more
affluent than average; he was a C.P.A. They remembered the occasion
vividly, and told Higgins about it at length. They'd been on their
way home from a visit to Albrecht's sister in Hollywood, it was about
eight-thirty one Saturday night, and they'd stopped at a drugstore to
get cigarettes, a few other odds and ends. Just by chance they'd
parked around on a side street, pretty dark, down from Santa Monica
Boulevard; and when they came back to the car, this man was walking
toward them. With the dog. "A great big thing, one of these
Doberman pinschers," said Albrecht. "I don't mind most dogs
but I'm always leery of them. I was just unlocking the car when he
came up, and all of a sudden he stopped, and looked at us, and then
he said, ‘Excuse me.' "
"What?" said Higgins.
"That's right, he said, ‘Excuse me, but this
is a trained attack dog and I'll set him at you unless you hand over
your money.' "
"And?"
"Well, Betty let out a scream and told me for
goodness' sake not to argue—"
"I've always been scared of big dogs," she
confessed. "And it was so sudden—"
"How much did you give him?"
"I didn't have much on me, lucky for us. About
twelve dollars. And he just took off, walking kind of fast, and we
got in the car. I couldn't give you much of an idea what he looked
like—it was damned dark on the side street. He was about five
eleven, just a shape, had a hat on—tell you the truth, Sergeant, I
was watching the dog more than I was him."
"A horrible big brute it was," she said
with a shiver. "It had a head just: like a snake. I was
petrified."
Just as Higgins had
foreseen, that presented no lead to the enterprising heister with the
Doberman.
* * *
Mendoza had gone home, and Hackett was alone in the
office at a little past two o'clock; Landers and Grace had brought in
a possible suspect and were closeted in an interrogation room. When
Lake buzzed him, it was a Sergeant Tolliver of the Bakersfield force.
"Sorry to have taken a while to get back to you, but we've been
a little busy. This Bussard."
"What?" said Hackett, and then made the
connection. "Oh, yes." Those bodies yesterday—Glasser had
been on it, but he wasn't around now. "What have you turned up?"
"Nothing. The address you had, nobody there
knows him. But there are a couple of Bussards listed in the city
directory. You like us to follow it up and ask them?"
"We'll return the favor some day. It just looks
like a straight murder-suicide, but we'd like to get it cleared up,
and not stick the taxpayers for a funeral unless it's necessary."
"Okay, we'll get to it as soon as we can and get
back to you."
"Thanks so much," said Hackett. And that
reminded him of something else; he asked Lake to get him SID and
asked if the morgue had sent over those slugs. It had, and the
ballistics man said they were .38s. Glasser had also, of course, sent
over the gun, and it was a match; the slugs were out of the old S.
and W. .38. "This other one," said the ballistics man,
"looks like another thirty-eight, probably a Colt of some kind.
We'll get to it."
"Which other— Oh." The hospital would
have sent in the bullet from Price.
"You'll get a report."
Lake buzzed him again and said, "You've got a
new corpse."
"Oh, hell and damnation," said Hackett.
"Where?"
Palliser came in just as he was leaving, and tagged
along. It was a little street you'd never suspect was there, tucked
away off one side of a side street down from Echo Park Avenue. Its
name was Hope Lane. It was a dead-end street, with only six houses on
each side: little modest old houses, stucco and frame, on standard
city lots. The black-and-white was in front of the house last but one
on the right side. As Hackett pulled up behind it and they got out,
the street was very quiet; nothing stirred anywhere. Nobody seemed to
have noticed the presence of the squad, or to feel curious about it.
The patrolman was Ray Waring; he was waiting on the
sidewalk beside the squad, talking to a woman. "It's in the
affluent than average; he was a C.P.A. They remembered the occasion
vividly, and told Higgins about it at length. They'd been on their
way home from a visit to Albrecht's sister in Hollywood, it was about
eight-thirty one Saturday night, and they'd stopped at a drugstore to
get cigarettes, a few other odds and ends. Just by chance they'd
parked around on a side street, pretty dark, down from Santa Monica
Boulevard; and when they came back to the car, this man was walking
toward them. With the dog. "A great big thing, one of these
Doberman pinschers," said Albrecht. "I don't mind most dogs
but I'm always leery of them. I was just unlocking the car when he
came up, and all of a sudden he stopped, and looked at us, and then
he said, ‘Excuse me.' "
"What?" said Higgins.
"That's right, he said, ‘Excuse me, but this
is a trained attack dog and I'll set him at you unless you hand over
your money.' "
"And?"
"Well, Betty let out a scream and told me for
goodness' sake not to argue—"
"I've always been scared of big dogs," she
confessed. "And it was so sudden—"
"How much did you give him?"
"I didn't have much on me, lucky for us. About
twelve dollars. And he just took off, walking kind of fast, and we
got in the car. I couldn't give you much of an idea what he looked
like—it was damned dark on the side street. He was about five
eleven, just a shape, had a hat on—tell you the truth, Sergeant, I
was watching the dog more than I was him."
"A horrible big brute it was," she said
with a shiver. "It had a head just: like a snake. I was
petrified."
Just as Higgins had
foreseen, that presented no lead to the enterprising heister with the
Doberman.
* * *
Mendoza had gone home, and Hackett was alone in the
office at a little past two o'clock; Landers and Grace had brought in
a possible suspect and were closeted in an interrogation room. When
Lake buzzed him, it was a Sergeant Tolliver of the Bakersfield force.
"Sorry to have taken a while to get back to you, but we've been
a little busy. This Bussard."
"What?" said Hackett, and then made the
connection. "Oh, yes." Those bodies yesterday—Glasser had
been on it, but he wasn't around now. "What have you turned up?"
"Nothing. The address you had, nobody there
knows him. But there are a couple of Bussards listed in the city
directory. You like us to follow it up and ask them?"
"We'll return the favor some day. It just looks
like a straight murder-suicide, but we'd like to get it cleared up,
and not stick the taxpayers for a funeral unless it's necessary."
"Okay, we'll get to it as soon as we can and get
back to you."
"Thanks so much," said Hackett. And that
reminded him of something else; he asked Lake to get him SID and
asked if the morgue had sent over those slugs. It had, and the
ballistics man said they were .38s. Glasser had also, of course, sent
over the gun, and it was a match; the slugs were out of the old S.
and W. .38. "This other one," said the ballistics man,
"looks like another thirty-eight, probably a Colt of some kind.
We'll get to it."
"Which other— Oh." The hospital would
have sent in the bullet from Price.
"You'll get a report."
Lake buzzed him again and said, "You've got a
new corpse."
"Oh, hell and damnation," said Hackett.
"Where?"
Palliser came in just as he was leaving, and tagged
along. It was a little street you'd never suspect was there, tucked
away off one side of a side street down from Echo Park Avenue. Its
name was Hope Lane. It was a dead-end street, with only six houses on
each side: little modest old houses, stucco and frame, on standard
city lots. The black-and-white was in front of the house last but one
on the right side. As Hackett pulled up behind it and they got out,
the street was very quiet; nothing stirred anywhere. Nobody seemed to
have noticed the presence of the squad, or to feel curious about it.
The patrolman was Ray Waring; he was waiting on the
sidewalk beside the squad, talking to a woman. "It's in the
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