"But it was so fast-" The older of the two pharmacists kept repeating that in a dazed voice. "So fast-in and out, and they both had guns-I don't know which of them killed Mr. Bryan-one of them asked for all the uppers and downers, and the other opened the register. I don't think anybody but us saw what was going on until they fired at Mr. Bryan-"
"And it was just a mistake," said the other one fiercely. "A damn stupid mistake! He didn't pay any attention because he didn't hear the bastards. He was getting deafer all the time and the hearing aid didn't help him much. He just turned away, he thought I was waiting on them, and I guess they thought he was going to call the cops and they-" The man lying face down at one end of the counter looked to be in his late seventies, with a scanty tonsure of gray hair and a spare figure in the white smock. He had been shot once in the head and there was no exit wound.
"There was just one shot?" They seemed to think so. Stocky, dark Galeano stood looking at the corpse thoughtfully. "No powder burns," he pointed out. "The shot was fired from at least three feet off and got him square in the back of the head-either it was a fluke or the shooter's a pretty good marksman. Fairly small caliber, too. It looks like a very slick pro job."
Mendoza agreed, and talking to all of these people, getting all of the formal statements, was going to take up quite a lot of time. Go through the motions, he thought, with a vengeance-and likely come up with nothing useful. On the other hand, if this had been pulled by a pair of experienced pros, it was possible that one or both of them were in Records, and some of the witnesses might pick a picture. Even the experienced pros were quite often stupid, and it was also possible, given the stupidity of this caper-walking into a store full of people to pull a heist in the middle of the day-that they had both been high on something.
They started to ask for names, get the people sorted out. One of the patrolmen had called the lab; Scarne and Horder came out in a mobile truck and took some photographs, dusted the counter and cash register for any latent prints. Presently the morgue wagon came for the body. The other pharmacists said that Bryan had been a widower but had a married daughter in Pasadena. So they'd have to break more bad news.
ALTOGETHER, THERE WERE fifteen people to question, get the formal statements from, and it was going to go on a good part of tomorrow. Wednesday was Hackett's day off. By the end of shift on Tuesday afternoon, Mendoza and Galeano had taken four statements and set up appointments for the other witnesses to come in tomorrow.
On Wednesday morning Mendoza had just finished getting a statement from one of the clerks and had seen her out when Lake buzzed him from the switchboard. "You've got a new corpse," he said tersely. "Fourth Street."
"Oh, hell," said Mendoza. That was another thing about this job. It was like women's work, always more of it coming along. He looked into the big office. Grace, Galeano, Palliser, and Landers were all talking to witnesses, and Higgins had taken a couple more down to Records to look at pictures. Somebody had to tidy up the corpses as they came. He collected his gray Homburg and got the address from Lake.
It was a little way out on Fourth, in a very shabby block of old buildings. Most of the others along here were empty and boarded up and very probably the whole block was ready to be torn down to make way for the new high rises. The address he wanted was a desiccated-looking old six-story apartment house. The squad was parked in a red zone in front. In the little lobby, Patrolman Hunter and three other people were waiting. Hunter stepped forward. "I kept him from going back into the room, sir. Not that I suppose it's important. Looks like a straight suicide." He added in a louder voice. "This is Lieutenant Mendoza. Mr. and Mrs. Daggett, they're the managers here, Mrs. Garvey," Daggett was a thin, medium-tall man in the fifties, with a lantern jaw and a prominent Adam's apple. He looked anxious and shaken. His wife was plump and maternal-looking, right now a little pale. The other woman was tall and thin with too much makeup and a lot of cheap costume jewelry Daggett burst into speech rapidly.
"Iike I was telling the officer here, I just found her. Never thought the poor girl would do such a thing. Take poison or whatever it was. She seemed like a nice girl. Her name's Ruth Hoffman, she rented the apartment last month, said she was from Chicago. See, I explained to her-it says apartment hotel in front but the last ten years we just had permanent tenants-I explained to her I couldn't rent except on a weekly basis, the building's going to be torn down and we might get notice any day, but she said that was O.K. She seemed like a nice quiet girl. l don't think she had a job-she didn't go out regular-"
"Fred," said his wife, "don't get all upset now. It's nothing to do with us. I'm sorry for the poor girl, but it was her own doing."
"For love," said Mrs. Garvey unexpectedly in a dramatic tone. "All for love and the world well lost! I'm one of the few remaining tenants here, Lieutenant, and her apartment was just across from mine. I had met her when she asked to borrow some coffee once and the poor darling had confided in me." She sniffed into a handkerchief smelling violently of lavender. "How she had followed her true love here and he had spurned her. My heart went out to her, tru1y."
"Anyways," said Daggett rather desperately, "her rent was up yesterday and she hadn't come to pay me and I went up about maybe half an hour ago, forty minutes, to see if she was in, and the door was unlocked and, well, there she was, dead. Killed herself, with poison or something. And so I called the cops."
"All right," said Mendoza. "Which apartment?"
"It's number twelve-the right front. I don't have to go up again, do I?"
"Don't upset yourself," said his wife soothingly.
Hunter followed Mendoza up the uncarpeted stairs.
"Dilapidated old place," he said. "Just what I could see, it looks like a straight suicide." The apartment door was open. Beyond it there was the expectable cramped living room, the tired old furniture, couch and one upholstered chair, a couple of small end tables. Visible through a doorway was a tiny narrow kitchen with just space for a minute table and two chairs. An old-fashioned wall bed which would fold up into the wall overnight was pulled down. The body lay on that, the face turned to the wall. On the bedside table was a half-full glass of water and a small plastic prescription bottle. Mendoza bent to scrutinize that without touching it.
Whatever label it had borne had been torn off. It was empty. On the cheap painted bureau were a worn billfold and two sheets of paper. Mendoza flicked through the billfold. Two hundred and twelve dollars in cash, a Social Security card with the name Ruth Hoffman. He took up the first sheet of paper. They were both letters. The first one was a half sheet of cheap stationery, evidently torn from a tablet. It was written in an overlarge, careless script, the writing of someone who did not often use a pen. Dear Ruthie, I told you before you better just forget this guy. He is no good for you. You think he's serious, but believe me it isn't so what you tell me he said. You know the boss was kind of put out when you quit so sudden and he would take you back like a shot so you better come back home and forget this guy. You know we've been friends a long time and I'm just thinking of what's best for you. Love, Jean.
The other letter was typewritten by somebody who wasn't a proficient typist, on a sheet of ordinary typing paper. It began abruptly without salutation. Look Ruthie, I'm sorry if I hurt you. But I never was serious like you. I'm not ready to get married and settle down, and anyway, not with you. I'm sorry but you better stop pestering me about it. I like you all right, but nothing serious. You better go back to Chi where you got friends. Jim.