Extra Kill llm-3

by Dell Shannon

  No usher or attendant: he sat down in the last row. There was a fair crowd already gathered, perhaps sixty or eighty people, and in the next five minutes a dozen more came in. He remained the lone occupant of the last row; everyone else settled as near the altar as possible. There was just enough light from the lobby and a couple of wall fixtures along each side that he had a fairly good look at the late arrivals; among them he was gratified to spot the Hollywood blonde of the snapshot. She was, in fact, the last comer, and he had the feeling that in better light and a different place it would have been quite an entrance. She glided past him, erect and confident, in something dark that rustled and showed a good deal of white throat, the shining blonde hair, to advantage: and she trailed behind her an invisible cloud of spicy, heavy scent.

  Mendoza inhaled thoughtfully and said to himself, "Flamme d'Amour, female species?" Something like chypre, anyway. Very interesting, but she would keep… A number of the congregation seemed to know her; she seated herself amid subdued rustlings and whispers of greeting.

  Almost immediately the ceremony began. He paid little attention to it beyond remarking that it was handsomely staged. Impossible to gather much about the Kingmans at this distance: thin, ethereal Madame Cara, in a Grecian robe, and Kingman, looking distinctly odd with his naked bald head rising out of a voluminous black cassock. Several other people similarly clad took part. There was an elaborate ritual of procession about the altar; there was a tall gilt chalice, and an invocation pronounced by Madame Cara; there was chanted response from the congregation. There was mention of the great All-Parent, the cycles of the gods, the perfect circle of the four trinocracies, and the lesson of the Great Pyramid.

  Mendoza sat back and thought about Brooke Twelvetrees, what they had on him so far, what they had on that Friday night, and about Joe Bartlett.

  He couldn't help thinking about Bartlett, at least: he didn't like ragged edges to things, and it would be so much neater if Bartlett and Twelvetrees were hooked up somehow. But as he'd said to Hackett, they couldn't proceed on the arbitrary premise that Twelvetrees had been killed that Friday night-it was just something to keep in mind. Mrs. Bragg indignantly denied that she had removed anything from the apartment, even a paper bag. She had been in it, of course: finding the note announcing Twelvetrees' departure, she had checked the supply of linen and dishes, and had placed an ad in the Times, first appearing on Monday, which had brought several prospective tenants to look at the place before Woods had showed up. There had been no bag of any kind left-so she said.

  The note, of course, had been thrown away with the trash on Monday. She could not recall the exact wording, but remembered that it apologized for his sudden leaving, gave only a vague reason of "important business." As it happened, of course, to be the end of the month, he was paid up to date; having paid the customary two months' deposit when he came in, he was in fact due a rebate, and she had assumed that she would receive an address from him later on to send it to. She hadn't seen his signature or writing before-he always paid the rent in cash-and consequently she could offer no opinion as to whether the note was a forgery.

  She had first noticed the note, neatly tacked in its envelope to the outside of Twelvetrees' door, late on Sunday morning as she left for church. It might have just been put there, or it might have been there for two days-she couldn't say: she hadn't set foot out of her own place since Friday night, having been trying to come down with flu and warding it off with rest and various potions. And as her door and Twelvetrees' were in the rear building, and no other tenant had had occasion to call on her those days, there was no evidence on when the note had been tacked to Twelvetrees' door.

  The apartments, of course, shared a party wall, and she admitted that loud noises were audible through it now and then, but remembered nothing of that sort on that Friday night. "Of course, with them Johnstones kicking up a row again, and I was over there to Number Three twice before I called the police, well, you can see there might've been something going on in Mr. Twelvetrees' place I just didn't hear." Of course, of course. And Saturday, nothing; Sunday morning, nothing. His key had been enclosed in the envelope with the note, and she had naturally handled it, not that it was likely to have borne any helpful print. The same could be said of the bolt on the trap, which Mendoza himself had handled.

  All the prints in the place belonged to her or to Twelvetrees; but a few places where one might expect to find prints had been polished clean, which was neither very helpful nor interesting-the table in the kitchen, the top of the bureau, the bedroom chair. If that said anything, it said that whoever had cleaned those places probably had not visited the apartment for long (or often), if those had been the only things touched.

  The trowel, she said, was kept in a box sitting on the small bench inside her carport, along with a few other tools. She didn't think any of the other tenants were likely to know that: they hadn't any occasion. It was account of Mr. Twelvetrees taking interest the way he had in her Tree of Heaven that he knew.

  Ballistics would, Mendoza hoped, tell him something about the gun in time.

  All those handkerchiefs…

  The alcoholic Johnstones admitted frankly that they remembered little about that Friday night, and were suffering hangovers all day Saturday. Sober, they were very sorry they'd disturbed everyone. None of the other tenants who'd been home could recall anything helpful at all: nobody remembered whether or not there had been a light showing in Twelvetrees' apartment, or whether his car had been in his carport, either on Friday night or any other…

  The congregation gabbled a long response to a cue from the altar, and Mendoza muttered profanely to himself. The car-damn it, he should have thought of that before. Phone in and get an inquiry started right away. Because Twelvetrees' Porsche must have been taken away immediately afterward: whoever had finished arranging his planned departure could not know that Mrs. Bragg wouldn't be out and about, that somebody else wouldn't notice the car unaccountably still there after he had supposedly left. The car had been abandoned near the Union Station, and that was quite a trip from 267th Street. Unless there were two people involved, it must have meant that someone had to take a taxi back to 267th, or thereabouts, to pick up his or her own car. The question of public transportation didn't enter in: he doubted very much that there was any out there, after six or seven o'clock, and in any case it would be infinitely slow. No problem at all if there were two people in the business, of course.

  There was also that snapshot. That dark girl, something teasingly familiar about her. Leave it at the back of his mind, it would come to him eventually…

  And that seemed to be the last outburst from the congregation; the robed figures had vanished from the altar, and-ah, of course-now came the important part of the whole business, the attendants passing down the aisles with little velvet bags, taking up the collection. Not much audible jingling of hard money; there wouldn't be, by the sum missing from Twelvetrees' keeping.

  Missing?

  And, Dios mia, of course, what had happened to the bankbooks? The attendants missed him there in the last row; the congregation began to drift out. He let it go past him until the hall was empty, and wandered out after it. What was probably a nucleus of-could one call them?-charter members was gathered in the little lobby around the Kingmans. The blonde; a scrawny old woman in rusty black; a buxom hennaed female with a foolishly loose mouth and a mink stole; a scholarly-looking middle-aged man; others more nondescript.

  Mendoza leaned on the wall and lit a cigarette, watching and listening-principally to the Kingmans. He was interested in the Kingmans. He didn't listen long: the lobby was too small for anyone to go unnoticed, and he began to collect curious glances. So he detached himself from the wall, went up to them, introduced himself, and asked for a private word with them.

  "Dear me!" exclaimed Cara Kingman, opening her eyes very wide on him. "A policeman! What can we have done?" He put her down as nearing fifty. She was so thin she looked haggard; her fair hair in it
s thick coronet of braids had only lost color, not turned gray. She had very pale china-blue eyes, and wore, apparently, no cosmetics: she was a ghost-figure head to foot, colorless, still in her white robe bound with a velvet rope at the waist. Round her neck dangled a long silver chain with a medallion, and her long fingernails were enameled silver.

  "About Mr. Twelvetrees…" said Mendoza gently.

  "Ah-poor Brooke," she said deeply, lowering her eyes. "Of course, of course. For a moment I had forgotten-do forgive me. One must put all these worldly matters aside during the Renascence. Martin-" She turned to her husband gracefully.

  "We must put ourselves at your service, sir," said Martin Kingman gravely. He had a fine rich baritone, eminently suited to public speaking; Mendoza had noted it during the ritual. He conveyed a kind of ultimate respectability, of upper-middle-class conventionality, which must be worth a great deal in this business. He looked like a reliable family lawyer or doctor: bald, a little paunchy, very neat in a navy blue suit-he had removed his cassock-a white shirt, a sober tie. He had intelligent brown eyes behind rimless glasses. "Anything we can do to help you, of course, Lieutenant. My dear, we'll ask these good people to excuse us-"

  A general murmur, curious glances at Mendoza; they began to drift away politely.

  "Dear Madame Cara,"-the buxom lass-"such a dreadful disappointment for you-we must all concentrate on forgetting it-”

  "So unworldly, so trusting,"-the scrawny old lady-"There's such a thing as too much faith, Martin. Indeed!" Snapping black eyes darted toward Mendoza; she didn't seem to think much of him. Evidently the watchword on Twelvetrees was forgive-and-forget, and also don't-mention; they muttered goodnights as embarrassedly as if he had brought up something obscene.

  The blonde touched cheekbones with Madame Cara, delicately. "We must try to remember only the good, isn't that so, dear?"

  "The only charitable thing, dear Mona. Now do come and see me for a cozy little private chat, soon."

  "Won't you come up to our quarters, Lieutenant?" invited Kingman. "Quite a draft here, and we must think of my wife's health, she takes cold so easily. Now I don't recall meeting you before, do I? There was a very polite young man-er-Wilson, Williams, Woods-that was it-”

  "Yes, the case has been handed on to me." Mona. That was nice to know, he thought.

  "Oh, I-I-SEE. If you'll just step this way, the elevator-"

  Yes, money had been spent here…

  ***

  "Dead?" exclaimed Kingman. "Dead-Brooke?" He sounded incredulous; his rich voice trembled with all the proper emotion. "And in such a way- But then, how we have maligned him!" He sat back in his chair, whisked out a handkerchief, and blew his nose loudly. "This is dreadful news, dreadful."

  "My very thought, Martin," said Cara Kingman mournfully. "We found it hard to believe," her pale eyes turned on Mendoza, "that dear I Brooke would do anything dishonest-and to steal from the Temple treasury, of all dishonorable things. I said at once-you remember, Martin-there is some other explanation, which will be revealed to us in time."

  "And you were right, as you so often are. I fear it was my more-um-worldly suspicion, Lieutenant Mendoza, which prompted me to issue the charge. You understand, we had trusted Brooke absolutely, but when he so unaccountably-um, absented himself from the Sabbath service, and a check with the bank on Monday informed us that he had not deposited the collection… Really, to my mind it seemed foregone, incredible as it appeared. But now-"

  "Ah, the money," said his wife. She shut her large, light eyes with the effect of switching off headlights. "The money-quite unimportant-we must only share the awful responsibility, Martin, that it was because he had the money that he was killed in this terrible way. Some violent, greedy person-a young, young soul-knowing he had the money, breaking in, and dear Brooke struggling with him to protect the Temple's property-" She shuddered, delicately.

  "Well, you know, we don't think it happened quite like that,” said Mendoza. "A casual thief would scarcely take the trouble of burying him."

  She gave no sign that she heard, lying back on the couch, robe trailing, graceful. A comfortable living indeed they took out of this: it could almost be called a luxurious apartment, with its wall-to-wall carpeting, furniture not from a bargain basement, everything the latest and best. And entirely impersonal. Mendoza deduced a decorator service from one of the better department stores, and nothing added to the decorators' choice. He did not feel somehow that, left to herself, Cara Kingman would choose to live with beige tweed carpet, champagne-colored curtains, eighteenth-century reproduction mahogany, and parchment lampshades.

  "But how else could it have happened?" wondered Kingman. "Ah, now I think, of course I see the fallacy-you men trained to reason acutely about such things, I daresay the notion of a thief never occurred to you, but I confess I should have accepted that solution at once, my` self. How else? I assure you, I find it inconceivable that anyone who knew the boy-"

  "That's what we'll find out. I understand you saw Mr. Twelvetrees for the last time at about four o'clock on the afternoon of Friday the thirtieth?”

  "Ah-that's correct," said Kingman. "I-we, my wife and I, had just finished conducting the-um-afternoon class for novitiates. We came out of the sanctuary-ah, that is what you would call the chapel, where our services are held-we have a very modest establishment here, you see, there is only a small robing room besides on the ground floor- together, on our way to the elevator, and met Brooke just leaving. He had been working on the Temple accounts in the robing room, which also serves us as an office."

  "I see. What conversation did you have with him?"

  "Why, none-none at all, Lieutenant. It was quite casual. I believe I said something like, ‘Finished for the day, my boy?' and he replied that he was. He was-um-just going out as my wife and I entered the elevator."

  "If I had known," she said, opening her eyes again, "that it would be the last time I should see him-on this plane, of course! But my mind was still with our dear novitiates, and I daresay that prevented any presentiment I may have had."

  "My wife," said Kingman, adjusting his glasses with a precise gesture, "is a gifted psychic, you see."

  "But one cannot control these things, and I never pretend to do so. That is why I have given up such childish efforts as the seance. It is all so false, so forced, One must only accept, as it comes. Doubtless it was not intended that I should receive warning, or I should naturally have told Brooke to be on his guard against the forces of evil. Destiny…"

  She lifted a hand, let it fall limply.

  "As it was, you exchanged no words with him at all, Mrs. Kingman?"

  "None-none. I was tired, I went straight into the elevator. But tell us, Lieutenant, what explanation can there be, if it was not a thief? As my husband says, no one who knew Brooke could have wished to harm him."

  "It is," said Mendoza, who was rather enjoying himself, "a little early in the investigation to make any guesses."

  "Ah, yes, one would want to be sure." She sat up and widened her eyes fully on him. "Now do tell me, Lieutenant Mendoza, what is your birth date?”

  "Februa1y twenty-eighth."

  "Ah, Pisces-of course," she murmured. "I should have guessed it, I feel from you that nuance of understanding. You have great sympathy for people, great insight-but you must always guard against trusting your emotional judgment too much-don't you find that? All you Pisceans, so prone to being sadly misunderstood by those less acute of mind. And that fatal pride, so apt only to add to others' misunderstanding of you-a sad handicap-however, undoubtedly you find your native Piscean intuition for people most useful in your work."

  "My dear, we must not take up the lieutenant's time, when he is-um-occupied on this sad matter so near our hearts. If you would tell us, sir, what else we might do to help you-"

  "I would like a list," said Mendoza, "of your members here."

  "Oh dear, oh dear," said Kingman, removing his glasses and beginning to polish them vigorously, "surely you c
annot be thinking that any of these good people, our little flook- But it's not my place to question, of course. I can easily supply you with that, if you'll accompany me down to our office- No, no, my dear, you must not stir, all this has tired you, you must rest."

  "One must not give in," she said bravely. "Anything we can do to help you at any time-please do not hesitate to ask. But if you will forgive me now, I do feel quite exhausted-"

  "My wife," said Kingman as they stepped into the elevator, "is a very sensitive woman-very sensitive. She is an Aquarian herself, of course."

  ***

  Mendoza let himself into his apartment at an early hour by his usual routine. Bast, the russet-brown Abyssinian, and her five-month-old daughter Nefertite who had taken after the Abyssinian side of the family and was also russet-colored with black trimmings, came to meet him with shrill welcome. He switched on all the lights and began to look about automatically to see what mischief the unpredictable El Senor had got into in his absence.

  The magazine rack was still upright, but quite empty, and all the magazines were spread out on the floor with the morning paper neatly on top of them.

  "Now how in the name of all devils does he do these things?" Mendoza wondered. He was beyond asking himself why. He looked further, y and located El Senor gazing coldly down at him from the top of the kitchen door. El Senor was also five months old, but twice the size of his sister; he had inherited his father's Siamese points in reverse, like the wrong side of a negative, and was nearly black all over except for blond eyebrows, paws, nose, and tail-tip. He had large almond-shaped green eyes. "Senor Misterioso!" said Mendoza. “Do you grow hands when my back is turned?" He began to pick up the magazines.

  El Senor leaped gracefully down the narrow mantel from the door, and abruptly became Senor Estupido; he lost his balance, blundered into the electric clock and knocked it flat, and began trying to climb the wall.