Streets of Death - Dell Shannon (15 page)

"Well, suppose you take a look at this list and
tell us which are employees there and if you know any of the
witnesses."

By this time fully awake, Mallow accepted a cigarette
and looked at the list of names and addresses. "Sanchez and De
Carlos are the busboys. The cook’s Bob Smith. Lessee, well, a lot
of our regulars I just know by their faces, but I know some of these
names. Javorsky, he has the tape and record shop up the block,
usually stops in after he closes up. Kravits, he’s from the
twenty-four-hour pharmacy up the other way, a pharmacist I think. I
think I heard this name Cobbler too, if I place him he works
somewhere around, comes in pretty regular. This Edna girl, I didn’t
know her name was Willis, she’s from that pharmacy too, been in
with other girls, I heard them call her Edna. But she was with a guy
last night, I don’t know his name, must be one of these others. I’m
not saying I don’t know these guys, I just don’t recognize the
names. Michael Jarvis, Joseph Toombs, Tom Sawyer--say, that’s kind
of familiar at that, wasn’t it a movie'?"

"Also a book." But they were both common
names, thought Palliser. It seemed easier to start out knowing
something about the witnesses; and it was going to be a tedious job
to get all their stories and fit them together. And if none of them
had seen or heard anything significant, where to go on it then?
Obviously, none of them--if they were all honest witnesses--had seen
anything they thought was important, or they’d have come out with
it last night.

"I know we’ve got to do the routine,"
said Conway, "but it looks like a waste of time to me. Are we
operating on the premise that he got the knife between Dick’s and
the restaurant booth? On the street or in the rest room?"

"It looks as if that’s the only possibility."

"And just as Bainbridge said, never realized
he’d been stabbed, or he’d have raised a fuss, hung on to the
guy.

He could have run into a drunk in the street, or--
But why? There was hardly time for him to’ve had a fight with
anybody, even an argument. Dick said he left about nine-twenty, and
Mallow said he was sitting in the booth by about nine thirty-five."

"Well, let’s see if
we can come up with some answers," said Palliser. They went out
separately to find people and ask the questions, and it was a small
bonus that it was a rainy Sunday when most people would be home.

* * *

Grace had asked Galeano to drop in at that bar and
grill sometime, have a look around, get talking to the owner if he
was there. He had a bee in his bonnet about that Reinke. Galeano
didn’t see what good that was going to do, but he wasn’t feeling
much like going out on a piece of tedious routine, and after a lunch
he didn’t especially want, he drove up Virgil to Ben’s Bar and
Grill, parked and went in.

It looked like a quiet family place, the cheerful
red-checked tablecloths, and the fat bartender who was probably
Reinke was friendly. It wasn’t once a year Galeano drank anything
but an occasional glass of wine, and of course you weren’t supposed
to drink on duty, but defying the regulations he ordered a Scotch on
the rocks, feeling he needed it.

There was a friendly game of gin going at a rear
table, a little money changing hands, but quiet and orderly. He
couldn’t see there was anything to notice about the place. What
they’d heard about Buford, if he’d been in here that night he
wouldn’t have stayed long: had a couple of beers and left.

Galeano went back to the office and finding Grace
there, told him that. "Card game, huh?" said Grace. "Well,
I don’t get too excited about the state regulations either, Nick.
This thing is going to wind up in Pending. We now know from Buford’s
bank that he hadn’t drawn out any cash in a couple of weeks, and
then only fifty bucks. I just had the brother in--he’s been through
the house and says there isn’t anything missing, even his new
shotgun there. Which is also funny. Because if somebody intended to
rob him, you’d have thought they’d have made a job of it. In for
a penny, in for a pound as they say. And then again, the brother said
Dick was usually home, and he hadn’t been able to reach him for a
couple of days. Where was he instead?"

Galeano wasn’t much interested in Buford or how
he’d come to be taken off. He said, "I suppose I’d better go
see that Mrs. Chard again." Not that that was very important
either.

He had to look for the address on Constance Street,
and by the time he found it, it was raining in buckets. He turned up
his collar and dashed for the cover of the deep porch; it was an old
California bungalow. Waiting for an answer to his ring, he wondered
if Marta had sold the Dodge to Jim Newton; and remembered suddenly of
course, Carey a very thorough man--that there’d been an examination
of the car too, and nothing had shown up that was at all suggestive.
So what if she had driven the car somewhere that day?

He rang the bell again and thought rather miserably,
that part of it could be true. The boyfriend. Edwin Fleming was no
good to her as a husband. Say she had a boyfriend, that didn’t mean
they had to have plotted a murder. There wasn’t one scrap of
evidence that the man was dead. It was hard to see how he could be
alive, but queerer things had happened. And, he thought suddenly,
hadn’t somebody called Marta straitlaced? If she was just covering
up some affair--

The door opened and a waft of noise came out at him.
"Thought I heard the doorbell," said the man just inside.
"What you want?"

Galeano brought out the badge. The man was little,
old, bent over as if he had arthritis or a crooked spine. He said,
"Oh. You want Cecelia--it’s about Bob?"

"Now what the hell have you got the door open
for, you silly old bastard?" Mrs. Wilma Dixon came up behind
him, glass in one hand, noticed Galeano, gaped for a moment,
readjusted her expression to a winning smile and said, "Oh, it’s
that police officer who was so nice and understanding about poor Bob.
Cissy! You know the funeral’s tomorrow, it’ll be a great relief
to have it over. This is my husband, Mr. Dixon."

"How do," said Dixon, and hobbled away, a
hand to his hip.

"Won’t you come in?" Galeano went in to a
TV turned up too loud in a nearby room, an aroma of port and Scotch.
Cecelia Chard appeared in the doorway opposite, gestured at someone
behind her, and the TV volume lessened abruptly.

Galeano asked his questions uninterestedly, and
Cecelia and her mother looked at each other. "Bob having trouble
with anybody? Oh, I don’t think so, any more than usual," said
Cecelia. "When he was drinking-- Why?"

"There’s been some suggestion he was
deliberately killed," said Galeano absently. "He didn’t
owe anybody money, or--"

"Oh, I don’t think it would be anything like
that, Mr. Galeano. He was perfectly all right when he was sober, but
when he got to drinking he always got in a fight."

"Led astray he was," said Mrs. Dixon, "by
all the bad company he ran with."

It really didn’t matter
much how Bob Chard had got himself killed. Galeano thanked them and
dashed back to his car through the rain.

* * *

Landers and Glasser, out hunting those possibles on
Sandra, accepted the rain as an added hazard. Landers was saying that
Palliser was being too subtle anyway. "As far as I can see, Rank
is the prime suspect here. The girl picked his mug-shot--sure, with a
couple of others, but the same general type--and he’s got the right
record for the job. He had access to a house in the right area. Well,
only maybe, but he looks better than any of these X others to me. I
say, bring him in again and lean on him, get a search warrant for the
house--even now S.I.D. might turn up some evidence of the girls being
there."

"Maybe," said Glasser doubtfully. "John
saw her, and he’s pretty good at judging people, Tom."

They went looking, and of the nine they were hunting
found just one at home, in a single room a block away from Skid Row.
He had several counts of rape behind him, and except for the goatee
he conformed to the description, but how long did it take to shave
one off? They brought him in to question when it was apparent he
couldn’t produce an alibi and seemed nervous. But of course there
was nothing conclusive about it, and they let him go.

"Waste of time," said Landers.

At least Hackett and Higgins hadn’t had to go out
on the legwork in the rain. They were still getting fed information
from Pendleton Air Force Base, and so far, said Hackett when Glasser
asked, they hadn’t come across any  enlisted personnel who
hailed from anywhere near downtown L.A. By some quirk, they hadn’t
even found any originally from anywhere in California. There must be
some, they just hadn’t showed up yet.

Landers wandered down to the Records office and said
to Phil, "If you want to take off early, I’ll take you out to
dinner."

"
And what a night for it. I was rather looking
forward to getting home, but I’d better take you up on that while
you’re feeling generous. Not the Castaway--no night for a view."

"The London Grill," suggested Landers. "All
quiet and dignified. I’ll even buy you a drink."

"It’s a deal. I’ll just tell the captain I’m
goofing off."

They drove up to Hollywood separately. Ensconced in a
booth over drinks, it was rather nice to watch the rain drumming down
the windows. "I was talking to Margot Swain this afternoon,"
said Phil presently.

"That Conway. He was afraid she’d get a rope
on him. I think he’s back to playing the field."

Phil laughed. "Don’t worry about Margot. She’s
mad at him, but there are a few bachelors at Wilcox Street too. She’s
been dating Bob Laird."

"Good."

"And, Tom, I’ve been thinking," she went
on seriously, "about a house. Before we start a family. While
we’re both still earning---"

"
Hey!" said Landers, alarmed. "The
payments---"

"But we’d be investing in something for the
future, darling. It’s the same as rent really--"

"Phillipa Rosemary!" said Landers. "It’s
not just the payments, damn it, there’s yard work and upkeep of
everything and-- What?"

"Excuse me, sir, would you care for another
drink?"

"Yes," said
Landers. "Now look, Phil--"

* * *

On Monday morning, his day off, Palliser got up and
discovered that it had stopped raining. He reread some of the dog
book over breakfast. "It sounds perfectly simple," he said
to Roberta. "It shouldn’t be very hard with an intelligent
dog."

"I’l1 reserve judgment," said Roberta.
The baby began to yell and she added, "Damn," abandoned the
dishes and headed for the nursery. Palliser said to Trina, "You’re
going to be a smart girl and learn all the lessons, aren’t you?"

Her eyes and tongue assured him earnestly that she
would. He took her leash and put it on; Trina, thinking they were
going for a walk, leaped joyfully in circles and got the leash wound
around his legs. "No! Come on now."

He took her out into the drive, shortened the leash,
got her on his left side and said hopefully, "Now heel! Heel,
Trina!" He took a few steps forward. Trina stayed where she was.
"Come! Come on now, heel."’ She suddenly noticed the
neighbors’ Siamese on the fence along the driveway and lunged
forward, taking Palliser unaware and nearly pulling him off his feet.
"No! Down! Come, Trina--heel!"

Ten minutes later, as he urged her patiently to Come
and Heel, Trina was lying flat begging to know what she’d done
wrong. Roberta said from the kitchen window, "Perfectly simple."

"It takes time and practice, damn it,” said
Palliser. "You can’t expect her to learn all at once, Robin.
The book said--"

"Look out!" said Roberta, too late. The
Siamese floated down into the driveway with a contemptuous look for a
dog on a leash, and Trina took off. Not expecting it, Palliser was
yanked off balance and sprawled flat, losing the leash. The Siamese
swarmed up the tree in front and Trina began jumping up and down
barking.

"
You know, John,"
said Roberta, watching him pick himself up, "I think it might be
simpler in the long run  if you just asked for Saturdays off so
you could take her to that obedience class."

* * *

Landers wanted to discuss Rank with Mendoza; he
thought Palliser was reaching on this one, when they had Rank under
their noses. But the inquest on Sandra was called for this morning,
and he’d have to cover that. At least it wasn’t raining, and the
night watch hadn’t left them anything new.

Conway went out to finish talking to the witnesses on
Ames, and Hackett and Higgins were still doggedly working through the
list from Pendleton. Grace and Glasser started out again hunting the
other possibles on Sandra. Galeano hadn’t come in yet.

He came in about eight-thirty; he hadn’t been able
to get to sleep and then when he did overslept. He’d had a funny
dream, of Marta driving that old Dodge up a snaky winding mountain
road, and always somebody with her, but continually changing to
different people: Rappaport, Jim Newton, Offerdahl, little bent-over
Mr. Dixon, Conway, Carey, Mendoza. He got up feeling stale and
unhappy, and when he got to the office he wanted to talk over this
new idea with Mendoza, about the possible boyfriend but no
involvement with the disappearance. Whatever else, Mendoza was always
acute at diagnosing human emotions. But Mendoza had already gone out
somewhere.