Very exclusive, expensive houses up there. Had X been familiar with it, or picked it at random?
He slid the Ferrari into the garage; he went out, pressed the electric-eye button to close the door. Very quietly he let himself into the dark house. But as he went down the hall he saw light there under the nursery door and softly opened it to look in.
'Well, you are late and no lie,' said Mrs. MacTaggart.
'What's wrong, Mairi?'
'Nought at all much. I've been up a bit with young Johnny, but they run a wee temperature for nothing at all, times. He's gone off peaceful as you please now, you can see. Just a bit fretful like.” El Senor, self-appointed guardian of the twins, had joined her sleepily and was sitting on the foot of Master John's crib, playing watch cat.
'Sure?' Mendoza looked down at the flushed sleeping twins. It was very odd, suddenly, the idea that they were his; he could hardly disown it, young Master John with that uncannily identical widow's peak, if he had Alison's hazel-green eyes. He didn't know much about the twins, thought Mendoza suddenly. The little monsters who'd kept them awake at night until they found that treasure, Mrs. MacTaggart. Of course at this age, he supposed, they hadn't developed very distinct personalities maybe. He wasn't around them enough to say, really.
Miss Teresa moved restlessly and one pink thumb found its automatic way to her mouth. Mendoza yawned. He thought vaguely, start any sort of job, you ought to see it's done properly. He ought to know more about them. Try to be around more.
But things came up…
'You are tired to death, man,' said Mrs. MacTaggart softly. 'Can I not get you something? A nice cup of hot broth now? Or a hot whiskey and lemon maybe?'
'No, thanks, Mairi, I'm fine.'
She surveyed him calmly, drawing him out to the hall.
'If a lie could have choked you, that would have done it. We are only waiting on God's will. Go to your bed, man.'
He went on down the hall. El Senor had opened the bedroom door to join Mrs. MacTaggart when she'd first gotten up to check on the twins. Mendoza shut it and began to undress. Alison was asleep, but stirred and muttered his name drowsily as he got into bed.
He would not sleep, of course. Another full day tomorrow. Go and see that Anita Sheldon? No, first get the court order to look at the Corliss woman's safe-deposit box. That list. Yes, and what would that tell him? Nothing really. No real lead there; she'd said there hadn't been trouble over a patient. Hell.
Cast your bread upon the waters… How did it go on? Something about, it shall be returned to you in many days. That didn't sound quite right. Scriptures. Prayer. Only there was nothing to pray to
… just the way the hand got dealt round.
He decided quite suddenly that if Art died he'd resign from the force. Even apart from this thing-working overtime at the job, the fascinating job, when it wasn't necessary. Not fair to Alison; not fair to the twins, as time went on.
He lay thinking about that, staring into the darkness. And El Senor, shut out from his mother and sisters, rattled the doorknob impatiently until he tripped the latch, slid in, and landed with a thud on the bed on top of Nefertite, who spat at him sleepily.
Who might get his desk? Mendoza wondered. If? Higgins was the next senior sergeant after Art, but they'd probably bring in somebody from outside-the senior sergeant from Vice or Narcotics. Little shake-up all round. If.
What would he do with himself all day? Learn to live a new kind of life. Play a little. More time with Alison and the twins.
More than half his lifetime, jettisoned. And God, he'd seen friends killed on duty before, but…
He had known he wouldn't sleep, but he slept, heavily; and woke feeling stupid and slow. It was six o'clock. That much sleep anyway. Six o'clock Tuesday morning, and- He got up, shaved and dressed, went out to the living room and called the hospital. The patient's condition was unchanged.
He thought, Friday night. Call it eighty hours. MacFarlane: be feeling much more hopeful if…
He went out to the kitchen. Mrs. MacTaggart was already there, making coffee. Of course, of course. Her damned novena: out to the church first thing for nine days.
'You will stop for breakfast somewhere,' she said severely.
'Yes, all right.' Suddenly he realized he was ravenous. He did stop, at a Manning's coffee shop on Vermont, and had three eggs, a double order of bacon, and four cups of coffee. When he got to the office he was feeling more like the old Mendoza, the boy with a little reputation on this force.
By the time the lab man came in he'd got quite a bit done. He'd started the machinery going to get that court order on Margaret Corliss' safe-deposit box. He'd looked over the night reports-they'd had four men looking all around that area of the Slasher's latest job, but they'd turned up nothing. He had got the other warrant on Corliss, charging her with complicity in Nestor's abortion trade. He'd talked that over with the D.A.'s office, and the charge on Webster. The D.A.'s office didn't think they'd press an accessory charge on Webster: too vague.
He had called Mrs. Anita Sheldon to ask if she'd be at home this morning; he wanted to talk to her. She had sounded very frightened. 'You can't come here! Oh, please-if Bob ever got to know, he'd- And it's his day off, I can't-”
'Would you prefer to come to my office? Say eleven o'clock?'
'Oh dear. Oh, I guess so-if I've got to-there won't be any reporters, will there? I don't know anything to tell you about Frank, really, I didn't know him very well-'
He had called the Elger apartment and got no answer. Called Elger's office and been told Elger was out somewhere with a client.
When the lab man came in Mendoza was studying the official shots of Nestor's body. They weren't telling him much. He had a little box full of the contents of Nestor's pockets on his desk; he looked at it and picked up the button. That ordinary little button that had been clutched in Nestor's dead fingers. The clue out of the detective story.
'Morning,' said the lab man, whose name was Duke.
'Say, I've got a little something, I-'
'Hold it a minute,' said Mendoza. 'Jimmy! I must be going senile. Jimmy, I want search warrants for the quarters of every male in the Nestor case. Let's see, Webster, Elger, this Bob Sheldon, every legitimate male patient he had, every man listed in his address book, every male he knew. To look at their clothes. Just in case. It's possible X didn't realize he'd lost a button. You never know where you'll hit pay dirt. Damn it, it's a very long chance, but-'
He looked at Duke. 'What have you got?' `
Duke laid a pair of shoes on the desk. 'We're always damn busy,' he said, 'but we've been concentrating on Hackett the last couple of days. As you can imagine.'
Duke was snub-nosed, freckle-faced, and right now looking pleased with himself. 'We've been going over his clothes, for any little thing that might show up. Now it is your job to say what this might mean, but for what it's worth, it looks kind of interesting to me. Not to say suggestive. These are his shoes, I just got to them this morning.'
'Yes?' said Mendoza.
They were a pair of black moccasin-type shoes, middling expensive, well worn but polished. Mendoza thought absently, Size 11B.
Duke lifted them and held them toward him heel first. 'Look at that. They're not new shoes, but they've been taken care of. Kept polished. But here, on both heels-that is, the back of both shoes above the heels-is this deep scrape. The surface of the leather's entirely gone, violently scraped off-more on the left than on the right one.'
'Yes, I see.'
