yourself, if you hadn't been the one to look at the corpse, it's on the cards we'd have bought that suicide at face value and written it off. Asked Chicago to do a little checking for a family, but with such a common name we wouldn't have been surprised when they couldn't find any. There was enough money left on her to pay for a funeral-and adidos. A month, two months later, what's to connect her with a Juliette Martin reported missing from France? Even if they wired photos, how many bodies per week do we see?'
'More than most divisions,' said Mendoza.
'I still think we ought to bring the Daggetts in and grill them, hot and heavy.'
Mendoza laughed sharply. 'And on two counts I don't think it'd be any use, Art. In the first place, unless we could show them proof that we know they're lying, they'll stick to their story. But more important, I don't think they know much to tell. That was such a-what's the word I want-a very crafty little operation.'
'How do you mean?'
'So simple, so plausible, but showing the ultimate cunning. I think all X wanted of the Daggetts was that convenient apartment, the key to it, the nice rent receipts, and the story. Somehow I don't think this particular X would lay himself open to possible blackmail from the Daggetts.'
'There is that. All I say is we'll have to wait for any answers. Eventually, somebody will miss her and ask questions.'
Mendoza stabbed out his cigarette and at last released the parking brake and pulled the Ferrari out to the street.
GALEANO HAD ROPED Jason Grace into helping on the legwork. They had broken the seal on the door and gone through the Eberhart apartment. There was an address book with not many names in it, but among them was an Alice Bickerstaff, an address and phone number in Cleveland, Ohio. Galeano let Grace do the calling. Grace's soft voice was always reassuring to witnesses.
It was the daughter. And of course she reacted expectably. When Grace got her talking coherently, she couldn't tell him anything useful. She hadn't heard from her mother since last week, and the letter hadn't said anything about any trouble, any worry, just how hot it was and how tired the job made her. Her mother hadn't had any really close friends. She didn't go out much. About her best friend was a Mrs. Cora Delaney. 'But, of course, it must have been a burglar. The crime rate is so high and that wasn't a very nice part of town, only it's anywhere these days-and it's awful to say, but we couldn't afford anything for a funeral, my husband's been out of work-'
Grace assured her that there seemed to be nearly a thousand dollars in her mother's checking account. They had found the bankbook. He told her about the mandatory autopsy. 'Would you like an undertaker here to arrange a funeral, Mrs. Bickerstaff? We can give you a couple of names.'
'Oh, it's just awful to say-' But she sounded relieved. 'Oh would you'? I guess that'd be the easiest thing to do, thank you.'
There were still a couple of hours till the end of shift. They drove up to Hollywood to locate the only man who figured in the address book-a Pete Openshaw, at an address on Kingsley. It was an apartment house very much like the one Rose Eberhart had lived in, and Openshaw was sitting in a shabby living room with the door and all the windows open and an electric fan going three feet away. He'd been reading a paperback western. He was a nondescript fellow, about fifty, partly bald, with a snub nose and friendly blue eyes. He was astonished and grieved to hear the news. ‘
'Say, that's a hell of a terrible thing, Rose dead. An attack of some kind? My God, I'm sorry to hear it.'
They asked questions and he answered quite openly.
'Well, she always brought her car into the station where I work down on Alvarado. That's how we got to know each other. And since I lost my wife, I didn't fancy getting hooked up again and neither did Rose, she'd had two marriages go sour on her-but sometimes it's nice to have somebody to go out with, know what I mean? Neither of us had the money to go to fancy restaurants or shows, but we went to a movie now and then or to some place for Sunday breakfast. You know, like that.' The last time he had seen her was last Sunday. They had gone to a movie in Hollywood.
'Did she mention anything about any trouble with anybody? Any argument?'
Openshaw said, 'Nothing like that, Rose was easygoing. She wasn't one for arguments or to go fault-finding. She never said nothing about any trouble.'
'Wou1d you know who her closest woman friend was?'
'I guess I'd say Cora Delaney. They'd known each other a long time.'
That address had been in the book too, Beachwood Drive. They found it, a modest frame house, but the open garage was empty and nobody answered the bell.
'Anyway,' said Grace, 'we'd better see what the autopsy report says so we know what we're talking about.'
They drove back to Parker Center and called it a day.
HACKETT WAS LATE getting home. The traffic on the freeway was murder at this hour. It was farther to drive, to the rambling old house on a dead-end street high in Altadena, but it was just slightly cooler up there. He came out of the garage to head for the back door, and Mark and Sheila came shrieking a greeting with the monstrous mongrel, Laddie, bounding after them. Hackett hugged the children and was nearly knocked down by Laddie, who seemed to be getting bigger by the day. Fifty-seven varieties all right, and the new higher fence had cost a bundle, but he was good with the children. The only member of the household who didn't appreciate Laddie was the dignified great Persian, Silver Boy, who was a middle-aged cat and resistant to change. After a few indignant claws had connected, Laddie had learned to keep his distance, wistfully. There was nothing Laddie loved more than new friends.
Hackett went in the back door to blessed air-conditioning. Angel was setting the table. 'I was just starting to worry about you,' she said.
'Traffic,' said Hackett, bending to kiss her.
'Murder, I know. Good day, darling‘?'
'Unproductive,' said Hackett. 'It got up to a hundred, by the radio.'
'I know. Thank God I didn't have to go out anywhere, and I've kept the kids in until it started to cool off about an hour ago. Do you want a drink before dinner?'
SATURDAY NIGHT on the Central beat could be busy. But if the heat stirred up the violent emotions, it also kept people ready to stay inside. The night watch got called out only twice the whole shift. The first call was a hit- run on Beverly with a young woman D.O. A, and there had been plenty of witnesses to say the car had run a light and was going about forty, but no one had got the plate number and there was confusion about a description of the car. The consensus was that it had been a medium-sized sedan, not very old, not very new.
Traffic was probably busy writing tickets and dealing with drunks, but the night watch sat and waited until the second call came in at just on midnight. Piggott had finished the report on the hit-run. Schenke was reading a paperback historical novel. Conway was just sitting. When the desk called, it didn't sound like much. A body in the street. Conway went out to look, expecting the drunken derelict, and that was almost what it was. On a quiet, run- down side street, just up from Venice Boulevard, the man dead in the gutter wasn't more than twenty-five. He hadn't been dead long and the minute Conway laid eyes on him in the glare of the squad-car headlights he knew what the autopsy report would say.
'Christ,' he said disgustedly to the uniformed man.
'These stupid damn punks. Rotting what brains they have on the dope.'
The uniformed man said succinctly, 'They've got no brains to start with or they wouldn't.'
Conway went over him. There wasn't any I.D., but in one of his pantspockets was a cardboard box with
