Marlowe laughed deprecatingly. "Yes,
when I saw that, I left."
"I see. And he didn't say anything to give you
an idea where he was going next?" Of course he wouldn't have;
that was clutching at straws. Marlowe said he hadn't. "Yes. Mr.
Marlowe, you know Mrs. Nestor quite well, I understand. Did she and
her husband quarrel much? Do you think she might have a--man friend
outside her marriage?"
Marlowe stared at him. "What on earth gives you
that idea? Absolutely not, I'd say. Oh, they didn't care for the same
things, perhaps, but I think, between us, she was more or less
resigned to his--call it extracurricular activities. And even if she
hadn't been, I don't see what on earth you're getting at there ....
After all, that could have nothing to do with--" Marlowe
stopped, his mouth open foolishly. "Unless you're thinking it
wasn't a burglary, that . . . ? Why, good God, it never crossed my
mind--but Andrea! No, really, Lieutenant, if you're thinking along
that line, it's quite ridiculous! I've known her since she was a
child, and--" He stopped again, looking thoughtful, and then
shrugged.
"Well, we try to be thorough," said
Mendoza. "Do you mind telling me where you went from there?"
"Well, I came home," said Marlowe stiffly.
"Here. I was here for the rest of the evening. Paul could tell
you that. The rest of the family was out, but--"
"Thanks very much," said Mendoza, getting
up leisurely. Marlowe hadn't quite recovered from his little
surprise; covertly he was still studying Mendoza, from his sleek
widow's peak, trim mustache, Sulka tie, and gold links to the
custom-made shoes. And feeling puzzled. Let him, thought Mendoza. And
he wondered what had suddenly entered Marlowe's mind just then, when
he'd stopped and looked thoughtful, about Andrea Nestor.
He'd crossed her off--on Art--because she'd admitted
he'd been there. But the assault on Art could trace back to the other
case. So maybe Andrea had got fed up with her charming, crooked
husband and got rid of him the permanent way.
Crooked. Pro crooked, he
thought. And that was going to be one hell of a tricky thing to
prove, all legal.
* * *
The Elgers lived at a nice upper-class address too,
on Normandie in Hollywood. At eleven o'clock on Sunday morning he
hoped to find them home.
Cliff Elger was listed twice in the Hollywood phone
book: at the Normandie address and as Cliff Elger and Associates on
Hollywood Boulevard. Mendoza deduced that that meant he was an agent
of some kind.
The nearest parking slot that would take the Ferrari
was half a block away from the apartment. Walking back, Mendoza was
thinking that he'd been out of touch with the hospital for several
hours. For a second something seemed to constrict his breathing.
Nothing he could do, nothing, but what he was doing.
Trying to do.
How many years had it been? Art had just made
rank--detective--and he'd been new in the homicide office, as
sergeant, after eight years down in Vice. Eleven years. A little
better than eleven years. You got to know a man damn well, working
with him for eleven years.
Not the safest job in the world, no. But the risk of
a random bullet from some hood's gun, the unavoidable crash in a
high-speed pursuit, you expected. The deliberate, private
assault--that was something different. He had a moment of
unprecedented black pessimism. This Nestor thing could easily be just
what it looked like: the casual break-in. And that Slasher so damned
anonymous. Trying to wreck the Daylight. Somebody who liked to watch
train wrecks. So maybe somebody who'd set up another kind of wreck.
And where to look for him? A thin man with a red face, said a boy
....
He thought it might be a useful idea to get the
newspapers to run a photostat of that signature in the hotel
register. Somebody might recognize it.
The apartment was a new one, very square and modern.
There was a sign in front: Now Renting, 1 and 2 bedrooms, from $250.
The hell of a lot of money to pay out every four weeks, he thought.
He
when I saw that, I left."
"I see. And he didn't say anything to give you
an idea where he was going next?" Of course he wouldn't have;
that was clutching at straws. Marlowe said he hadn't. "Yes. Mr.
Marlowe, you know Mrs. Nestor quite well, I understand. Did she and
her husband quarrel much? Do you think she might have a--man friend
outside her marriage?"
Marlowe stared at him. "What on earth gives you
that idea? Absolutely not, I'd say. Oh, they didn't care for the same
things, perhaps, but I think, between us, she was more or less
resigned to his--call it extracurricular activities. And even if she
hadn't been, I don't see what on earth you're getting at there ....
After all, that could have nothing to do with--" Marlowe
stopped, his mouth open foolishly. "Unless you're thinking it
wasn't a burglary, that . . . ? Why, good God, it never crossed my
mind--but Andrea! No, really, Lieutenant, if you're thinking along
that line, it's quite ridiculous! I've known her since she was a
child, and--" He stopped again, looking thoughtful, and then
shrugged.
"Well, we try to be thorough," said
Mendoza. "Do you mind telling me where you went from there?"
"Well, I came home," said Marlowe stiffly.
"Here. I was here for the rest of the evening. Paul could tell
you that. The rest of the family was out, but--"
"Thanks very much," said Mendoza, getting
up leisurely. Marlowe hadn't quite recovered from his little
surprise; covertly he was still studying Mendoza, from his sleek
widow's peak, trim mustache, Sulka tie, and gold links to the
custom-made shoes. And feeling puzzled. Let him, thought Mendoza. And
he wondered what had suddenly entered Marlowe's mind just then, when
he'd stopped and looked thoughtful, about Andrea Nestor.
He'd crossed her off--on Art--because she'd admitted
he'd been there. But the assault on Art could trace back to the other
case. So maybe Andrea had got fed up with her charming, crooked
husband and got rid of him the permanent way.
Crooked. Pro crooked, he
thought. And that was going to be one hell of a tricky thing to
prove, all legal.
* * *
The Elgers lived at a nice upper-class address too,
on Normandie in Hollywood. At eleven o'clock on Sunday morning he
hoped to find them home.
Cliff Elger was listed twice in the Hollywood phone
book: at the Normandie address and as Cliff Elger and Associates on
Hollywood Boulevard. Mendoza deduced that that meant he was an agent
of some kind.
The nearest parking slot that would take the Ferrari
was half a block away from the apartment. Walking back, Mendoza was
thinking that he'd been out of touch with the hospital for several
hours. For a second something seemed to constrict his breathing.
Nothing he could do, nothing, but what he was doing.
Trying to do.
How many years had it been? Art had just made
rank--detective--and he'd been new in the homicide office, as
sergeant, after eight years down in Vice. Eleven years. A little
better than eleven years. You got to know a man damn well, working
with him for eleven years.
Not the safest job in the world, no. But the risk of
a random bullet from some hood's gun, the unavoidable crash in a
high-speed pursuit, you expected. The deliberate, private
assault--that was something different. He had a moment of
unprecedented black pessimism. This Nestor thing could easily be just
what it looked like: the casual break-in. And that Slasher so damned
anonymous. Trying to wreck the Daylight. Somebody who liked to watch
train wrecks. So maybe somebody who'd set up another kind of wreck.
And where to look for him? A thin man with a red face, said a boy
....
He thought it might be a useful idea to get the
newspapers to run a photostat of that signature in the hotel
register. Somebody might recognize it.
The apartment was a new one, very square and modern.
There was a sign in front: Now Renting, 1 and 2 bedrooms, from $250.
The hell of a lot of money to pay out every four weeks, he thought.
He
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