Exploit of Death - Dell Shannon (5 page)

"Yes, he's not up yet. He got in pretty late
last night. He said he was out playing pool with some pals." She
stepped back, tacitly inviting them in.

Bauman was still in bed in the back bedroom, looking
as if he had a hangover. He was dirty and unshaven. He snarled when
he saw the badges, and he said exactly what they'd expected him to
say. "I haven't done nothing. The fuzz got no call to come
picking on me." It was automatic. Hackett told him to get
dressed. The woman said she didn't mind their looking around, but
they'd wait for a search warrant. He wasn't likely to get sent up for
a long stretch within the courts in the state they were, but they'd
take no chance on making the charge stick.

They took him in to the jail and applied for both
warrants. Landers called the lab and talked to Scarne. "Oh, I
was just about to make a report on it," said Scarne. "Yeah,
the coroner's office sent the slug over and I was just having a look
at it. It's out of an old beat—up S. and W. thirty-two. Probably
hasn't been cleaned in years, it's a miracle the damn thing fired at
all. Yeah, we can match them if you ever pick it up."

The search warrant came through after lunch. Hackett
and Landers went back to Madera Street. At least Hackett's Monte
Carlo was air-conditioned; it was up to ninety-four or so, humid and
muggy. Madera Avenue was paved with blacktop and it looked as if it
were ready to melt; it felt sticky to their feet. "Why anybody
lives in this climate—" said Landers.

They hadn't questioned Bauman yet, just stashed him
in jail. The witness had been very positive on the identification.
The woman let them in silently, looked at the warrant. They started
to hunt around Bauman's bedroom and within five minutes Landers came
across a beat-up old S. & W. .32 under a pile of clean socks. It
was unloaded. There was a box of ammunition for it in the next drawer
down. Landers said sadly, "And some people think it's a
glamorous job, or that you've got to be big brains to do it."

"And in all the brainy arch-villains,"
rejoined Hackett.

"All I can say, Tom, is that I hope to God some
soft-headed judge doesn't give him a slap on the wrist and six months
in the joint."

"I won't hold my breath," said Landers.

They poked around some more but didn't come up with
anything interesting. So they started back to the jail to talk to
Bauman. When he knew they had the nice evidence, he might be inclined
to tell them who the other heister had been on that job, and they
were both aware, as certain as death and taxes, that Bauman would
claim it was the other fellow who fired the gun and the other
fellow—if they picked him up—would claim it was Bauman.

The job wasn't glamorous,
but it was often discouraging.

* * *

"OH, DEAR ME, I couldn't say at all," said
Mrs. Marsh blankly. She stared at the glossy eight by ten
enlargement.

"She looks sort of dead."

"She is," said Mendoza. "You've never
seen her?"

"I just don't know." Mrs. Marsh was thin
and sharpnosed, about forty, with pale blue eyes and over-large round
glasses. She was one of the assistant librarians at the big main
library on Sixth Street. She looked back at the library card and
shook her head.

"Who would be the one to issue cards?"
asked Mendoza,

"Any of us. Anyone on duty at the check-out
desk." She had laid the photograph down hastily, pushing it
toward him. "It would depend who was on duty when—when the
person requested a card. I don't think anybody would remember. I mean
I don't think anybody would recognize that—any photograph."

"Why not?" asked Mendoza.

She wet her lips. "Well, we have a lot of people
in. It's a big library, and we issue a lot of new cards. Unless the
person was a regular, who came in a lot—they're just faces. If you
see what I mean. And at least I can tell you that the girl wasn't a
regular. I don't think I ever saw her in my life."

It was what he had expected, a slight gratification.
"But whoever took out the card, it's not so long ago. If we can
locate the librarian who issued it—"

She was still shaking her head. "You mean, maybe
to tell you what she looked like. Oh, I shouldn't think so. You just
don't realize, we're always pretty busy. We get a lot of students in,
you know, and we're always issuing new cards. It's—it gets to be
automatic. Like filing or checking books in and out. And it doesn't
take five minutes—you know. You get the name and type it on the
card and put in the date and that's that."

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—"

The old man had the television on.

"My good God,"
said Turner to himself. "People." On this job you saw
everything.

* * *

THE NIGHT WATCH came on. "At least," said
Bob Schenke cheerfully, "we get to stay in air conditioning part
of the shift."

Piggott was studying the real estate section of the
Times.

"There's nothing within reason," he said
dismally.

"Take it to the Lord in prayer," said
Conway flippantly.

"Oh, don't think we haven't. If it's intended—"
Piggott sighed.

"You're just the born pessimist, Matt,"
said Schenke kindly. "Hold the positive thoughts."