Mendoza was aware that they didn't ask for identification. It was like a driver's license-anybody could apply for one under any name. In this big, busy place, very likely whichever librarian had issued the card had hardly glanced at the female who announced herself as Ruth Hoffman. In fact, the library card told them only one thing, that it had been a female who took it out. Young, old, fat or thin, whatever color. Mrs. Daggett? Mrs. Garvey? Or Anonyma?
It said, of course, something else. It said, for about ninety percent sure, that the pseudo suicide of Ruth Hoffman had been planned at least since the date on that card and probably before.
And he was no stranger to homicide of any kind. But at the thought a small cold finger touched his spine. He picked up the photograph and glanced at it before he slid it back into the manila envelope. The lovely face with its pert nose, wide mouth, tender skin, looked so very young. And death didn't reckon by age. But suddenly he saw again, as he had seen it only once, the rather shy, friendly smile of the pretty girl on the plane. Whatever was the reason, it was a sad thing that she was dead and cold down there in the morgue. Being thorough, he talked to every one of the librarians on duty. They all shook their heads at the card, except one, a Doreen Minor, who said brightly, "Oh, I know the name. Ruth Hoffman. But now I see it can't be the same one. The same Hoffman. This is a new card-August sixth-and Ruth Hoffman's been coming in for years, She's a student at L.A.C.C., I know her pretty well. But she only got her card renewed last year. So it must be a different Hoffman. Of course, it's a common name."
So it was, and that had been part of the plan, too. There wasn't anything to be got from the library card. Mendoza hadn't really expected there would be.
He had talked to the coroner's office and asked for the autopsy to get priority. The lab report on that apartment would be along sometime. It was never any use to prod the lab boys. They took their own time.
Patrolman Dave Turner was on swing shift, and at this time of year he was just as glad. The darkness after the sun finally went down gave a sort of illusion of coolness, and by the time he came on shift at four o'clock it must have gone up into the high nineties. Turner was only twenty-four, but he'd heard a lot of old folks claim that it never used to get this hot in Southern California, that it was the rise in population and all the watering of gardens that had changed the climate. He would just as soon live in a cooler climate, but he'd also like to make rank on this top force.
He took over the newly gassed-up squad after the briefing in the Traffic squad room, at one minute past four. He was on a beat right in the heart of the oldest part of the city, and parts of it were quiet as the grave and parts of it could get pretty hairy. But they didn't have the manpower to run two-men cars anymore. He had covered the beat once by five o'clock and had just turned back onto Alameda when he caught the light a half a block down. As he sat waiting for it to change, somebody honked at him urgently and he looked around. There was a big truck looming up at the left of the squad and its driver was leaning across the seat of the cab beckoning at him. Turner pointed up toward the side street, and the driver nodded and put up a thumb. The light changed, Turner pulled into the side street and parked and in the rearview mirror saw the truck ease cautiously across traffic into the right lane to follow him. It pulled into the curb ahead of the squad. It was a Goodwill truck, the familiar logo across each side of the body. Turner got out, automatically putting on his cap, and the driver slid down from the cab. He was a thick-shouldered, stocky man in the forties with thinning red hair and freckles.
He said to Turner, "Say, I don't want to give you a bum steer, you know? God, it's hot. What a climate. Seems to get worse every year." He brought out a handkerchief and l mopped his forehead. "I was just figuring maybe I oughta tell somebody about it, just in case it is anything."
"About what?" asked Turner.
"Well, I figure I got sent to the wrong address, see. Nobody down here in this neck o' the woods would have much good salvage to give away. It's an address back there on Banning Street," and he gestured. "I nearly didn't get out of the truck. Old shack of a place. But it was the address the dispatcher gave me so I went up and rang the bell. This was about ten minutes ago. Had to wait awhile, nobody ever did answer the door, but I could swear I heard somebody callin' for help from inside. Kind of a weak voice- Help me, somebody."
"I'll be damned," said Turner.
"I come away, but I was still thinking about it when I spot your squad car, and I just figured I'd feel better if I told somebody about it."
"Yes, sir," said Turner. He got the man's name for the record, Bill Cotter. "Thanks very much, Mr. Cotter. We'll check into it."
"I suppose it could've been kids, but you never know. Helluva thing. Kind of scared me."
"Yes, sir, I'll have a look."
Cotter went back to the truck and pulled out. Turner went around the block and headed back to find Banning Street. He knew generally where it was, a short and very narrow old street on the wrong side of Alameda, not far from the railroad yards. A street of ramshackle old houses dating from the turn of the century and never very fancy to start with, houses unpainted, with narrow front yards bare of grass or flowers. Peering against the too-bright late afternoon sun, he spotted the address. It was an ancient frame house ready to fall down. One of the front windows to the right of the tiny porch was broken-a whole pane missing. He parked the squad in front, went up to the porch and pushed the bell. He listened and in thirty seconds he heard it-a thin, faint voice moaning, and then "Somebody-please help me-somebody." He pushed the bell hard again. There was a shuffling step inside and the door was pulled half open to reveal a tall thin old man in stained cotton pants and a ragged shirt. There was about a week's growth of gray stubble on his chin. He looked at Turner and he said, "I got no time for niggers. What do you want?"
Turner showed him the badge. "There seems to be somebody in trouble here, sir. May I come in?"
"Ain't no trouble here," said the old man brusquely. And the faint voice came again, "Please, help me-help me-"
"Iet me in, sir," said Turner gently. For one moment he thought the old man would slam the door in his face, and then he stepped back reluctantly.
Turner went in past him to a little living room nearly bare of furniture, only a sagging armchair and an old console T.V. He turned right into a short hall and faced a closed door which must lead to the room where that broken window was. He opened it, took one look and said sickly, "Oh, my God! "
It was a bedroom containing only an old twin bed, a small table, a rickety unpainted chest. It was a shambles of squalor and filth. There was long-dried excrement on the floor and bed, a thousand flies zooming around, and on the bed, in a tangle of dirty bedclothes, was an old woman, emaciated to skin and bones, gray hair wild about her witless face. She was moaning weakly.
Turner swung back to the old man. "What's your name, sir?"
After a dragging moment he said, "Leach. Ben Leach."
"Is this your wife?"
"Ain't got no wife. No use for females. She's my sister."
"What's her name?" `
"Mary. Mary Leach. I don't purpose to have no dirty niggers asking no questions nor coming in my house-"
"Please leave the door open, Mr. Leach," said Turner sharply. He went back to the squad and put in a call for an ambulance. While he waited for it, he went back into the house.
The old woman's eyes were dazed, unfocused, and she twisted her thin body feebly. "Please-help me-so hungry-"