked at the mirror again.
In the fog on the glass, a name stood out in large dripping letters.
NEAL.
They left the room. A uniformed cop was watching the four loan officers in the dining room. They were all drinking coffee.
Vincent looked at them. “All right, Mr. Neal,” he said. “You’re under arrest on suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent...”
The short blond guy in the tan suit and polished shoes stared at Sergeant Vincent. His pale blue eyes widened. Then the arrogance left, leaving only fear and desperation.
“Like hell,” Neal snapped, and bolted for the hall. But of course there were other cops out there, and he didn’t get far. When they had subdued him and pulled him back into the dining room, Neal glowered sullenly at Vincent.
“How’d you know? Just tell me that.”
Vincent said, “It was Mr. Ross here. He saw the handwriting on the wall. Or rather, on the mirror.”
The Alias
by Lawton O’Connor
“If I were to commit a crime,” said Mr. Nelson West over the bridge table that evening, “it would be for money, and only for money. But I would have the good sense to leave most of the money untouched afterwards.”
“Then what is the point,” his wife said, “in stealing it at all?”
“Ah,” West said. “If you steal enough to begin with, you can use just a small portion of the money and still have enough to have made the crime worthwhile. The trouble with these big bank and payroll robberies is the robbers always become greedy afterwards. They’re not content to spend just the used bills. They have to spend the new bills too, and that way they get caught. Greed.” He shook his head.
Mr. George Simpson, proprietor of the Greater Arizona Realty Company, played a low club from the dummy. “I’ve always thought,” he said, “that one of the reasons they get caught is there’s more than one of them in on the robbery. The police catch one, he tells on the others; or they get mad at each other; or whatever.”
“That’s another thing,” West said. “The crime must be executed by one man. Never trust anyone.”
“But one man alone can’t steal a lot of money,” Simpson said. “It takes timing and planning and somebody to drive the car and so on and so forth.”
“True,” West said.
“Well,” Simpson said with a laugh, putting up a trump from his own hand, “all I can say for you, Nelson, is I’m glad you work for me. By your own definition, you’ll never commit a crime.”
If it had not been for Mr. Hathaway, Simpson would have been right about West. Mr. Hathaway just happened. He came along out of the blue at a time when Nelson West, himself new to Arizona, had been working for Simpson’s Greater Arizona Realty Company, as a sales agent, for no more than four months.