understand now it's not like it used to
be, this chiropractic thing, a six-week course anybody could
take--it's like a regular college course, and they have to take all
the pre-med classes. He may have turned quite a few unethical bucks,
but he was really interested in it and no fool, you know. I don't
know how much it's worth to you, Sergeant, because I couldn't say
whether it was so, but he told me once his family had had a lot of
money, he'd always had everything, and been going to go to medical
school and so on, but after his father died his mother got hooked by
some con man and lost it all. He said he'd made up his mind to get
his however he could--he was kind of bitter about it."
"And that might figure too," said Hackett.
"Could be. Now, you knew him pretty well, Mr. Clay. This could
be what it looks like, the break-in after drugs or cash, and the
impulsive assault. But not so many burglars carry guns. It could also
be a private kill. And generally speaking, in a case of murder, the
deceased has done something--or been something--to trigger it off.
Could you make any guesses as to who might have wanted Nestor dead?
Off the record--just between us."
"Hell," said Clay, "that's a thing to
ask me, Sergeant? He looked down at his scarred old desk there in the
back room of his store, the untidy pile of invoices, business
letters. "I don't know about any--you know--specific person. Far
as I know, everybody liked Frank just line. But I'll say this much.
If it was like that, the private reason like you say, I'd make a
guess that it was most likely over some woman. Some girl's husband or
boy friend. He liked the girls--and they liked him."
"Yes. What about his wife? Do you think
she--felt anything about him any more? Enough to--"
"His wife? Hell, I don't know," said Clay
doubtfully. "That's--well, I don't know, I never could read that
woman." That makes two of us, thought Hackett. He wanted to see
Andrea Nestor again. "You think a woman might have--Lord, what a
hell of a thing, old Frank getting murdered .... "
"Well, we'll see what turns up," said
Hackett. He thanked Clay and went out to his car. One of the new
Traffic Maids, on her three-wheeled cycle, was righteously making out
an overparking ticket for him. Without compunction Hackett pulled
rank on her and got the ticket torn up. No millionaire indeed, with
another one coming along he needed every dollar he earned.
What, he wondered again, had Nestor wanted with a
sterilizer? Chiropractors weren't allowed to give shots or do
anything they'd need surgical tools for, were they? Instruments that
would have to be sterilized. There was just the glimmer of an idea in
his mind about that, but resignedly he thought there'd be no way to
prove it--now. That Corliss woman. He could kick himself for such
stupid carelessness, leaving the place wide open .... He wanted to
see her again too. And he wanted another try at that desk clerk in
the Third Street hotel, the man who'd been on the desk when the
Slasher signed for a room. The man was hardly the world's greatest
brain but he must have noticed more about the Slasher than he claimed
to remember.
Hackett ruminated behind the wheel, uncertain where
to go from here. There were a lot more places to look, on the Nestor
thing, than there were on the Slasher. But that one was the one most
urgent to catch up to. God,
yes.
The prints in Nestor's office had been mostly his and
Margaret Corliss'. It would be largely wasted effort, probably, to
track down all his patients and get their prints to compare to the
unknown ones in the office; probably X had worn gloves or wiped off
anything he'd touched. If it had been the casual thief, why hadn't he
taken Nestor's star-sapphire ring and jade tie clasp, along with the
cash? Of course, it could have been juveniles after drugs; in the
dark they wouldn't notice from the sign that Nestor had been a
chiropractor and wouldn't have any drugs on the premises. But . . .
Margaret Corliss had said at
be, this chiropractic thing, a six-week course anybody could
take--it's like a regular college course, and they have to take all
the pre-med classes. He may have turned quite a few unethical bucks,
but he was really interested in it and no fool, you know. I don't
know how much it's worth to you, Sergeant, because I couldn't say
whether it was so, but he told me once his family had had a lot of
money, he'd always had everything, and been going to go to medical
school and so on, but after his father died his mother got hooked by
some con man and lost it all. He said he'd made up his mind to get
his however he could--he was kind of bitter about it."
"And that might figure too," said Hackett.
"Could be. Now, you knew him pretty well, Mr. Clay. This could
be what it looks like, the break-in after drugs or cash, and the
impulsive assault. But not so many burglars carry guns. It could also
be a private kill. And generally speaking, in a case of murder, the
deceased has done something--or been something--to trigger it off.
Could you make any guesses as to who might have wanted Nestor dead?
Off the record--just between us."
"Hell," said Clay, "that's a thing to
ask me, Sergeant? He looked down at his scarred old desk there in the
back room of his store, the untidy pile of invoices, business
letters. "I don't know about any--you know--specific person. Far
as I know, everybody liked Frank just line. But I'll say this much.
If it was like that, the private reason like you say, I'd make a
guess that it was most likely over some woman. Some girl's husband or
boy friend. He liked the girls--and they liked him."
"Yes. What about his wife? Do you think
she--felt anything about him any more? Enough to--"
"His wife? Hell, I don't know," said Clay
doubtfully. "That's--well, I don't know, I never could read that
woman." That makes two of us, thought Hackett. He wanted to see
Andrea Nestor again. "You think a woman might have--Lord, what a
hell of a thing, old Frank getting murdered .... "
"Well, we'll see what turns up," said
Hackett. He thanked Clay and went out to his car. One of the new
Traffic Maids, on her three-wheeled cycle, was righteously making out
an overparking ticket for him. Without compunction Hackett pulled
rank on her and got the ticket torn up. No millionaire indeed, with
another one coming along he needed every dollar he earned.
What, he wondered again, had Nestor wanted with a
sterilizer? Chiropractors weren't allowed to give shots or do
anything they'd need surgical tools for, were they? Instruments that
would have to be sterilized. There was just the glimmer of an idea in
his mind about that, but resignedly he thought there'd be no way to
prove it--now. That Corliss woman. He could kick himself for such
stupid carelessness, leaving the place wide open .... He wanted to
see her again too. And he wanted another try at that desk clerk in
the Third Street hotel, the man who'd been on the desk when the
Slasher signed for a room. The man was hardly the world's greatest
brain but he must have noticed more about the Slasher than he claimed
to remember.
Hackett ruminated behind the wheel, uncertain where
to go from here. There were a lot more places to look, on the Nestor
thing, than there were on the Slasher. But that one was the one most
urgent to catch up to. God,
yes.
The prints in Nestor's office had been mostly his and
Margaret Corliss'. It would be largely wasted effort, probably, to
track down all his patients and get their prints to compare to the
unknown ones in the office; probably X had worn gloves or wiped off
anything he'd touched. If it had been the casual thief, why hadn't he
taken Nestor's star-sapphire ring and jade tie clasp, along with the
cash? Of course, it could have been juveniles after drugs; in the
dark they wouldn't notice from the sign that Nestor had been a
chiropractor and wouldn't have any drugs on the premises. But . . .
Margaret Corliss had said at
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