Extra Kill llm-3

by Dell Shannon

  "Did you go into the kitchen?… Where was the table?"

  "I remember that, dear. It was an impossible kitchen-but of course a man wouldn't care-far too small, and there was only one little place for a table, at the very end-but it wasn't there. It was pushed right up against the stove, a very awkward position."

  "Did you see a trowel?" asked Mendoza softly. Hackett turned and looked at him. Nothing about the trowel had been released to the press. They both stared at him. "A trowel?" said Kingman; and then he lost what remained of his color. "Oh, my God, is that what he was-what they used-? No-no, I don't remember anything like that. We-well, you know, we didn't know quite what to do. It looked as if he'd be back any minute, and we waited around a little." He mopped his brow. "You have so much imagination, Martin-not that I wasn't a little upset about it too, when we knew. But it's all over now, dear, we must simply try to tell them how it was-the facts."

  "How long did you wait?"

  "Oh, it was quite some time before we decided that he wasn't-and of course then we did think it even odder, that he should just walk out like that-and then we thought of looking to see whether his car was there. And it was. In the carport. And there was another one too, that is I don't know if it had anything to do with all this, but you see, I opened the back door and looked out-I don't know why, it was the silly sort of thing you do when you're looking for someone. And there was a car there. There's quite a wide alley behind that building, you know, and an empty lot behind that-and this car was just standing in the alley. There wasn't anyone in it, its lights weren't on or anything. I thought at the time it might be someone visiting the next apartment, maybe there hadn't been parking space in front when- Well, and then Martin said-"

  "Now I'll tell you," said Kingman, "I didn't especially want to see him. I was thankful he was clearing out, I simply wanted to make it clear to him that it was-um-quits between us. And I'll be honest and say too that it seemed a good opportunity to have a look around for that photostat-not that that would exactly take away his hold, because I daresay he could have replaced it, and of course the mere information-that is, anyone could have checked up, once they knew where to check, so to speak. Nevertheless, we should feel much safer-you get me… I hadn't tried to do anything in that line, no sir, not up to then. I won't say I hadn't thought about it, but it didn't seem that it'd be much use-for all I knew he had a safety deposit box or something-"

  "So he did," said Mendoza. "In a manner of speaking. I know where it was-"

  "So do I, now," said Kingman unexpectedly. "I make no apology for saying that we had a look round. And we didn't have to look far. It was right there on the bed. I expect you found it with his things, later on. One of those quilted plastic laundry bags-green-and he'd just emptied it out on the bed, it looked like, to get at what was in the bottom. I don't want to-ah-sound as if I'm trying to do your job for you, Lieutenant, but it occurs to me that perhaps when you first saw the place, things weren't just the way they were then, and it may be you'll be interested. First of all, there was a big brown manila envelope lying there with that photostat in it-the newspaper report about us, you know-and of course I took that. But I think there'd been something else in that bag-I took it that's where the envelope had been, you see, there it was among all his dirty clothes, as if he'd just dumped out everything-because there was another manila envelope, empty, and he-or someone-had burned something in a big glass ashtray on the bureau. Something fairly bulky, like-well, maybe another photostat. There was quite a little pile of ashes."

  "What was on the bureau besides?”

  "Oh, dear," said Kingman, and thought. "I'll try to recall-you understand, I wasn't noticing things to be noticing, as it were-I'll do my best. Let's see, there was a bottle of Scotch, I think it was-I don't know if it was empty or full-and his wrist watch, and a folded necktie-and, oh, yes, his hat, a gray felt hat-and a clean handkerchief-and a couple of little medicine bottles, I think. Well, to go on, as I say I took that photostat, and we had a look for the money but it wasn't there, not unless it was in one of the locked suitcases. He must have had it on him, though you haven't said-" He looked at them doubtfully.

  Mendoza shook his head. "You find crooks everywhere, true, but we do pride ourselves on higher standards these days."

  "Oh, I never meant to imply-! But, odd as it seemed, you know-the place standing empty that way, as if he'd just dropped everything and walked out-we weren't much interested in what was behind it. Not then. There wasn't any reason to wait about. I wrote a note to him, on a page torn out of my address book-I don't know what happened to that, perhaps that's how you know about us being there-telling him, you know, not to try any tricks, and so on-and we came away." He got out his handkerchief again. "I hope to God you believe all this, all I can do is tell you everything. I don't know if it means anything, if it'll be a help in clearing us, but we got a traffic ticket on the way home-maybe that would confirm the time, but I don't suppose-"

  "Where and what for?" asked Mendoza.

  "The officer was perfectly right," said Madame Cara. "I do find it one of the most awkward things in traffic, changing lanes. But it's like everything else in life-one must seize the opportunity. And while the road was quite clear (I never take chances, for one must think of other people, you know, if not oneself) it seems it wasn't allowed right there. The officer was really very nice about it, and it was a small fine. I went right down to the traffic court next morning. It was six dollars, Five for the ticket and one for education-this new system you know and a splendid idea, we can't grudge anything for the children."

  "My dear, the place-I don't recall-"

  "Oh, of course, it was on Avalon Boulevard, Lieutenant, not very long after we'd left the apartment, I don't know exactly where."

  "We'll find it," said Mendoza. He looked at them in exasperation, in doubt. "I've got a warrant in my pocket for your arrest on a charge of murder-"

  "Oh, dear God," said Kingman, "I swear to you-"

  "But I'm not going to use it, until we've checked that ticket anyway. I'll be frank to say that it looks to me as if you had the best motive to do away with him, and I thought I had it worked out how you'd done it. But there are just a couple of little things… I'll go along with this awhile, and take you at your word. But I'd like to know why you didn't leave matters there. What took you to the bank on Monday morning?"

  "Don't think we're not grateful," said Kingman almost tearfully. "Thanks very much, sir, for listening with an open mind… It's a sobering thought that if I hadn't-I should have left the whole thing go, I know that now. But the more I thought about it, the odder it seemed-his being gone, like that-and I thought quite possibly he might not have found my note. Even if he came back. Well, of course I expected he had come back, for all his things. But in the event that he didn't see the note-I felt I'd been a coward in a way, I should have seen him and made sure. I tried to locate him that Saturday morning, but nobody had seen him, and there was no answer at his apartment. In one way that relieved my mind, I thought he'd come back, finished packing and left-but we didn't know, you see. I was still worrying that he might try to get something out of the bank-"

  "He had absolutely no scruples,” said the woman. Her large plaintive eyes swerved unblinking to Mendoza. "We are grateful, Lieutenant, for your kindness… After so much trouble and upset and worry, it didn't seem fair. Such an unpleasant young man. But, you know, it really is very strange, they say there is some good in everyone, and there was, I daresay, a very little, in him… I was so surprised-do you know, he liked flowers. He liked to grow things. Perhaps he came of a long line of farmers, or something. He was quite enthusiastic over the landscaping around the Temple, just that little bit of fern or whatever it is, in built-up boxes, I expect you noticed it-he even brought a little garden fork one day and poked around at them because the earth was too dry, he said. Really very odd. But then people are."

  "-And," said Kingman, "more especially I worried about it, because he'd have discovered by
then that I had been at his place and taken the photostat-he might try to clear out the bank account in revenge, you see. Well, we worried around it all that weekend, and on Monday morning when I knew there'd be someone at the bank-before opening time, that is-I called. All I meant to do was to ask them not to let him make any withdrawals, because he had-um-severed connections with us. I was very stupid about the whole thing, Heaven knows I should have known better, but what with worrying and not being able to sleep-you see, I got hold of the assistant manager, and I had to give some reason for calling to warn them-after all, just because a man resigns or is fired from his job, it isn't any reason to suspect him of larceny-and before I knew it, he'd got out of me that Trask had gone off with that cash. And as soon as he heard that-Mr. Rowell, I mean-he got excited and said of course I'd be seeing the police to lay an official charge, and perhaps he'd better go with me because it would save time if he could give the police the man's official signature and the recent records and so on-"

  "I see," Mendoza said amusedly. "You couldn't get out of it?"

  "It was like a nightmare from start to finish. I never intended to do such a thing, but of course it would have looked queer after that if I hadn't. What I was afraid of, you know, was that Trask would be lp caught up with-or even if he'd seen it in the papers, that I'd accused him-why, he might have told all he knew about us just to get even. It was a terrible position. I had to seem as if I was giving the police all the help I could, and at the same time I held back what I felt was possible to, because, my God, I wasn't anxious for them to find him, wherever he'd gone and why. I said I wasn't sure where he lived because, you know, he might have mentioned to someone there where he was going-and no one could prove we did know, I tore that page out of my address-book-and I was sure no one had seen us there on Friday night. And then, as soon as we'd-er-got that on record, so to speak, I wondered if the police would somehow find out anyway, and look for fingerprints there-and whether we'd left any-"

  “I was wearing gloves. I always do when I drive and it was cold that night, I didn't take them off at all. And as I told you at the time, Martin, I don't believe you would have left any either, because we just looked mostly, didn't we?-not touching anything. You see, there wasn't any need to open drawers and so on, Lieutenant, there was this photo-thing right on the bed-we burned that as soon as we got home-and when it came to looking for the money, well, all the drawers were wide open and empty, because he'd been taking things out to pack, you know. We just felt all through the things in the open suitcase, and they were clothes, they wouldn't take prints, would they? Martin did try the other cases to see if they were locked, and they were. So-"

  "And then," said Kingman with a strong shudder, "when you came and told us he'd been murdered-! And in such a way… I did some more worrying about it then, I can tell you-"

  Mendoza got up, looking at them thoughtfully. "Yes, well, we'll leave it this way for the time being. I needn't caution you not to leave town and so on-you'll be familiar with the-mmh-ritual, shall I say?"

  "Believe me, Lieutenant, we're grateful-that you believe, I mean-·"

  "Oh, I never said I believed you," said Mendoza gently, smiling at them. "Just that I'm not quite ready to use that warrant-yet. We'll see. We like to be sure about these things-I'll do a little more thinking on it."

  FOURTEEN

  "I have not been brilliant in this thing," he said. He lit a cigarette and in the cold clear night air the little column of smoke was frost-white.

  "They're not cleared," said Hackett. They stood there on the curb in front of the Temple, between the tail of the Facel-Vega and the bumper of Hackett's humbler black sedan. Hackett had his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, staring down at the sidewalk.

  "By implication you might say they are," said Mendoza. "That traffic ticket. I can't see a third person unknown mixed up in this with them, and we can't get away from the fact that that woman who bought the serape and took that cab ride had something to do with the murder. If she didn't kill him, she disposed of the car. And if Mrs. Kingman-Sellers-Turner and her husband were on Avalon Boulevard about eleven o'clock or a bit after, getting a traffic ticket, then she wasn't that woman. Without using a siren, would you guarantee to get from 267th to the old Plaza or thereabouts inside an hour-even at that time of night? Most of the signals would still be working."

  Hackett didn't look up, but rocked meditatively back and forth a little. "I might. She came down kind of heavy on playing the scatter-brained woman driver, I thought."

  Boyce said, "I can't say I'd like to ride very far with her, Sergeant-I mean, after just listening to her dither."

  " De veras," said Mendoza. "Nor me. Babes in the woods. No way to prove they'd known where Trask lived because Kingman tore that page out of his address book." He laughed. "Ca! No, I haven't been bright here… Do I believe them? It's a story, you might say, too full of double takes and dither not to be true. This gentlemanly old trouper and his amiable scatterbrained wife…"

  "Would you think I was crazy, Lieutenant," asked Boyce diffidently, "if I said I felt kind of sorry for them? It must be an awful hard way to earn a living."

  "Yes, but look at the living!" said Hackett sardonically.

  Another frosty little cloud rose around Mendoza's head. "Well, this is probably the first really big money they've made… There are points in that story. Oh, yes."

  “What the hell," said Hackett savagely, "they're slick actors, they pick up cues from each other and build a scene out of thin air, and you swallow it whole! You swallow this-this concoction as meek as be damned-like any new ranker on his first case-"

  Mendoza smoked in impassive silence for a full half minute, looking at him; Hackett moved restlessly, got out his keys to play with. " Que paso, chico? ” asked Mendoza softly.

  "Damn it, nothing's the matter except that I'm fed up with this whole slippery business. We haven't got anywhere at it, and we ought to have some idea by this time! I-"

  " Tomelo con calma, early days-we found him on Saturday, this is only Monday. We'll get there. Something on your mind?"

  "Yes," said Hackett, "yes, there's something on my mind, but I'll turn it over once or twice and tell you about it in the morning. Nothing we can do tonight anyway. I'll see you at eight." He turned away abruptly and got into his car.

  "What d'you suppose is eating the sergeant?" wondered Boyce.

  Mendoza dropped his cigarette, put a foot on it, and pushed it carefully into the gutter. "That I couldn't say… I'll drive you back to headquarters. You might get on to Traffic and locate that ticket."

  ***

  He did a little wondering about the usually even-tempered Hackett on his way home, but more about the case. There were indeed a few interesting points in that story-which he was inclined to believe. Irritating, of course; but some new piece of truth-or what looked very much like it-came up and you had to change your mind, look at things another way… Something else in Trask's safety deposit box. (And didn't it point up one of the elementary pitfalls for detectives, that! Rudimeutary deduction according to types of people-the man couldn't have been a gardener. You couldn't know. People, they just didn't come in standardized patterns. And not a bad hiding place, either: shades of The Purloined Letter.) Something else of the same species as the document held over the Kingmans? Something burned in an ashtray.

  He slid the car gently into the garage, let himself into the apartment, switched on all the lights. All three cats came to welcome him, and because El Senor was usually standoffish, Mendoza made a little fuss over him, encouragingly… A note from Mrs. Carter, the cats last fed at four o'clock. Another note from Mrs. Bryson, which announced simply, He's learned to open cupboards.

  "Now have you?" he said to El Senor, who had both paws round his neck and was sampling his necktie. “Basta, ya!-not good for cats, leave it alone! Sometimes you act like a very smart boy indeed, too smart for your own good." It was apparently true: the low cupboard doors of the record cabinet stood open, a
nd so-uncannily-did one of the cupboards over the kitchen drainboard.

  "This," said Mendoza, "is too much of a good thing altogether. Must I put locks on all the cupboard doors? Or keep all the things not intended for curious cats on the very top shelves?" He put El Senor down on a kitchen chair, went to get their evening meal from the refrigerator. Somebody else in the same position in re Trask as the Kingmans. Not surprising. Somebody refusing to pay-did that account for his ugly temper that day?-but surely not a reason for him to clear out. Somebody a good deal more determined than Kingman, walking in on him and killing him…

  As he put down the three dishes, the phone rang. "Oh, Lieutenant Mendoza, I thought I heard you come in," said Mrs. Bryson in his ear from the other end of the building. "Did you find my note?… Yes, the oddest thing-really, you know, it sounds silly but sometimes I'm almost afraid of that absurd kitten!" Mrs. Bryson was large, buxom, fiftyish, and blonde; she had no children, and perhaps consequently a deplorable habit of cooing baby talk to her beloved cats-but one must overlook these faults in otherwise nice people. "When I came to let them out for a little run, about two o'clock, he had your record cabinet open and an L.P. record out on the floor-Bach's Suite N0. 2 in B Minor, it was-and was sitting looking at it. Really quite uncanny."

  "Well, at least he has good taste," said Mendoza.

  "What I called about, I forgot to put down that your grandmother phoned, and you're to be reminded that her goddaughter, I think it is, is getting married on Saturday, and you're expected to come and-"

  "And bring a gift," he supplied as she hesitated. "This autocratic old wretch, I know how she put it! Thanks very much, Mrs. Bryson… " He had no intention of doing either. In the first place, he had not set foot inside a church for twenty-two years and had no desire to break the record; in the second, the goddaughter was an unpleasantly smug and pudding-faced girl whom he disliked.