Exploit of Death - Dell Shannon (4 page)

They went out. Higgins picked up the old worn
billfold from the bureau top. "I thought you said a Social
Security card. Not exactly," he said, flipping it open.

"No, but a lot of people carry them," said
Mendoza. He looked at it again in the plastic slot of the billfold.
The original Social Security card was a rather flimsy small piece of
cardboard, easily misplaced or defaced. He had seen these replicas
advertised in a good many mail-order catalogs: the numbers and name
stamped onto a thin sheet of tal. There was SOCIAL SCURITY at the
top, an eagle with wings spread, name and number below. The
nine-digit number was anonymous, the name Ruth Hoffman only slightly
less so.

Higgins, echoing the thought, said, "How many
Ruth Hoffmans in the whole country?"

"No guesses," said Mendoza, "and I
suppose the computers in Washington would trace down the number in
time, if we're allowed to ask—which is debatable. The IRS can
harass the citizens as much as they please, but nobody else is
supposed to invade the citizens' rights."

They looked through the shabby old furnished
apartment. The lab men had left a handbag on the bureau, the only
handbag there, a big bone-colored plastic bag. There wasn't much in
it. Two keys on a ring, one to the door here, one to the mailbox in
the lobby. A couple of tissues, a soiled powder puff, a half-used
lipstick. There was a shabby suitcase, unlocked and empty, and a
meager wardrobe of clothes in the tiny closet, none new and no labels
in any of them. There were four pairs of shoes, the labels of three
of them indecipherable. The newest pair bore a logo from a local
chain, Kinney's. All the clothes were size fourteen. In the kitchen
cupboards was a modest stock of food—cereal, canned soups, canned
vegetables, instant coffee. In the little refrigerator was a
half-empty quart bottle of milk, an unopened package of hamburger, a
quarter-pound of margarine, a loaf of bread. There were no dirty
dishes.

"All very plausible," said Mendoza. "All
very ordinary. Easy to read. Somebody went to a little trouble to set
up the picture."

Palliser said doubtfully, "Wel1, it looks
plausible all right. You are sure about the girl?"

"How often do I have to say it? Yes, it's a very
pretty effort, and if I hadn't recognized the girl there'd be one
stereotyped report getting filed away right now." Mendoza
brushed at his mustache. He was looking exasperated.

"Would you have thought twice about the missing
envelopes, on those letters?"

Higgins massaged his craggy jaw. "Probably not,"
he admitted. "Nothing in the wastepaper basket, but the place is
fairly neat. She could've emptied the trash last thing."

"We can guess those letters never went through
the mail, and there'd be a chute to an incinerator in the basement, a
place this old." Mendoza flipped through the billfold again and
said, "
Asi
, how
nice." There was something else in the last plastic slot of the
billfold. A library card made out to Ruth Hoffman, from the Los
Angeles Public Library on Sixth Street. The date of issue was the
sixth of August just past. "So that much we know."

"What?" asked Palliser.

"That this caper, whatever the hell it's all
about, was set up that long ago, at least. I'll be damned, I will be
damned," said Mendoza.

"But the witnesses—" Higgins still
sounded doubtful.

"Oh, yes," said
Mendoza gently. "Those witnesses."

* * *

HE HADN'T TAKEN formal statements from them yet. They
brought them into the office that late afternoon and heard what they
had to say again, Palliser taking notes. They told the plain,
plausible story, and they looked like ordinary, honest people. The
Hoffman girl had rented the apartment from Daggett just over four
weeks ago, paying cash by the week, forty dollars. Daggett was less
nervous now, and he showed the carbons of the receipts he'd given
her, all correctly dated. That was the only time the Daggetts had
seen her, when she paid the rent. "I don't think she'd got a
job," said Daggett. "The only thing I remember her saying
about herself, she came from Chicago." His wife nodded placid
affirmation.

"That's right. She seemed like a nice, quiet
girl."The other woman, her garish makeup in the strip lighting
revealing more wrinkles than it covered, was garrulous and
confidential. Her name was Helen Garvey. She was a widow and worked
part-time at a dress shop on Pico Boulevard. She had lived in the
apartment house for nearly six years, and it would be hard to find
another place at the same rent when the building was torn down. She'd
met the Hoffman girl over the borrowed coffee. They'd got talking and
the girl had told her how she'd followed her boyfriend out here and
then found he didn't want to marry her after all, and she was all
broken up about it.

Mendoza listened to them at length, leaning back in
his desk chair, smoking quietly, giving them time. When Mrs. Garvey
finally stopped talking, he sat up and said sharply, "Now that
is all a damned pack of lies, isn't it? When did you first lay eyes
on the girl? She hadn't been there that long, that we know."

Daggett's prominent Adam's apple jerked once, but his
lantern jaw thrust forward and he said with just the right tone of
indignation, "You've got no call to say I'm a liar. It was all
just like we told you. Why'd we want to tell lies about it? None of
us really knew the girl at all. It was just like I said, I went up to
get the rent and found her like that. Poisoned herself, she had.
Why'd we want to lie about it?"

"She'd been here a month," contributed his
wife insistently. "I'm sure I don't know why you'd call us
liars. We ought to know."

"She told me," said Mrs. Garvey
emotionally, "how downright miserable she'd been about her
boyfriend. His name was Jim. That was all she ever said. She thought
he wanted to marry her—"

"Who primed you with the pretty story?"
Mendoza's voice was sharp.

"I don't know what you mean. We just told you
the plain truth." Daggett was defiant. They weren't showing any
overt signs of nervousness, and when Higgins brought in the typed
statements they signed them without a tremor. Mendoza let them go. It
was nearly five-thirty.

"You're absolutely sure—"

"For God's sake, don't say it again, George."

"Well," said Palliser, "it's just your
word, but if we're working it by the book, there are obvious things
to do."

"So go and do them," said Mendoza. `

Palliser got waylaid in the hall by Jason Grace.
Grace had been wasting everybody's time enthusing about the new
addition to the family. They were planning a formal christening next
week and Celia couldn't wait to meet her new baby brother. They would
probably bring him home on Sunday. It had all been worth the long
wait—

Palliser said yes and fine and just before the end of
shift he got down to Communications. He sent off a teletype to the
Chicago force asking for any information they could dig up about a
Ruth Hoffman, description appended. Just on the very long chance he
got hold of Duke in the lab and asked him to wire the girl's prints
to Chicago. Mendoza sounded damn sure about the French girl, but on
the face of it, it was an unlikely story. Mendoza had on occasion
been known to be wrong. Palliser ruminated about it on the way home
to Hollywood, but when he got there it slid to the back of his mind
as he kissed Roberta.

"You feeling better?" She'd been having a
bout of morning sickness.

She smiled up at him as
two-year—old Davy came running. "I'm fine, the doctor said
it's nothing to worry about. Don't fuss, John."

* * *

HIGGINS WAS WONDERING about Ruth Hoffman, too—a
very offbeat thing, if Luis was right. But it was all up in the air
and Luis wasn't infallible; and it was likely to stay up in the air
because there was nothing to get hold of on it. Unless the French
police came up with something definite. But a lot of queer things had
shown up in Higgins' long years on this job, and he put it out of his
mind as he pulled into the drive of the rambling old house in Eagle
Rock.

Mary was just setting the
table. The little Scottie, Brucie, was underfoot demanding his
dinner. Laura Dwyer was busy over homework, Steve not yet home from
basketball practice. Their own Margaret Emily was cuddling a stuffed
toy on the living-room couch. Higgins built himself a drink and sat
down to relax before dinner. Thank God tomorrow was his day off.

* * *

THE NIGHT WATCH didn't leave them anything new, and
there were still a few statements to get on the pharmacy heist.
Hackett was fascinated with the Hoffman-Martin thing. "But what
the hell could be behind it, Luis?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," said
Mendoza. "And don't ask me if I'm sure it's the same girl. Not a
girl you'd forget. A good-looker in a distinctive way—"

"And you're just the boy to notice. I'll take
your word for it."

"
Ya pasó aquello
—I'm
a respectable married man."

"Well, we can try to pin it down. Wire photos
and prints to Chicago and the French police."

"It's done," said Mendoza, "but damn
it, Art, it's a long chance her prints  would be in French
records. The girl a perfectly respectable girl, what used to be
called a lady, and they don't print all the citizens any more than we
do."

"But eventually somebody will miss her,"
said Hackett reasonably, "and start asking questions. There was
the fiancé, she must've had friends who knew where she was going
here."

"
De veras
.
Eventually. By God, I'd like to know what the hell is behind it,
Art."

"These Daggetts. Do you think they were paid to
tell the tale?"

"I'm damned sure of it, and they're probably
regretting it now, but they're stuck with the story, and,
condenación
, I
should've let them think we'd swallowed it until there's something
concrete to throw at them."

"If there ever is," said Hackett.

Nothing had come in from Chicago. It was too early to
expect it. The lab sent up the photos Mendoza had requested, full
face and profile, close-ups of the lovely dead face, queerly more
dignified in death.

Hackett looked at them and admitted it wasn't a face
you'd forget. "But these Daggetts—what possible connection
with a French girl?"

"How should I know? I don't think there is any.
I think the Daggetts and the talkative widow are—mmh—just
background. Put in for verisimilitude as it were."

"How?" asked Hackett.

"For the nice money. The setup cost a little
something, if not much. The clothes, the stock of food, the cash on
hand, enough to bury the poor silly suicide, so maybe we wouldn't try
so hard to trace her back. And in a city the size of Chicago, how
many Ruth Hoffmans? How many living in the bosom of families not
listed anywhere? Those two letters, even minus the envelopes, a
plausible substitute for a suicide note."

"Very neat," agreed Hackett. "If you
hadn't just happened to have seen her before, it would've gone into a
routine report and got filed away. Well, wait and see what may turn
up."

"I want to ask some
questions about that library card," said Mendoza.

* * *

JUST BEFORE NOON Landers came in with one of the two
pharmacists on that Bryan killing. He had unexpectedly picked out a
photograph down in Records, identified it positively as one of the
heisters. The pedigree on file backed him up.

Joseph Bauman, Caucasian, six one, black and brown,
one-seventy, twenty-four two years ago. He'd been charged with one
count of armed robbery and prior to that with assault and possession
of controlled drugs. He'd got a one-to-three on the robbery count.
Landers got a statement from the witness and called the Welfare and
Rehab office to find out what they knew about Bauman. The address in
Records was two years old. A sergeant at that office looked up their
records and said Bauman was on parole since three months ago. He was
living at an address on Madera Avenue in Atwater and he had a job at
a chain fast-food place on Sixth Street.

Hackett went out with Landers to find him.

The manager at the fast-food store told him he hadn't
laid eyes on Bauman in a week. "And good riddance. That
probation officer talked me into hiring him. I didn't like the idea
so good, and that Bauman, he just doesn't want to work so hard—all
the time goofing off."

So they tried the place on Madera in Atwater, which
was I a modest frame house, neatly maintained, on the narrow side
street, and showed the badges to the fat, nondescript middle-aged
woman who answered the doorbell. She looked at them, and first she
looked alarmed and then resigned.

"He's in trouble again, is he? I just don't know
why. I tried to bring him up right. It was hard without my husband.
Joe's father got killed in an accident when Joe was only four, but I
tried. Lord knows I didn't spoil him. Tried to teach him right from
wrong."

"Is he here?" asked Hackett.