Felony File Read Free

to ask him to look at books of
mug-shots. The little loot sounded very ordinary, but if it ever
turned up in a pawnshop, he could probably identify it.
    Both Mendoza and Higgins were aware that there was a
very long chance that the louts would ever be dropped on, a good
enough legal case made to charge and try them if they ever were. It
was just one of those things.
    They stood on the little
front porch, lighted cigarettes and looked at the gray veil of rain.
"Another wet winter, probably," said Higgins. And after a
moment, "I wonder what the other new body was."
    * * *
    The call had come in from the squad car at
one-twenty, just as Glasser had come back from lunch. He hadn't seen
any of the other men since eight o'clock this morning; Landers,
Palliser and Grace were out on the Bullock's heist, the others on
something else, but somebody had to mind the store.
    Their policewoman, Wanda Larsen, who was bucking for
detective rank, promptly got up and followed him out. "New
call?"
    Glasser cocked his head at her trim blonde person.
    " You so hot for street experience," he
said. "You'll catch pneumonia. Haven't you got a coat?"
    " It was such a nice morning—I'll be all
right." She had a fairly heavy cardigan. Downstairs, they made a
dash from the front entrance to Glasser's Gremlin in the lot. "Where
are we going on what?" asked Wanda brightly.
    "Don't know—squad just said a body. It's
Darwin Avenue."
    That was one of the oldest streets in the oldest part
of Los Angeles, a shabby, dirty, narrow street of ramshackle old
houses. The houses had never been owned by anyone with much money,
and a good many of the owners and renters had always been people who
spent what money they had on less mundane things than plumbing
repairs, broken windows and leaking roofs; most of the houses looked
ready to fall down, long unpainted and neglected. They sat on meager
city lots; and even the city seemed to have forgotten the street, so
that the sidewalks were cracked and broken, the blacktop of the
street spotted with potholes.
    Patrolman Yeager was sitting in the squad in front of
one of the houses waiting for them. "I just decided," he
told Glasser, "I don't like this damn job. I'm going to quit the
force and start selling insurance or something." He looked at
Wanda a little uneasily. "You going in there?"
    "Certainly," said Wanda. "What have we
got?"
    " A bloody mess," said Yeager. "You
want me to come with you?"
    Glasser didn't think Yeager had been riding a squad
long: a year or two on the force maybe. Even in that time, a cop
ought to be used to some of the bloody messes they saw on the job. He
said mildly, "Well, give us a quick rundown, will you?"
    Yeager's roundish young face looked pinched. "A
Mrs. Rose Engel called in. Says she came home and found her daughter
dead. The kid was nine. There are some other kids, younger."
    " That's it?" said Glasser. "Where was
she?"
    " She just said, at a party. She left her boy
friend with the kids. He lives with her. I just got his name, Leon
Fratelli. Maybe he's awake now. She's got the hell of a hangover and
wasn't talking very straight."
    Glasser said to Wanda, "Maybe you'd better stay
out here."
    " Don't be silly," said Wanda impatiently.
"I'm a cop as much as you are, Henry."
    The house wasn't very big: maybe five rooms. It had
originally been clapboard, and a number of the boards had been
cracked and broken loose. Both front windows were broken. It had been
so long since the house had been painted, it was impossible to tell
what color it had been. There were wide cracks in the cement walk up
to the door; there was no front porch. There hadn't been any grass or
plants around it for a long time, if ever.
    The front door was open. Glasser shoved it wider with
one foot and they went in. Various smells hit them at once. This
room, apparently intended for a living room, contained little
furniture besides an old army cot and a couple of straight chairs.
There was a TV in one corner. The floor, rugless,