It seemed that the Flickschusters, who had come here four years ago, kept a delicatessen. They stayed open until nine most evenings, and one or the other of them or both were always behind the counter. And just before they closed last night a man had come in and bought a half pound of sausage, a pound carton of potato salad, and a quart of milk. Gertrud had waited on him and remembered him well-"Because he is so ugly, sir, a terrible face. It has the hollow cheeks like a death's head, and this terrible mark on his face- vernarben – die narbe on his face, from the burn, it looks-all red, across the nose. But it is not until Rudi has been reading the newspaper that I have known-it is saying about this man-"
"Yes." And that might be a more interesting and significant little story than it looked at first glance. Mendoza got her signature to a statement, phoned for a car to drive her back to the delicatessen… The Slasher, buying precooked food at night. The man was staying somewhere, damn it, but with the press relaying his now known description to the public, he hadn't rented another room as yet-that they knew. Nobody was likely to rent him one when they'd had a look at him.
Etta Mae Rollen attacked at San Pedro and Emily. The latest unknown corpse near San Pedro and Fifth. Mendoza frowned at a city map: about four blocks apart.
The Slasher holed up somewhere, in hiding? Sense enough to read the papers, know he had to hide? But where, for God's sake, in that rabbit warren of crowded downtown streets? Business of most kinds was thriving-there wouldn't be many empty buildings. And, true enough, the population increasing at such a rate that there wouldn't be many empty houses, either. In that section people lived cheek by jowl, there wasn't much privacy. What hole could a loner like the Slasher have found? Hell. He wondered what, if anything, the Hollenbeck station was getting from that pawnbroker. It would be a help to clear those juveniles out of the way, know definitely they had an alibi for Nestor-if they had. Which would say that their story about the gun was probably gospel truth. He decided it was too soon to call Hollenbeck and ask.
Sergeant Lake came in and said that Nestor woman was here, asking to see him. "You haven't had a chance for lunch at all, shall I tell her to wait or come back?"
"No, that's O.K.-shove her in." He was curious to know what she wanted.
As Madge Corliss put it, a funny kind of woman indeed. He didn't think any disillusionment with Nestor was responsible for her flat emotionlessness. He remembered what Marlowe had said of her and silently agreed: rather a stupid woman.
She came in and sat down in the chair beside his desk. Her mouse-brown hair in its old-fashioned shoulder-length bob hung lank about her face. She had on a printed cotton house dress, bright pink, and a shabby green cardigan over it; white ankle socks with the kind of cuban-heeled black oxfords made for old ladies with fallen arches. She hadn't any make-up on except lipstick, and most of that had worn off.
Nestor's essential character aside, reflected Mendoza, it really wasn't hard to see why he had…
"Yes, Mrs. Nestor?"
"Well, I'd just like to know," she said in her fiat nasal voice, "when I can get into his office. You people have put a seal on the door. The rent'll be due in ten days and of course I don't want to pay another month's rent. And there are some valuable things there I could sell for quite a lot of money. To another doctor."
"Well, I'm afraid I can't tell you anything on that," said Mendoza. "We don't know, it may be we'll want to have another look around there. But I see your position, and we'll try to arrange to free it before the end of the month."
She did not thank him. "It's been a nuisance, I must say," she said. "The bank not giving up that money and so on." The news of Madge Corliss' arrest had made minor headlines this morning, the revelation of Nestor's undercover trade; evidently Mrs. Nestor didn't read newspapers and had no kind friend to tell her about it, for she didn't mention it at all. But with one like that, who could say? She might, if he asked her, say, Oh, that. I'd suspected it all along.
"As long as you're here, Mrs. Nestor, I'd just like to go over it with you again-about Friday night, when Sergeant Hackett came to see you… " He took her all through it again, and she gave him the same answers, disinterested.
He let her go, dispiritedly. His head had begun to ache again. He couldn't see where to go from here-if nothing turned up on that button. But he didn't know yet that those juveniles were in the clear, of course. And if they weren't, where else to look on Art?
It was one forty-eight. It seemed to him that lately, the last few days, time had slowed down somehow so that there were twice as many hours in a day. He wondered what the boys were getting on their searching jobs. Sergeant Lake came and looked at him disapprovingly and told him to go get some lunch.
"Yes," said Mendoza, and dialed the offices of Cliff Elger and Associates. He was told that Mr. Elger was out to lunch with a client. Where? Well, probably Frascati's on the Strip or the one on Wilshire.
Mendoza tried Frascati's on the Strip first, as the nearer place, and spotted his man at once. Elger's great bulk, clad in loud tweed, was perched on a bar stool. He was doing most of the talking, gesturing widely, laughing. The man sitting next to him was much smaller, presenting a thin, narrow-shouldered back and a bald spot.
Mendoza climbed up on the stool at Elger' s other side. Elger was halfway through a martini: probably not his first. The other man, a depressed-looking middle-aged man, was staring silently at a glass of beer.
"-just got to take it in your stride," Elger was saying heartily. "You know? Script writers always change a book around some. What should you care, you've got the money. You worry too much, friend."
The depressed-looking man said in a surprising Oxford accent, "But she wasn't a chorus girl, she was the vicar's daughter. It all seems quite pointless to me, and rather silly."
"Now you just stop worrying, old boy," said Elger.
The bartender came up and Mendoza said, "Straight rye. Mr. Elger!"
Elger swung around, looking surprised. "Oh-it's you," he said.
Mendoza smiled offensively at him. "Business as usual? I thought you'd be keeping a closer eye on your Ruthie. Or have you hired a private eye?"
Instantly Elger's expression darkened. "What the hell d'you mean by that? That bastard Nestor-and I wasn't surprised when I saw the Times this morning! Ruthie told you how it was, she hardly knew the guy, it was just to spite me she-"
"Naive, Mr. Elger!" said Mendoza cynically. "They can sound quite convincing, that sex."
"Damn you-"
Mendoza picked up the shot glass and swallowed half the rye. "Don't sound so upset," he drawled. "Happens in the best of families-"
Elger swung on him and he ducked, alert for it, and caught the man's wrist in both hands. It had been an awkward swing, from a seated position; but if Elger had been on his feet…
He said incisively, "Hold it, Elger! Take it easy. Now what did I really say? Nothing much. You lose your temper that easy very often? Because, if you do, I'm surprised you haven't got stuck with a corpse-or a near corpse-long ago!"
"What the hell,” said Elger sullenly. He shook his arm free of Mendoza's grip. The other man was watching interestedly. "You talking about Ruth-damn cop-"
"To see what little thing might set you off. Look at me!" said Mendoza sharply. "Did you lose your temper last Friday night, Elger? Did you? Because of some little remark Sergeant Hackett made to you? Did-"
"I told you I never heard of that guy!"
"Did you follow him down to the street and attack him there, Elger? And then find you'd nearly killed him? And there he was, right in front of your apartment-and if he came to, he'd talk-or he might just die, so we'd get you for manslaughter if nothing worse-and there's your business and reputation gone. Was it like that?"