"Well, we try to be thorough," said Mendoza. "Do you mind telling me where you went from there?"
"Well, I came home," said Marlowe stiffly. "Here. I was here for the rest of the evening. Paul could tell you that. The rest of the family was out, but-"
"Thanks very much," said Mendoza, getting up leisurely. Marlowe hadn't quite recovered from his little surprise; covertly he was still studying Mendoza, from his sleek widow's peak, trim mustache, Sulka tie, and gold links to the custom-made shoes. And feeling puzzled. Let him, thought Mendoza. And he wondered what had suddenly entered Marlowe's mind just then, when he'd stopped and looked thoughtful, about Andrea Nestor.
He'd crossed her off-on Art-because she'd admitted he'd been there. But the assault on Art could trace back to the other case. So maybe Andrea had got fed up with her charming, crooked husband and got rid of him the permanent way.
Crooked. Pro crooked, he thought. And that was going to be one hell of a tricky thing to prove, all legal.
The Elgers lived at a nice upper-class address too, on Normandie in Hollywood. At eleven o'clock on Sunday morning he hoped to find them home.
Cliff Elger was listed twice in the Hollywood phone book: at the Normandie address and as Cliff Elger and Associates on Hollywood Boulevard. Mendoza deduced that that meant he was an agent of some kind.
The nearest parking slot that would take the Ferrari was half a block away from the apartment. Walking back, Mendoza was thinking that he'd been out of touch with the hospital for several hours. For a second something seemed to constrict his breathing.
Nothing he could do, nothing, but what he was doing.
Trying to do.
How many years had it been? Art had just made rank-detective-and he'd been new in the homicide office, as sergeant, after eight years down in Vice. Eleven years. A little better than eleven years. You got to know a man damn well, working with him for eleven years.
Not the safest job in the world, no. But the risk of a random bullet from some hood's gun, the unavoidable crash in a high-speed pursuit, you expected. The deliberate, private assault-that was something different. He had a moment of unprecedented black pessimism. This Nestor thing could easily be just what it looked like: the casual break-in. And that Slasher so damned anonymous. Trying to wreck the Daylight. Somebody who liked to watch train wrecks. So maybe somebody who'd set up another kind of wreck. And where to look for him? A thin man with a red face, said a boy…
He thought it might be a useful idea to get the newspapers to run a photostat of that signature in the hotel register. Somebody might recognize it.
The apartment was a new one, very square and modern. There was a sign in front: Now Renting, 1 and 2 bedrooms, from $250. The hell of a lot of money to pay out every four weeks, he thought. He went into a square carpeted lobby and looked at the mailboxes. The Elgers were in apartment 1A.
It was the second door down, and there wasn't a bell, only a brass knocker, shield-shaped. He used it. He had to use it three times before the door was opened to him. If this was Ruth Elger, maybe Nestor had figured she was worth a black eye. She was about five-five, with a luscious figure and big dark eyes, a tilted nose; probably mouse-brown hair originally, but she wasn't letting nature dictate, and it was an expensive attempt at imitating Alison's burnished bright copper. Dressed and made up, she'd be something to look at. Right now, she was wrapped in a rather dirty silk housecoat, and she looked pale and sick, with dark circles under her eyes.
"Well?" she said.
Mendoza introduced himself, said he had a few questions to ask.
"Oh, God, it's a cop," she said, turning into the room.
"What did we do last night, Cliff? I don't remember going out anywhere."
"Didn't," said the man lying on the couch. He groaned. "Don't talk so loud, honey, I'm a tender plant 's morning." He was simply clad in a pair of red and white polka-dotted shorts, and he had an icebag balanced on his forehead. He opened one eye and squinted up at Mendoza, and groaned again. "False alarm. Maybe he's a cop, but I know why he's come. He wants to break into TV. It takes more than looks, brother."
"I really do want to ask you some questions," said Mendoza mildly.
"Oh, God, I feel awful," said Ruth Elger. "Why did we, Cliff?"
"Celebrate," said the man on the couch. Very slowly he rolled over, hauled himself to a sitting position, planted both feet on the floor. He pressed the icebag into place with one hand and managed to get both eyes open. He looked at Mendoza. "Looks, all right, you got. Latin lover-boy, mustache and all. Can you act? Can you sing? Besides, you're out of date. Ten years ago the Latin type was fine-maybe five years from now. Right now, what's wanted is clean-cut crew-cut red-blooded American boys, snub noses and all. God. They make me sick."
Mendoza produced his badge. "Hangover, Mr. Elger?"
"God," said Elger.
The woman came back from the kitchen with a cup of black coffee. She sat down and raised it to her mouth with both shaking hands.
"Celebration," said Elger. "I landed the Stoner contract for Jeffie. Bless little Jeffie's heart. Little two-hundred-grand-a-year Jeffie. Seemed reasonable at the time, celebrate. We didn't go out any place, I couldn't have hit anything or got a ticket, or did I?"
"About Frank Nestor," said Mendoza.
"Oh, my God," said Ruth Elger. "That awful thing.”
She put a hand to her head. "Poor Frank, getting shot by a burglar. Oh well, he was a bit of a bastard, but you couldn't help liking him."
"You couldn't," said Elger a little sulkily.
The room was-expectable, thought Mendoza. A lot of expensive modern furniture, everything wildly untidy, clothes flung over the backs of chairs, an empty gin bottle sitting on the color TV. "You gave him a black eye a couple of weeks ago," he said to Elger.
"That I did," said Elger. He put the icebag down on the couch beside him, stood up, and stretched. And Mendoza watched him, fascinated. Art Hackett was the hell of a big one, and it would take quite a lot of man to handle him. Maybe this was the man. Elger, naked except for the shorts, was quite something to see. He must be almost six-five, and he had a torso like the ads in the back pages of True Detective: You too can build muscular power. He might tip the scales at two-fifty, and all of it bone and muscle. Thick mat of hair on his chest, hairy legs. He had a square-jawed, nondescript face, shrewd blue eyes that right now were bloodshot and not quite focusing. "That I did," he said, and yawned widely.
"Oh, Cliff," she said, pouting. "I was mad at you about that idiotic Warren female. I didn't really think you'd- But when you got plastered at the Andersons' party you were pawing her like mad, and I- You know I wouldn't've-"
"Damn right,” said Elger. "That Goddamned little would-be charmer, twisting his damn mustache at you-"
He broke off, looked at Mendoza again. "Of course," he said seriously, "your type's always useful for villains. Funny thing, seventy-four per cent of all heavies always have mustaches. I made a graph on it once. It's damn funny, because a lot of females go for them. I'll bet you do right well with the females, cop or no cop."
"So I used to," said Mendoza. "Some straight answers, please, Mr. Elger. You thought-or knew-your wife was, shall we say, dating Dr. Nestor on the side. You had a fight with him-"
"I only met him twice," said Ruth Elger defensively, plaintively. "I wouldn't have- But Cliff-”