The story so far: Detective Rocky Stone has been hired by Wanda Marcellus, aide of Congressional candidate George Wilson, for the purposes of discovering financial improprieties by the incumbent, Congressman Howard Dixon. While investigating the unusual amounts of telephone poles and booths on the streets of town, Rocky discovers connections between a spiritualist guide named Inglehoff, Candidate Geroge Wilson and his wife Martha, and Clarissa King, the wife of prominent businessman and philanthropist Gilbert King. In the last episode, Clarissa tries to remember details of Inglehoff that were lost to her when he put her under hypnosis. The most important detail: Inglehoff's hideout in San Cristobal:
The San Cristobal section of Los Diablos is on the east side of city, a neighborhood that was built to accommodate the first expansion of population back before the turn of the century. The area's namesake, San Cristobal Boulevard, has remained updated over the years, but the further north and south you stray from it, the worse off you are. I assumed by Clarissa King's description that Inglehoff was holed up in some place off the beaten path, but I reminded myself that with all her wealth, her definition of a “shabby little thing” might have been a 20-room villa overlooking the ocean.
I drove along San Cristobal, past the left turn at Harrison Street, until we came to a section that seemed to be made entirely out of billboards. One advertised Florio's Coffee, a local brand, in enormous blue letters, and another for Hank's, a burger joint on 33rd, stood out because of the enormous clown face painted on it. Clarissa had me stop in front of this one.
Nothing along the boulevard looked like a fit place to live. Most of it was businesses: a bank, two clothing stores, a rival burger joint to Hank's called Mel's which had an equally huge and garish clown face painted on its side. Clarissa King looked upon the neighborhood before her as if she wasn't sure she could trust her own memory, but she stepped out and met this world regardless. I got out and followed, watched her walk gingerly up to the back end of the bank. There was a set of concrete steps back there leading down to a small, rocky path. At the end of the path was a fence, and behind the fence was a small house, part of a series that had been built in this neighborhood.
Clarissa stumbled along the bare ground and I offered my arm to steady her. She looked at the cut of my suit and determined that it was acceptable to touch, but not for long periods of time, lest she be seen by other members of her class. I opened the door of the gate for her and she thanked me absently. The bewildered look on her face continued as we caught full sight of the house and the yard surrounding. It was relatively new, but hardly well-kept. The grass was a few inches high and grazed our ankles. One of the gutters had released itself along the edge of the house and it hung in mid-air, pushed by the slight breeze. A neighborhood dog barked, somewhere close by.
And something struck me. It was as plain as the nose on a moose. Maybe it was clear to Clarissa, too, because she stopped short of the side door by a few yards.
“Stay here,” I said.
I knocked first, but I was reasonably sure I wouldn't get an answer. An instinct told me to handle the knob with a handkerchief. It turned and opened, and at that moment I knew for certain what had been nagging at me. A powerful smell, unmistakable. I shoved the handkerchief under my nose and in a second the scent reached Clarissa. She gasped.
Death.
The house had been partitioned, it seemed, into two apartments, and the section where Clarissa had met with Inglehoff was the smaller of the two, consisting of two rooms: a main room with a kitchenette, a small chair, a Murphy bed, down on the floor with its covers in disarray; and a washroom, its door open and its light on, packed tight with a commode, sink, and a shower stall. The water was running in the shower, but no one was inside.
On the floor near the chair: a woman, young and attractive I assumed, although her back was turned to me. She wore a green silk robe with a painting of a red Chinese dragon adorning the side. Her left leg, bare to mid-thigh, was bent at the knee and pulled in toward her stomach, and her right was straight, her toes pointed, as if she had finished her life in some elegant dance. A tear in her robe, near the left shoulder, exposing her milky-white flesh. Her hair was dark, covered mostly by a towel. No blood.
There was a phone on a table by the side of the bed. I picked up the receiver with the handkerchief, leaving my nose open to the elements. The scent was enough to knock me over. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her in wonder: Clarissa King said she had been in that very room that morning, and unless she somehow missed the fact that there was dead woman on the floor, the murder had yet to take place. Yet the room smelled like the body had been lying there at least a day or two.
The operator answered. A strong voice, female, not the type to take any nonsense. I told her to get me Homicide.
Who is lying dead on the floor of Inglehoff's apartment, and who is responsible? Find out in the next episode of The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
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