oblige. You’ve got quite a place here, haven’t you?' He eyed Hackett interestedly, one big man to another. 'If you don’t want this pair, we do.'
'Maybe you’d better hang around until we find out.'
Mendoza looked at the Kings, who were huddled together on the bench beside the switchboard. 'Tom in, Art? He’s the one decided we were interested.' Hackett went to see, and came back with Landers. They shepherded the Kings down the hall to an interrogation room while Mendoza offered to show Richards around.
The Kings looked like birds of a feather. They were in the early twenties, both with the long hair, both slightly scruffy and unkempt. Gerald King was short and sandy, with the red-rimmed eyes and persistent cough of the user; Nita was short and inclined to be too fat. They sat behind the little table and looked at the police fearfully, sullenly, defiantly.
'About Rodrigo Peralta,' said Landers. 'We’ve heard several people say you were going to see him that night, a week ago tonight. What about it, did you?'
They didn’t look at each other, and neither said anything. 'Come on, did you'?' repeated Landers.
'No,' said the girl. 'No, we didn’t see Roddy that night, not for a long time.'
'Then why did you pack up and run away?'
'We wasn’t running anywhere,' said King. 'We just went off on a trip.'
'With Roddy’s supply of marijuana?' said Hackett. 'It wasn’t his, it was mine.'
'Where’d you get it?' asked Landers.
'None of your damn business, pig.'
It went on like that for quite a while, and Hackett and Landers were thinking it was a waste of time, until Landers happened to mention that one of their informants from the disco was Leona Petty. Nita turned on her husband and said, 'I told you to lay off that bitch! You hanging around her again that night, sweet-talking hey just because I danced a couple times with Rusty-'
'Couple times! You were with him half the afternoon,' said King, 'and I’ll talk to who I damn please, and you can-'
'And you had to tell her we was going to see Roddy, ask for the grass, so naturally she spills it to the damn pigs and they-'
'Well, Jesus’ sake, how’d I know what was going to happen when we got there, damn it? I never meant to kill anybody, did I? But-oh,' said King. 'Oh.' He looked at Hackett and Landers. 'Oh, hell.'
'So why did you'?' asked Landers.
'Him!' she said with an angry sob. 'The big man! Roddy askin’ too much bread, and he has to think, pull the knife and scare him, only Roddy tried to grab it-'
'Let’s go book them in, Tom.' In the corridor outside Hackett added, 'I see just what George means. It’s a wonder we retain any brains at all, associating with these-these so-called homo sapiens. I swear my five-year-o1d’s got better sense!'
It stopped raining on Tuesday, but only momentarily, and on Wednesday the weather bureau made the front page: the most rain in one continual fall since 1877, but clearing promised for tomorrow and no more to come. Everybody made satiric remarks about that: wait and see. Grace hadn’t found Isabel Hopper yet; she hadn’t been home since Monday, and the neighbor left to baby-sit the kids hadn’t an idea where she was.
Higgins was off, and the rest of them wandering around looking for the possibles on the heist jobs. Hackett had come back briefly just as they had a call from Traffic to a new body. Swearing, he went out on that, passing Galeano on his way. It had somehow got to be two-thirty. 'Look,' said Galeano, 'we’ll never get anywhere on this Schultz thing. Rich and I have been out on it, and there’s nothing. Naturally S.I.D. didn’t pick up anything at the scene, it was wet as hell. I vote we stick it in Pending now.'
'Save time,' murmured Mendoza, and Sergeant Lake looked in.
'You’ve got a visitor, Nick.'
Galeano turned, and she came in uninvited, a little breathless, looking somehow different, more alive-Marta Fleming. She had thrown the hood back from her thick waving tawny hair, and under the coat she was wearing her waitress’s uniform from the Globe Grill. She looked hopeful, uncertain, excited.
Mendoza stood up and said, 'Mrs. Fleming.'
'Marta-what is it?'
'I had to come at once,' she said to Galeano. 'At once when I read it-I could not believe it, but it is! It is! And, oh, if it should tell us-if he could tell us-what happened, where he is! That has been the nightmare, not to know. But I knew you must hear at once, I do not even change from my uniform, I must bring it-'
'Hey now, slow down,' said Galeano. 'Bring what?'
With shaking hands she set down her handbag on Mendoza’s desk, a big worn brown leather bag, and unfastened the straps. She took out of it a fat envelope with two big green foreign stamps on it, the writing square, foreign-looking. She took the letter out, held it. 'You do not read German? No-then I must tell you, explain what- how it is. I told you'--she was talking to Galeano-'how that day I remembered my letter to Elisa. How I came home to fetch it, to post it, and I was in such a hurry because of getting to the shops-so I fold up the letter and put it in the envelope and I rush off to post it.'
'Yes. Take it easy, now. All right.'
'Well! I told you also, we cannot afford to send letters by air, it is so expensive, even if it takes so long by sea-three weeks and more sometimes. But today-half an hour ago-I came home, and there is mail, and this letter by air mail from Elisa. She and Mama were so surprised-I had said nothing of all this, somehow I could not bring myself-I kept thinking, we should find out what happened and then I can tell them, he is dead. They could not understand it, but they knew it was important, so Elisa writes and sends it by air mail-'
'The letter? Why?' Galeano was slow on the uptake, watching her excited bright eyes.
'And this! This! It was the only writing paper in the apartment-I see just how it came about-my own tablet. Edwin used it, and left the sheet on top of my letter, and in such a hurry I must have gathered it all up together, put it in the envelope- But you see-you see! It is what I have said all the time, he meant to kill himself!' She thrust the whole sheaf of paper at Galeano.
Four, five sheets written closely in German. And the extra sheet-the same cheap stationery torn from a dime-store tablet-in another hand.
'?Media vuelta! ' said Mendoza, looking over his shoulder '?Ya esta! And how simple when you know. But what a damned queer-'
It was Edwin Fleming’s suicide note, the scrawl of a man ill-educated and also probably half drunk-see what the lab experts said about that. Dear Marta, I say good-bye and good luck. Youve been good to me and Im no use to you or anyboddy so I better get out of it Ill be glad to. Old Ojerdol is goin to help me. You deserv better good girl I hope you find better life, Edwin.
'I will be Goddamned!' said Galeano. 'I will be-'
'Offerdahl!' said Mendoza, making it sound like a curse. 'That drunken old bum-but he barely knew the man- Porvida, we’ll hear what he has to say about this-'
'But I do not think so, immediately,' said Marta.
Suddenly she chuckled, a warm infectious chuckle that did funny things to Galeano. 'Mr. Offerdahl-there was a terrible disturbance last night, he comes knocking at every door, shouting that God is bringing a new flood and we must run for our lives. And then he fell down in the hall, and I thought he was dead, but Mr. Del Sardo called an ambulance and the attendant said it was the D.T.’s. I do not know what-but he is in the hospital, and not dead, and please God he will tell us-'
Mendoza burst out laughing. 'I only hope to God he isn’t right-I want to hear about this!'
It was Thursday morning before Offerdahl was sufficiently dried out to talk to them coherently. Flat in the hospital bed, the first time they’d seen him sober and halfway sensible, he was weak and wan and remorseful. He blinked up at Mendoza, Galeano, Marta, and said, 'Fleming. I was sorry for the poor fellow. Haven’t-haven’t you
