Murder Most Strange (25 page)

"It was my fault too," she choked. "Let
him pick me up—like a cheap tart—but he was polite—"

"Oh, for God's sake!" said Powell. He was
only about twenty-six; they'd heard by now that she was twenty·two.

"I had a date to meet Rosalie there—she had
this fashion show bit there, and it'd be just as convenient to pick
her up there. Five-thirty to six, I said. Only I got hung up on the
freeway. I'd been out in Tarzana at the site of a new shopping center
we're designing, and I was on the Ventura Freeway, there was a big
semi had turned over and traffic was piled up for miles. I was stuck,
no way to get off. I just had to sit there until they finally got one
lane clear, and I never got to the Century-P1aza till after seven
o'clock." He was talking bluntly, roughly, and that would be his
natural manner: an almost aggressively honest young man. "I
pulled into the public hotel lot behind, the one where you don't have
to pay, and just as I turned up one aisle looking for a slot, I saw
Rosalie getting in a car with this fellow—couldn't miss her hair in
the arc light—"

"Oh, it was all my fault—if I hadn't—"

"And, God, I just lost my temper—we're
practically engaged, she should have known I had some good reason for
being late, but she's got a temper too—"

"I was—so mad—at you, and he was pretty
smooth, made me laugh—"

"It was too late to get at them there, he was
backing out, so I took off after them, and when he got onto Olympic I
knew where they were heading—same place we'd been going to, she's
crazy about the damn fool place, Madame Nu's in Little Tokyo. He
pulled in the lot, found a slot and drove in, and I just slammed out
of my car and caught them as they got out. I said something like what
the hell you think you're doing with my girl, and he started to say
something but I didn't listen, I hit him and I connected all right,
but—"

Powell lifted his shoulders in a massive shrug and
planted both hands on his knees: they were square capable artist's
hands. "I'm no boxer, I got him on the shoulder and he was off
balance and fell back against the car, and Rosalie let out a yelp
and—well, he didn't get up. My God. I didn't believe it but he was
unconscious, he'd knocked himself out. Rosalie was in a dither, but I
said no sweat, put him in the car and leave him somewhere, when he
wakes up maybe he'll think twice about stealing another man's
girl—and maybe Rosalie'll think twice about stepping out on me
again—"

"Why in God's name the County Courthouse?"
asked Mendoza.

"Well, I didn't want to leave him right there,
in case he came in the restaurant and started a scene. And just a few
blocks up there was this empty lot—Rosalie was trailing me in my
car—"

"I was shaking so bad I could hardly drive—"

"And I just left him. And—"

"Did you wipe your prints off the wheel?"

"Well, for God's sake, no—why should I? I
thought he'd come to and be okay. We went back to the restaurant and,
well, made up— And then, sweet Jesus, on Monday it came out who he
was, and he was dead—I didn't believe it, I thought some hophead
must have come along after we left and hit him on the head for his
roll—could that have happened?" They shook their heads at him.
"But what the papers said—my God, I never meant to kill
anybody!"

"That's a very interesting little story, Mr.
Powell," said Mendoza. "For what it's worth, I don't think
you'll spend much time in jail. At an educated guess, the D.A.'s
going to call it voluntary manslaughter, and you might get a
suspended sentence." He looked at Rosalie paternally, across his
steepled hands. "I don't think Miss Packard will be charged with
anything, although she did—mmh—supply the provocation."

"Well, praise heaven for that!" said
Powell. "Okay, chief, bring on the handcuffs, I'm ready. I hope
the firm will take an open view about it, it's a good job."

Landers took him over to the jail. The warrant had
been applied for, and he would probably make bail. Wanda said
sympathetically that she'd drive Rosalie home.

"The only thing is, Luis," said Hackett,
"the D.A. may want to make an example of him, and a judge might
go along. Soft as be damned on the street punks hitting old ladies
over the head, but the respectable citizen who kills an important
politician deserves the full treatment."

“
Dios
,
let's hope not, Art. If she cries like that on the stand, looking
about three years old and begging Daddy to fix her doll, he won't get
convicted of anything." He began to laugh again. "It's just
what Alison says—another case of one thing leading to another!"

* * *

Bill Moss was riding a squad along Pico Boulevard
about ten—thirty that night, when an old tan Buick ahead of him ran
a light. There wasn't much traffic out and no harm was done, but
examples had to be set and careless drivers warned. Moss speeded up a
little and touched the siren, and half a block up the Buick pulled
into an empty spot at the curb. Moss pulled up behind it.

He got out, automatically putting on his cap and
feeling for the book of tickets in his pocket. And then, as he
started up to the driver's side of the Buick, a cold finger went up
his spine and he remembered the briefing at roll call the other day.
All of them had been remembering that briefing wheneven they pulled a
car over lately. And the Buick was wearing out-of-state plates. Leroy
Rogers' mug shot had been reproduced and passed around. He was around
here somewhere, and he was trigger-happy.

The plates on the Buick were Texas. It could be just
a tourist, and you didn't want to give them a bad image of California
cops; he couldn't go up there with his gun out, for somebody running
a red light.

Between two footsteps he thought of it all: the
chances: and any possible compromise. He'd gotten shot up a while
ago, and he didn't like hospitals; he probably wouldn't like a niche
in the mausoleum any better.

He walked up to the driver's window and before he got
there he sang out in a genial voice, "Sorry to pull you over,
sir!"

He got there. He looked down at Leroy Rogers behind
the wheel, big and blond and armed and dangerous, and he grinned at
him as friendly as a yellow pup and he said, "I'm not about to
give you a ticket, sir, but I just noticed your tail 1ight's out, and
I thought you ought to know."

"Oh," said Rogers. "Is it'?"

"Yes, sir." Moss leaned easily on the car
door. "It looks to me as if somebody's banged into you, your
tail pipe's knocked sideways too, could be dangerous. Some of these
public lots, with females trying to park—you know."

Rogers grinned back, displaying a line set of white
teeth. "Don't we know. Well, thanks."

"You'd better step out and take a look,"
said Moss. "That tail pipe's about ready to let go."

"For God's sake," said Rogers, "all I
need, a repair bill."

The southern accent was pronounced. He opened the
door and got out. Moss looked for the Colt, didn't see any bulges.
Rogers walked toward the rear of the car, and Moss said, "Okay,
Rogers, hold it! Spread 'em! Hands on the car." He poked the
Police Positive into Rogers' back and brought out the cuffs.

Rogers was still telling him about his ancestry and
habits, showing a colorful vocabulary, when Wray and Dunning came
roaring up five minutes later. They found the Colt under the front
seat of the Buick. Tomorrow, the front office would find out that the
Buick had been stolen in Houston three weeks back.
 

NINE

On Thursday morning, with Hackett off, everybody was
highly amused at the solution of the Upchurch case, and gratified at
getting Leroy Rogers out of circulation. Everybody was also a little
surprised at Higgins' reaction to Goodis and his pals: he cussed
about that for five minutes until Grace said, "Just a gang of
the usual stupid punks, George."

"Yes, I know," said Higgins, "but damn
it, there was something about that got to me, Jase—that poor old
woman. Anyway, we've got them, and what a hell of a job to clean up."

He got on the phone to Atlanta about Rogers; Atlanta
would have priority, and probably send somebody to escort him back
there.

Palliser, Landers, Glasser and Grace went out to
discover where all the Patterson furniture had ended up. For once,
nothing new had happened overnight.

Mendoza told Lake to phone the local press; he'd give
them an interview at ten o'clock about Upchurch.

Marx called from SID just before the press arrived.
"The morgue sent over the slug from your new corpse. We picked
up some ejected cartridge cases in that parking lot, so it came as no
surprise. It's a thirty-two automatic, probably an old Colt. You ever
pick it up, we can tie it in."

"Gracias," said Mendoza. That was just up
in the air, no leads at all, no kind of description.

When the press showed up, he gave them the bare facts
on Upchurch, and they were very happy with the story. "Hot
damn," said the
Times
man mildly, "another great leader shows feet of clay. It'll make
a nice second subhead, Lieutenant, of course it'd rank real headlines
if he'd already been elected."

"And everybody forget about it the next day,"
said the
Herald
sadly.
"I suppose there's not a hope of getting at Powell for an
interview, but the girl . . ." They went away to write their
stories, and Mendoza reflected that they were going to be wild about
Rosalie; he laid a private bet with himself that large pictures of
Rosalie were going to appear in the papers, whether they paid much
attention to Powell before the arraignment.

Lake came in and said there was a Mr. Chalfont asking
to see him.

"Oh? Well, bring him in."

There entered a short stout dark man in an
ill-fitting bright brown suit. He said, his eyes sliding away from
Mendoza's, that he was Gregory Parmenter's lawyer. "I have been
out of town, and I've just learned of his very regrettable death—not
being able to contact him, I went to the pharmacy, and a Mr.
Rauschman"—his prim mouth twitched disagreeably—"at the
establishment next door informed me—"

"Oh, yes," said Mendoza. "What can we
do for you, Mr. Chalfont?"

"The keys to the house. I believe the police
must have them. And to the pharmacy. I am putting the will in
probate, of course, and must have access."

Mendoza had forgotten the keys; the feds had handed
them back, and he rummaged in the top drawer of the desk, found them
and handed them over. "There was a will?" He was, for no
reason, surprised. "May I ask you how it reads?"

"I expect you would be interested," said
Chalfont grudgingly. "Everything is left to his only relative, a
niece living in Colfax. Of course the first thing I must do is
arrange a funeral. That will be extremely simple—Mr. Parmenter was
an atheist, and would deplore any elaborate service."

And that was not at all surprising, considering what
they knew about Parmenter. Mendoza sat back, after Chalfont had
sidled out, and thought about Parmenter. He had said to Hackett, he
supposed the only answer on Parmenter was one of the brotherhood, but
how likely was that, really? He wondered if Chalfont was another
member of the brotherhood, and decided that he probably was. What
kind of quarrel could there have been between Parmenter and one of
the brothers? Possibly Parmenter had ambitions toward taking over the
local leadership—but when you thought about it, as Grady had said,
men like that were unimportant men, failures in life, and not (like
the real terrorists) men of action. They got their kicks out of
producing the hate literature; could you see one like that actually
taking the personal violent action?

Well, it was an academic question—Mendoza yawned
and stretched—and he supposed he'd better do some work, help out on
the Patterson thing; there was a lot of paperwork still to do.

By midafternoon, they had all the furniture spotted
and being transported into the police garage, the only space for it
temporarily. The family could come and identify it tomorrow, and then
they could have it back; it couldn't be left to clutter up the place.
This case was costing time and money. And, Grace pointed out, the
city would have to pay the transport charges to get it back to the
family, not their fault, they couldn't be stuck with the delivery
charge.

Higgins and Landers had no sooner landed back at the
office after lunch than they had to rush out again, to a body in a
hotel room over on Temple. When Higgins came back to write the
report, he said, "Another damned anonymous thing. That place
isn't so much a hotel as a cheap rooming house, the clerk on the desk
is more like a manager and rent collector. The roomers—ninety-five
percent male—next door to being derelicts, picking up the part-time
jobs—a scattering of oldsters on Social Security—some of them on
the way down and out.”

"I know the type. So?"

"So, this Thomas Fuller. He's been there about a
month. Man around fifty, nondescript. Comes and goes, nobody knows if
he has a job or what it is. He came in last night, says the clerk,
about eight o'clock, with another man. He can't describe the other
man. They were arguing about something, he thought, can't say about
what. An hour and a half ago a tenant who lives down the hall came
home, noticed Fuller's door open and him sprawled on the floor. He's
been shot—somebody used the bed pillow to muffle the noise. I left
the lab there and Tom trying to get some answers out of the other
people at home."