'Well? What is it?'
'This one',-Max lifted the first print--'is one of the prints we got off that S.P. switch. Whoever tried to wreck the Daylight. And this one, which is the exact same print of, probably, somebody's forefinger, I got off Loretta Lincoln's nice shiny plastic bag last night. After-like we know-our Slasher had rifled it. It's not hers or her husband's or her sister's.'
'What?' exclaimed Palliser blankly. 'For God's sake-you don't mean-'
Mendoza sat back and said, '?Y que respondes tri a esto? So the Slasher was the X who tried to wreck the Daylight. A hundred to one and no takers against. And that job called for a little planning ahead, didn't it? Pues si. He had to know what time to be there, what trains were coming through before, to throw that switch at the right time. So our Slasher isn't quite the brainless lout he looks, is he? Yes, and maybe somebody who likes to see train wrecks might take it into his head it'd be fun to send a car over a cliff. Maybe, instead of using his knife on a cop who dropped on him, he did set up the faked accident. On a sudden whim.' He looked round the group. 'Who wants to bet?'
The outside phone rang and all of them stiffened to frightened attention.
It was Rhodes of Traffic, calling from somewhere unspecified to say sadly that they'd done what they could with the wrecked Ford and nothing useful had turned up. Just the lack of prints on anything a driver would touch, which of course said that somebody other than Hackett had last driven it.
'Yes,' said Mendoza. He thought somebody had better notify Hackett's insurance agent to put in a claim on the car. He thanked Rhodes. He put down the phone and said, 'I don't suppose you've just been sitting around mourning all day, boys. What have you got?'
They hadn't got much. The desk clerk's denial. Neither Mrs. Nestor nor Margaret Corliss had been located to question, nor Ruth Elger and her husband. They had seen about half the people listed in Nestor's address book, all of whom denied that Hackett had called on them last night.
'I went up there and asked around-that canyon road,' said Palliser. 'I don't know how much it's worth, but the people who live in the place nearest where he went over-a Mr. and Mrs. Roy Baker-say they heard a car evidently being turned around in the road, about ten forty-five. It's rather an exclusive district up there, big places- quiet road. But the houses are set back, and you'd think if they'd heard that, they'd have heard the car go over- though, of course, it didn't hit anything to make a loud crash, just plowed through all that underbrush on the way down. They say the car sounded old and noisy.'
'Yes.' Detective sergeants with families couldn't afford nice new cars. 'Doesn't say much, no.' Mendoza looked at his watch. 'You've all had a day and so have I, but there's a little of it left. I want Art's notebook.' Palliser handed it over. 'I'll go see the desk clerk and check back on Mrs. Nestor. John, would you feel like checking back on the Corliss woman? O.K. The rest of you can keep trying to locate the other names in his address book.' He got up.
The Ferrari was home in the garage. He went downstairs and commandeered a patrol car, drove over to Third Street. The hotel was called the Liverpool Arms, ostentatiously. It was a fourth-class place, old and shabby: probably had more semi-permanents than transients. The block was solidly filled with parked cars; he left the squad car in front of a hydrant. It was just nine o'clock: the clerk would be here.
Inside, the lobby was narrow: bare wooden floor, a steep flight of stairs, uncarpeted, at the back; one ancient-looking self-service elevator. The desk was no more than a long narrow counter, with a sagging old armchair behind it, a makeshift shelf of mail slots hung on the wall. A door there led into some inner room. The register, closed and dusty, was on the counter; the clerk was in the chair, leaning back with closed eyes, half asleep.
Mendoza tapped on the counter and the clerk jerked upright. 'Oh-all right, right with you,' he said in a grumbling tone. He wasn't a very prepossessing specimen. About sixty, bald, with sagging jowls and a gross big paunch above his belt. His gray-white shirt and stained, wrinkled trousers had seen better days. He hadn't shaved that day or, probably, the day before, and he showed about five snaggly yellow teeth in his upper jaw, none below. He blinked at Mendoza. 'You wanna room?'
'I want to ask you a few questions,' said Mendoza sharply, and showed his badge. 'A Sergeant Hackett's been here to question you before?'
'Yeah, but he wasn't here last night. I told 'em that. I ain't lyin' about it, why'd I lie about it?' The clerk's eyes shifted.
'I could imagine reasons,' said Mendoza. 'Look at me! What's your name?'
'Telfer. Adam Telfer. I got no reason-'
'Listen to me, Telfer. I'm in no mood to go the long way round on this! Look at me, not the floor. You know the man I mean?'
'I know him. Great big sandy feller. He's been here, but not last night. I ain't lyin'-' But his eyes kept shifting.
Mendoza reached out, took him by one shoulder, and shook him savagely. 'Look at me! I can take you in, you know, and grill you better at headquarters! The truth, now!'
'You leave me be- Why'd I lie about it? He wasn't here.”
'All right. You saw the other man-the one who rented the room where the body was found. Keep looking at me!' He tightened his grip.
'Yeah. I said so. But not good, see? It was only a minute.'
'Tell me what he looked like.'
'I told 'em-them other cops-I don't know. I didn't see him good at all. Honest I never. It was only a minute- he stood sidewise to the counter and he had a hat pulled over his eyes-I didn't-'
'He paid you two-fifty for one night and he signed the register. He was standing right here for at least three minutes, probably more, right under the overhead light. Tell me more, friend. What age was he? Dark or light? What was he wearing?'
'I didn't-' Telfer swallowed; he looked panicky. 'I-they was a couple of bulbs out o' the light, it wasn't as light as it is now-”
'I don't want excuses, I want answers,' said Mendoza very gently. He wanted suddenly, violently, to use his fists on this stupid creature obstructing him. He let go of the man's shoulder. 'Begin at the beginning. It was about ten o'clock. He came in. What did he say?'
'Said he wanted a room, I guess. I told 'em all that before.'
'You guess? Don't you remember?'
'Sure I remember. I remember that. But, like I say, the light wasn't so good then as it is now, and I-'
'Did you know him? Had you seen him before? Pal of yours maybe?'
'Jesus, no! Me, knowin' one like that? I said-'
'You saw him, God damn you, and you're going to tell me more or I'll take you in right now! Brace me, Telfer. We can help your memory down at headquarters-'
'I told 'em,' said Telfer. He was nearly in tears. 'He was-sort of medium, 's all. And he kept turned sideways, and he had this hat. .. And the light--'
'Anybody back you up about the dead bulbs?'
Telfer looked away, cringing. 'I dunno if anybody else noticed, why should anybody-'
'Who put in new ones?'
'Damn it, I did. I don't hafta take- I told 'em all I-'
Mendoza looked at him, feeling very tired. He said abruptly, 'You'll be seeing more of us,' and turned on his heel.
SEVEN
The apartment building on Kenmore Avenue where the Nestors had lived was an old one but reasonably well
