Extra Kill llm-3

by Dell Shannon

  She didn't think twenty seconds; she said simply, instantly, "Why, of course. My old trunk. That is, it's-it was my father's, there were some old family pictures in it and odds and ends. She was going to throw it away once when I was about seven, and I begged to have it. I-I never knew anybody in either of their families, you see, my grandparents or aunts and uncles-and it made it seem I had more of a family somehow, those old pictures. I used to t-tell myself stories about them… I keep it way at the back of my closet, it's locked, and there are things in it I expect it's silly to keep, but the kind of things you don't throw away. My high school graduation dress, and the school yearbooks-and a c-couple of letters-things like that. I don't open it once in six months, now."

  "Locked," said Mendoza. "Where do you keep the key?"

  "In the top drawer of my dresser."

  "And where were you from six o'clock on last evening? At home?"

  "Why, no-for once I wasn't," she said without bitterness. "I felt I had to get out-away-I went to a movie by myself… No, of course I haven't looked in the trunk since."

  "Thank you very much," said Mendoza smiling. "That's all for now."

  ***

  And as they waited for Alison to pack an overnight bag for the girl, over Angel's protests, Mendoza suddenly asked, "You didn't pick up a traffic ticket on your perambulations today, by any chance?"

  "A- No, why?"

  "Neither did I. Oh, I don't know-round out the case," said Mendoza vaguely. "Traffic tickets, they've had quite a lot to do with this i case, one way and another. If Frank Walsh hadn't given me that ticket and subsequently found I'm a tolerably reasonable individual to talk to, he'd probably have done nothing about his doubts on Bartlett. Let Slaney convince him he was just being overconscientious. And if Madame Cara hadn't got a ticket that night at-as we now know-the corner of Avalon and DuPont at seven minutes past eleven, I might easily have decided to use that warrant and charge them with the murder. And in the first instance, if Walsh and Bartlett hadn't stopped to hand out a traffic ticket right there, she wouldn't have had such a good chance to spot the squad-car number she was looking for, and take those shots at the driver-the wrong man. Funny how things work out sometimes. If she hadn't done that extra kill, nobody might ever have known a thing about it. Twelvetrees-Trask quietly moldering away there with his suitcases. Woods would have gone on looking, and finally filed it under Pending, and that would have been that… It was the extra kill-and the traffic tickets-that tripped her up in the end."

  And Hackett asked, "But why? What possible motive-"

  " Eso tiene gracia,” said Mendoza, "that's the funny thing. I don't know. I've got a little idea, but I don't know. Maybe she'll tell us."

  SEVENTEEN

  And it was a curious ending to a curious case, how readily she told them, eventually.

  When they brought her in the next morning and confronted her with the green plastic laundry bag and its contents, which had been locked away in Angel's old trunk, she went on talking for a while about her poor misguided child, so frantic with unrequited love.

  She sat in the chair beside Mendoza's desk, which she had unobtrusively moved to put her back to the light from the window, and smiled at him, and at Hackett, at the silent policewoman and the stolid police stenographer, in perfect confidence. She was in black today, as glossily turned out as ever-and the little loose fold of skin at her throat shaking a little as she turned her head from one to the other, the little strain lines about the eyes (because she should wear glasses) showing deep, and the raised blue veins on her hands; the thick, skillful cosmetic mask could not hide the lines and hollows and shadows.

  "Miss Ferne," said Mendoza finally, "it's really no use, your going on like this. Sooner or later you'll have to listen to me and believe it. We know Miss Carstairs had nothing to do with the murders. We know who did, and we have evidence on it. The salesclerk where you bought that coat on Monday remembers the incident very clearly-do you know why? Because, as Mr. Horwitz told us, you never were much of an actress and you can't do character parts. You overplayed it quite a bit, with that black hairpiece fastened to a turban, and the fake accent that puzzled everybody because it was partly French and partly German and partly just your own idea of how any foreigners talk English. You didn't fool anyone-the cab driver that night, or the man in the shop where you bought the serape, or the clerk on Monday-they all knew you were putting on a very crude act-"

  "That's a lie!" she exclaimed. "I can! I'm a great actress, everyone always said so-it's only jealousy, I'd be showing these snippy young things today if-"

  "We have the whole story from Miss Janet Kent, too. You make a mistake there in believing she really was devoted to you. All she was interested in was the money you gave her. Just as Brooke Twelvetrees was-wasn't he? That's why she fawns on you and flatters you-that's why she was afraid not to oblige you, when you came to her last Sunday and asked her-told her-to be ready to back up an alibi for you for the night of Friday the thirtieth. You hadn't thought you'd need one up to then, but after we'd found the body you thought you'd better have one. Miss Kent didn't like it, though I'm afraid she thought it was an illicit love affair-"

  She smiled and smoothed her hair. "Of course. And that's a lie too, she is devoted to me-simply devoted. Servants always like me. You probably forced her to tell."

  "It's always a mistake to count on other people in a business like this. They just haven't the incentive, you know, to go on telling lies. And when she heard that it was a murder case, she told us all about it. You made quite a few mistakes that night, and not the least of them was in overlooking all those odds and ends on the bureau. His hat, and the medicine bottles, and his watch and pocket-knife, both monogrammed, and the half bottle of Scotch and so on. It was convenient that you'd also overlooked that laundry bag on the chair. Into that it all went. But you couldn't face going down that trap again, so you took it with you.

  "You thought you'd covered your tracks so cleverly, with the act you put on for the cab driver, for the salesclerk-" Mendoza laughed and shrugged. "You have a most unfortunate love of wild Gothic melodrama, Miss Ferne-no appreciation of dramatic subtleties at all! As I daresay directors have told you-many years ago." He let some contempt show in his eyes.

  "A lie," she said in automatic reaction, "it's all lies."

  "But things went on going wrong, we found the body, and that brought you into it-when we'd identified him-if only on the outskirts of the case. And when you talked to your dear friend Cara Kingman on Monday, she told you that the police had connected with the murder a woman wearing a light-colored coat with dark bands of trimming on the cuffs and front panels. That really frightened you, because you still had the coat-"

  “Angel had it. You found it."

  "I mean the real coat," said Mendoza patiently, "the one you were wearing that night."

  "You don't know," she said almost slyly. "I never owned a coat like that in my life. You don't know."

  "But I do," and he smiled gently at her. "I had to do a little serious thinking on it, but it came to me. It was your fur coat you were wearing that night, wasn't it? That specially made brown mink with the white satin lining. It was the one halfway clever idea you had-to turn it inside out and wear it that way when you needed a quick disguise. People could see what you'd done in good light, of course, but in the dark like that, it was quite effective. Only the fur on the inside borders still showed, to look like trimming in the dark. And the rain ruined the lining, didn't it? You were afraid to send it to the cleaners, they'd be bound to ask questions and remember. When we searched your house last night, one of my men examined it, and we've gone back just since you've been here, to impound it as evidence."

  "You can't do that-"

  "I'm afraid it's quite legal. As I say, you were frightened when we got that close to home, and you went on making mistakes by most unnecessarily trying to cast suspicion on your daughter. And most ineptly! The rawest new rookie in uniform could have followed the trail you
left. You had a long hunt for a coat made just like that, you spent most of the day at it, in your crude disguise, and we've found several clerks who remember you and your specific request. You finally found what you wanted at a small shop called Betty Jo's, on Beverly Boulevard, at about four-thirty. You paid thirty-seven-fifty for it. You hid that damning laundry bag in your daughter's trunk that evening, put the coat in her wardrobe. Had you kept the bag in case you needed a scapegoat? I think so. You didn't have a chance to plant them in Miss Carstairs' room until she decided to go out to a movie. You knew where she kept the key to her trunk-but you'd decided to be bold about the coat, which was a very stupid mistake too… Once you'd gone to all this trouble, you were really hoping we'd come with a search warrant: I saw how pleased you were, yesterday morning, when we walked in and saw that coat lying there. But your daughter's an intelligent grown-up woman, Miss Ferne, however much you hate to acknowledge it, and you couldn't have forced her to admit owning that coat and forgetting it, or to believe she'd been in love with Brooke Twelvetrees." Suddenly he got up and stood over her. "You were the one in love with Twelvetrees-weren't you?"

  She looked up at him for a long minute, wide-eyed, a little smile still on her painted mouth. Then she said, "You're much cleverer than I thought the police were. You do know, don't you?"

  "We know. We know all about it, Miss Ferne. But maybe you'd like to give us your version."

  She fitted a new cigarette into the jeweled holder and he leaned to light it for her. "I wonder-it might be good publicity." She laughed. "You know what they say about publicity?-it doesn't matter what you get in the papers for, just get there! I daresay,"-and her tone was complacent-"I'd have a number of contract offers, afterward

  … I don't believe Stanley's been trying to do anything, just spite, and besides he's getting old, losing his grip. I'll get a new agent

  … Because of course I'll get off, nobody would say I was guilty-when they know why. Not if there are any women on the jury," and she giggled, and then looked thoughtful. "Or perhaps men would be better. Yes. I must remember to tell my lawyer. I'll have someone really good, to put on a good production… It might be interesting."

  "I'm looking forward to it. You were going to give us your version."

  She smoothed her hair, looking up at him sideways, coyly. "He insulted me, that was why, really. And a lie. Yes, I did love him-dear Brooke-and I'd been kind to him, awfully kind. I felt sorry for him, you know, the poor boy hadn't any money but the pittance Martin could afford to pay him. And he was proud, really he was, I thought he didn't like to take presents from me, but he always gave in so charmingly! And he spent too much money on me, at quite nice, expensive places-"

  "Like the Voodoo Club."

  "Oh, yes, we went there a lot. It was only fair I should try to make some return. But he was shy too-I thought-" she gave a little gasp. “I was sure he loved me too, only he was too shy and proud to say-because I had more money, and then there was just the tiniest difference in our ages-"

  "Just twenty-eight years' difference," said Mendoza crudely.

  For one moment her face was convulsed with rage. "You-! It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter-it was a lie, a lie, a lie! He was going away, he was packing-when I came-he let me in, we were in the living room but I could see into the-I'd made up my mind to smooth matters out for him-you know-and tell the dear boy I returned his love-I'd be proud and happy to marry him-I knew he'd been hesitating to-you know-try his fortune with me. And he-and he-it was a lie, of course, he was drunk or he'd gone mad or something! I told him and he swore at me, he called me-"

  "An old hag," said Mendoza softly. (And this was it, the offbeat little idea in his mind.) "He said you're an old desiccated bag of bones, a wrinkled mummy, he'd as soon go to bed with his grandmother-a silly old painted bitch pretending to be sixteen-" And he stepped back quickly from her clawing fingers, and Hackett and the policewoman took her by the shoulders and forced her down to the chair again. She sat rigid for a minute, and the mask of rage smoothed out to her usual vapidity. "You see, I nearly killed you then. Any woman- And he was mad, it's a wicked, wicked lie, all anyone has to do is look at me," and up went the manicured hand, gracefully, to the perfect coiffure. "Real beauty doesn't fade, of course. And I do have enough self-respect to keep myself up, retain the youthful outlook-that's the great secret. You remember that, dear," she said condescendingly to the policewoman. "But even though I knew it was a lie-as anyone can see-I, well, I suppose I lost my temper. Just for a minute. I slapped him, I know, and he must have been frightened-of me, imagine!-because he stepped back and picked up that gun. I'd given it to him, you know-silly boy, it made him feel like an adventurer or something, I think-it was an old one of Bill's. He couldn't ever have shot anyone with it, he didn't have the courage for that. I reached for it and got it away from him-really you could say it was self-defense!-and I must have hit him with it, because he fell down and when I felt him, well, he was dead. It was his own fault, he shouldn't have lied to me like that! You can see how it was."

  "I can see. So you started to leave."

  "Well, there wasn't anything else to do, was there? He was dead, and while it was his own fault, I didn't want to be connected… It was raining quite hard then, and when I opened the door-I'd left my car on the street that time, very foolishly-there was this sudden great flash of lightning, it lit up everything-"

  "Including the police car sitting right outside. And the driver. And its number. Yes, I know all about that too. And several people have identified the gun. It was that extra kill that was your biggest mistake, Miss Ferne… You thought the driver had seen you, and you decided-shall we say-you might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb? So you thought it over, and went back to get the gun, and then you found the car had gone. You spent quite a while hunting it."

  She looked down and then up through her lashes, demurely. "I know that whole thing was foolish, I realized it almost as soon as it was over. But I was frightened, and not thinking very clearly-and of course women haven't logical minds, have they? There wasn't any way to be sure I'd really killed him, that was the trouble. It was awful, driving all over looking for that car-I passed several police cars, but I couldn't always read the number, and I was frantic-and then, it was like a miracle, I saw it just ahead, stopped, and the roof light showed up its number, the right one. Seven-four-seven it was. So I went around the block-of course I'd made sure the gun was loaded… You know, I hadn't fired a gun in years, and I was always better with a ride too, but it came back, if you know what I mean. But I couldn't be sure. So then-I was thinking much more clearly by that time, of course-I thought, well, Brooke was leaving anyway, why not just make it look as if he'd gone away? And then it wouldn't matter about the policeman, no one would know Brooke was dead. So I went back, and that time I parked behind the building. I hadn't any trouble getting in, you see, he'd already put that note for the landlady, with the key in it, on the front door. And at first I thought of putting everything, Brooke and the suitcases, into the car, and going down to the beach-but it would have been awfully difficult, being a woman I'm not very strong, of course. And then I thought of that funny trap door. I'd only been to his place once before, you know-he was ashamed of it, I think-but he'd shown it to me then, because I noticed the hinges on the floor, such a funny place, and asked. I think it was clever of me to remember and take the time to bury him. Dead things begin to-to-you know, have an odor, after a while. I didn't think it needed to be very deep, just enough. And it was the oddest thing, very lucky, there was a trowel, just lying there on the couch in the living room-I can't imagine why. Very lucky, because of course you couldn't use a spade down there, there wasn't room. It took ages, after I'd pushed him down there, and I was terribly frightened once when some people came in-I don't know who. They knocked, and I knew the door was unlatched-they might come in-so I just closed the trap and waited. I'd left my purse in the car. I knew there wasn't anything damaging for them to see. They stayed an awfully
long time, I could just barely hear the voices, you know. I thought they'd never go-"

  "Weren't you," he asked of private curiosity, "at all nervous down there in the dark with a dead man?"

  She stared up at him. "I was waiting for them to go, so I could get on with burying him. No, why? You said, about later on, I couldn't face going down again-how silly-it wasn't that, it was my shoes-I'd almost ruined them, quite expensive shoes, and I didn't want to get them dirty again after I'd… And I did think, those things-to plant on someone else, if… I remembered to wear my gloves all the time, except just at first, and I wiped off things I remembered touching then. Only I lost a button from one of them, somewhere-"

  "Yes, we have both the button and the glove."

  "Oh-have you? You are clever… And, you know, when I slid him down the trap-I have been a little worried about this-there was a lot of money, all in a great roll, fell out of his trouser pocket, and the bankbooks-for the Temple accounts, I mean. I've been worried about those, I didn't know what to do-Martin should have them back, but-Oh, and I kept the money, of course- You needn't say I stole it, the way Brooke did, because you know, I'd spent that much and more on him, it was only fair!… And I cleaned everything up tidily, the last thing-that was after I came back in the cab, of course. I emptied the ashtray and put some scraps of waste paper into the wastepaper basket, an empty pack of cigarettes and tom paper, there on the bureau-"