Extra Kill llm-3

by Dell Shannon

  He let the cats out and got undressed.

  Somebody-somebody-from that theater crowd? Senseless to blackmail someone who hadn't any money… But there were other things of value than money: someone, perhaps, who could do him a favor-introduce him to a producer, cast him in TV?

  Mendoza took a bath. He let the cats in. He sat up in bed smoking, and El Senor sat on his lap and tried to catch the smoke wisps, batting at them with his large blond paws. "Senor Ridiculo," said Mendoza. Someone-

  He put out his cigarette and switched off the light. A few more facts, and maybe it would suddenly come unraveled.

  ***

  One small fact came in the next morning, from the routine gathering of miscellany. About that bank: that it kept old-fashioned banking hours. And that helped quite a lot in reconstructing Trask's plans. And then Hackett came in, and abruptly handed Mendoza a wholly new idea…

  "And where did that idea come from?" asked Mendoza. "It's definitely a thought, but a little offbeat… that girl Angel. Mmh, yes. Motives, motives…" He looked at Hackett's back in mild curiosity. Hackett, terse and noncommittal, had put forward this theory walking around the office as he talked, and stood now looking out the window.

  "I know it's one of those things that doesn't happen often-"

  "It's not as odd as all that-kind of thing that has happened. But what's reached you about it? You're acting as if you were telling the tale on your sister."

  "Sister be damned,” said Hackett. "I know it's senseless, Luis, but I'm sorry for the girl. She hasn't had much of a break from life. That damned woman…" He shrugged and turned around.

  Mendoza was leaning back looking cynically amused; he shot Hackett a glance from half-shut eyes. "What heresy is this, Arturo-my big dumb sergeant smitten? Cuidado, amigo! That's one of the beaten paths to the trap, feeling sorry for them."

  "Don't be a fool-and you can keep your opinions to yourself. Just because you make a hobby of collecting the free samples without any intention of buying-"

  " Ay que risa! Where've you been hibernating, friend-since when is it free? This one I don't believe, de veras absolutamente -Hackett the impervious, and old enough to look after himself, God knows-Hackett the stolid-Hackett who never so far as I know, the ten years I know him, takes out the same girl three times running-and not because he's looking for free samples but because he's got a wide streak of caution, having some common sense if not quite as much as me! You don't tell me."

  "No, I don't tell you, damn it! I said I felt sorry for her and that's exactly what I meant, no more and no less. For which reason I'd also be sorry to prove that she killed a man. I'm well aware that you keep your emotions all carefully locked away in a secret compartment somewhere to take out and look at once in a long while-but if you think real hard, you may remember one or two occasions, maybe when you were a tender young rookie answering traffic calls and manhandling drunks, when you had a kind of feeling of sympathy for somebody who'd got knocked around a little through no fault of their own. I don't,” said Hackett, "say you ever did, because about you I wouldn't be sure, but maybe there was just once you felt a little something along that line for a second, hah?"

  " Esto queda entre los dos, only for your ear-because I wouldn't want it to get around that this thinking machine Mendoza is a real live human being-if I sat here quiet and concentrated a while I might remember a couple of those times. But I won't tell you about them, to set a bad example. I've got a reputation to maintain, you know. Everybody thinks Mendoza's always been what he is now, you drop a little problem in one slot and his month's pay in another, and click-click-click, out comes the right answer- no es verdad?"

  " Es verdad. Lo siento muchisimo -sorry, boy," said Hackett tiredly. "I just-I can see it happening, that's all. The way she is, that girl-all tied up in knots, poor little devil, and that woman hardly knowing she's alive. I don't know, but I'd bet you she's got nobody on the face of the earth to talk it out to, to give her any little sympathy, and you know as well as I do that's damned important. If you can blow off steam to somebody, even a stranger on a bus, it's a safety valve. You talk enough, you don't do anything about it. A hate, a grievance, a-desire. And she's not the kind who'd ever have made friends, at school or later on-ever had anybody. All this eating at her inside, keeping her-al1 to herself. If you get me. She'd put people off, she'd never have reached for it… She's just a-a mess, to look at. And prickly, because she's been hurt. Another thing I thought of, it's on the cards she got started acting standoflish because when she was just a youngster and that woman was still in the big-time, more or less, a lot of the kids she knew'd have pretended to like her because of who her mother was. And kids know these things. Just stiffened her up all the more, suspicious, you know, so she couldn't trust anybody enough to be friends. So it's all got magnified inside her, because it's stayed inside-and nobody to sympathize a little-"

  "That's all very true," said Mendoza. He swiveled his desk-chair around and looked out the window himself, and for about five seconds he thought about the time when he was graduating from the sixth grade into junior high. Nobody down there that side of Main Street had much money, but every other boy in the class had some sort of new suit for that occasion, even the Los Reyes kid and Johnny Li-Chong; and his grandmother had tried to get a few dollars out of the old man; she'd gone on asking a long time after he had, himself. The old man, with all those bankbooks tucked away then (if they'd only known it), sitting on a fortune out of canny investments of his gambling takes, and grudging her the five bucks a week for groceries, the twenty a month for rent of the cold-water flat… He'd been ashamed, getting up there with the rest of them in the same shabby old pants and mended shirt he'd been wearing all year. But she'd said to him afterward, how proud she'd been that he was the tallest boy there, and how Mr. Jackson the principal had told her he was a good smart boy and a credit to her… And somehow the clothes hadn't mattered quite so much. Little things like that, they weren't always so little in the long run. Somebody to listen to you, somebody to share a feeling. Even if there was nothing to do about it.

  He swiveled around again, absently straightening his tie, brushing a small fluff of cat hair from his sleeve. He was still of two minds about this suit-he should have looked at the bolt by daylight first, he reflected: you couldn't exactly call it loud, but the faint pattern was a good deal less discreet than he had thought. A nuisance; he'd call Harrington down for it too, the fellow ought to know better with a good customer. He said, "Well, we can kick this around a little, and I'd like to see those two, you've aroused my curiosity. But I'm wondering if and how that might fit in with a couple of suggestive little things in that story of Kingman's. Something burned in an ashtray. That laundry bag. Something else there besides the stuff on the Kingmans, and it looks as if whoever killed him was interested in it. Maybe… Sure, sure, if you take the Kingmans' story as gopsel. But-"

  "There wouldn't be anything like that with her," said Hackett doubtfully. "I don't know if I do take that story or not-it hangs together, sure. And on the face of it, it's more likely that it was somebody with that kind of motive."

  Mendoza agreed. "Let's see what we've got on these people." They looked, and besides Hackett's character analysis as gleaned from Mr. Horwitz and his own observation, there wasn't much and it didn't look remotely interesting. Higgins, sent out routinely to see the old Miss Kent that Mona Ferne had visited that evening, reported everything in order: the old lady confirmed that Miss Ferne had been with her that night from about a quarter to eight until half past ten or so. Where the girl Angel had been, that they'd find out.

  "It's just-bits and pieces, and it could be I'm crazy. But that first time I met her, she didn't seem interested at first in who'd been murdered, and when she heard it was Twelvetrees, she was very casual about it, who'd want to kill him and so on. And then two minutes later she was ready to go into hysterics. Keeping up a front, it could be, and not quite managing it. And then yesterday the Ferne says to me-and not real
izing what she said, because she couldn't be less interested in the girl, you know-that ‘Angel's been odd' for a week or so. It just added up in my mind, the way I say-"

  Mendoza said, "Yes? Yes… Girl have a car?"

  "I don't know. Probably."

  "She'd have money of her own. There was something said about a trust fund from the father. Not really big money, maybe, but substantial."

  "I'd think so," said Hackett heavily.

  "I don't know that you sell me on this, quite. But we'll have a look. No harm. Suppose we go and see them if they're home." Mendoza got up and reached for his hat.

  ***

  They were home. When the sour-faced maid opened the door to Hackett and Mendoza, letting a little light into the dingy entrance hall, the first thing they heard was the girl's shaking voice, loud, from the living room: "That's a lie-you know it's a lie!"

  Mendoza handed his hat to the maid and walked past her, ignoring her protesting query, to the doorway of that room. He looked at the pair of them interestedly, and added a few mental comments of his own to Hackett's.

  Mona Ferne was elegantly slim in honey-beige and dark brown today. Evidently she'd been about to leave the house: her alligator bag, gloves, a chic little brown felt hat with a veil waited on the arm of the couch. He paid academic tribute to the finished article, while guessing far more accurately than Hackett how much time and effort had gone into it. The gleaming perfect flaxen coiffure, the figure, the face-a very expert piece of work, all of it; and from fifteen feet away, before he heard her speak or saw her move, he knew it was all just about as emotionally affective as a combustion engine… The girl. Could be pretty. Alison would say, and be right, built to wear clothes-the height and the figure. Not one of the types he admired himself.

  "Darling," said the woman, "I'm only saying-" And she saw them then in the doorway, and for the fraction of a second her eyes held an expression which surprised Mendoza very much indeed.

  Vaya, que demonic,? he said to himself.

  And the girl turned to follow her glance, and looked startled-looked confused, and took a step back to bring up against the white brick hearth, and leaned there.

  "Why, it's the nice police sergeant back again-do tell me, Sergeant Hackett, have you found whoever it was did this awful thing? Is there something else I can do for you now?-I'm only too anxious-" But her eyes were busy on Mendoza, recognizing him as worthier quarry. She came forward gracefully.

  Mendoza glanced at Hackett, who was looking at the girl. Incredulities came at him from two directions, he thought. That girl. And-

  "You may indeed help us, if you will, Miss Ferne-it is Miss Ferne, I take it?" He knew instinctively just the sort of thing this one would like, would respond to: essentially it was the small-town Main Street mind-a veneer of sophistication very thin; and he smoothed his moustache thoughtfully in the approved man-about-town manner, gave her a faintly sardonic smile nicely blended of veiled admiration and cynicism. "Lieutenant Mendoza, madam. I apologize for intruding at such an early hour."

  "But not at all, Lieutenant! Anything I can do, of course-" She gushed at him a little, and he let his eyelids drop and put more cynicism in his expression, to conform to type. He knew exactly the kind of girl she had been, all giggles, curls, and inconsequence; the tiresome kind, not a thought beyond the conventionalities; and the kind too who wouldn't grow out of it to any extent. "Do sit down."

  "Thanks very much. You can oblige me first of all by telling me something I'd very much like to know. Who owns this coat here?" He nodded at it, getting out a cigarette. It was the first thing he'd noticed in the room. It was flung carelessly over the back of the couch, a woman's long wool coat, full-cut and voluminous: it was creamy beige and its sleeves had wide dark brown velvet cuffs. Before the woman could answer the girl spoke. "It's not mine," she said. "I never saw it before. I found it in my-I thought she-it's not mine!"

  "Darling, I don't understand you lately. How absurd, you're not forgetful so young, are you?-of course it's your coat, Angel, I've seen you in it a dozen times. One of the few halfway smart things you have. But why should you be interested, Lieutenant?" She wasn't much concerned with the coat or the girl; she sank into a chair, carefully arranging the display just right, and preened herself under his gaze.

  "That's your coat, Miss Carstairs? Well, well." He went over and picked it up. It was a costume coat, with a narrow rolled shawl collar, no buttons: its only decoration the dark velvet cuffs and a dark panel of velvet down each side of its front. "That's very interesting," and he divided a smile between them.

  "I never saw it before! I-I-I- What's it got to do with you?"

  Hackett came into the room, stood looking at the coat as Mendoza turned it in his hands, examining it. "We're asking the questions here, Miss Carstairs," he said harshly.

  "Oh, now I don't see any reason to be mysterious about it," said Mendoza gently. The coat bore a label inside the collar with the name Jay-X, Fine Fashions. Not a name he was familiar with, but any department store buyer could supply information, and he had an idea what the information would be. Hardly a brand name you'd find at Magnin's or Saks': third-rate-quality wool, inferior cut. About thirty-nine-fifty retail, he judged. "We have reliable evidence that a woman wearing a very similar coat to this one is intimately concerned in the murder of Mr. Twelvetrees. Naturally I'm interested in knowing”-he cocked his head at them-"whether it was, in fact, this coat."

  "In the murder!” exclaimed Mona Ferne. She sat bolt upright, graceful, horrified. "What are you saying? That Angel-? But that's ridiculous! Why, I expect there are hundreds of coats like that-"

  "Oh, I don't know," said Mendoza. He sat down, with the coat over his lap, in the chair nearest hers, where he could direct leers as broad as he could manage with more effect; he noticed that she'd automatically chosen a seat which put her back to the light. "It's not a fashionable line this year, is it, the very full cut, and the velvet-more of a spring coat, too, by the weight."

  "I think she got it last spring," said Mona Ferne vaguely. "I can see you're one to watch, Lieutenant Mendoza!"-and she actually giggled at him, looking up under her lashes coyly. "You know too much about feminine styles to sound quite respectable!"

  Caray, but with this one you could lay it on with a trowel, he thought. With a trowel. Appropriate… What was this, what the hell was this? Motives. He remembered saying to Alison, sometimes you have to find out about the people first. "You're flattering me, lady," he said, and let a little more interested admiration show in his eyes. She giggled again and smoothed her hair, to show off long garnet-colored nails.

  "I never-" said the girl Angel. She came to the middle of the room, looking from him to Hackett; she twisted her hands together, tight and nervous. "You mean-whoever killed him had-? I don't underst-I never saw that coat before in my life! It's not-it's not-it's not-"

  "Do control yourself, Angel, you sound quite hysterical, dear. I'm sure the lieutenant doesn't mean he thinks an innocent young girl like you had anything to do with such a horrible thing." It was a vague murmur: most of her attention was on Mendoza, a new man to gauge, to angle for, to play to.

  The girl Angel stared at her; suddenly she raised her clenched fists to her mouth. "No," she said against them. "No, I didn't-why would I-I didn't-him! I never-"

  "No one's accused you of anything, Miss Carstairs," said Hackett in a colorless tone. "We'd just like to ask a few questions, if you don't mind. Do you have a car of your own and what make is it?"

  She nodded mutely at him; she whispered, "The s-same as-hers-it's a '58 two-d-door Cad- I don't like it m-much, I don't-I don't drive much, she made me- Listen to me, please listen, I know by the way you look you think-but why, why, why? No reason-him-He wasn't anything-and I tell you I never saw-"

  "Do you mind telling us where you were on the evening of Friday the thirtieth?"

  "I-was-here," she said dully. She was looking at her mother again, not Hackett. "All that evening. Like every night. Like alwa
ys and forever and eternity. I was here-and nobody else was."

  "Really, Sergeant," said Mona Ferne, absent and sweet, "you can't think Angel-" And now her eyes were busy gauging Mendoza's suit, the Sulka tie, the custom-made shoes. Gauging his prestige value as something in pants to be seen with. He read them (fascinated, curious, passionately interested in this woman, now) as he would read a page of print. Money, they said-more than presentable, if not exactly handsome-charming-knows the score.

  "The maid-?" said Hackett.

  "She isn't here-at night," said the girl. "Nobody-I went to bed, I think, about-about midnight-I-” But that was absently said too; she was still looking at her mother. "The coat," and that came out in a whisper. “Somebody with a coat like that-? D'you mean-the one did it, k-killed-"

  Slowly she turned back to Hackett. Could be and was, different things: she looked plain, dowdy, in a shapeless gray dress, flat brown shoes; hair pinned back carelessly to fall lank and lifeless, and no make-up. "Please," she said, "how can you think-you do think so, I see you do, but I don't understand! I didn't-he was nothing! The coat. The-I never saw it before, why d'you think it's here, because I f-found it there in my wardrobe-just a while ago, I thought- It's a hideous coat, I'd never have-I brought it down to ask- It's not mine!

  "When did you buy it, Miss Carstairs, how long have you had it?” asked Hackett woodenly. I

  "Oh, my God," she muttered. "No. I don't-not-oh, my God!"

  And she moved from her rigid stance; her eyes went blank and she ran, as a child or an animal ran from inexplicable wrath. They heard her on the stairs, stumbling.