Extra Kill llm-3

by Dell Shannon

  Nothing said anything to him. An hour later he had got as far as the place where they'd subdued the D.-and-D., and had reached the conclusion that he was wasting time. It wasn't an apartment building, this, but a one-story court built in U-shape around a big black-topped parking area. There were four semidetached apartments on each side, in two buildings, and across the end a fifth building also with two apartments; at the street side of the first two buildings were double carports, and a single one at each end of the fifth. All the buildings were painted bright pink, with white door-frames and imitation shutters; they looked curiously naked standing there in the open, not a tree anywhere around, or any grass: only the blacktop and in the middle of it a large wooden tub in which was planted some anonymous shrub, which obviously wasn't doing very well-thin and anemic-looking. Six television aerials stretched importunate arms heavenward; presumably the other tenants possessed newer sets of the portable type.

  In his exasperation with himself, Mendoza thought he'd never seen a more depressing place to live. Even a slum tenement gave out a warmer sense of life than this sterile, cheap modernity.

  There was no parking lane along here, and he turned up onto the blacktop to make a U-turn, start back downtown, and quit wasting time. As he swung around by the twin front doors of the building across the end of the court, the left one opened and a woman bounced out in front of the car; so he had to stop.

  "Was it about the apartment? You're lucky to catch me, I was just goin' to market. You're welcome to see over it, won't take a minute to it get the key-" She might have been sixty; she was an inch or so short of live feet and very nearly as wide, but every bit of her looked as firm and brisk and bouncy as a brand-new rubber ball. She had pug-dog features under a good deal of wild gray hair, and her cotton housedress was a blinding Prussian blue with a pink-and-white print superimposed.

  "Not about the apartment, no," said Mendoza. Oh, well, as long as he was here… He got out of the car and introduced himself. "You, or someone here, put in a call to the police last Friday night complaining about a drunk-"

  "Mrs. Bragg, that's me, how-do. Mex, hey? Well, I don't mind that, you're mostly awful polite folk, I will say, nor I don't mind the police part either-matter of fact it might be sort of handy sometimes, with them Johnstones. Now there, if I haven't got the key, musta picked up the wrong bunch-it's this apartment right here, what'd-you-say-the-name-is, and a bargain if I do say so-"

  "I'm not interested in the apartment? But he had to follow her to the door to say it, and she prodded him inside before he got it across.

  "This call you put in-it was you?-"

  "And what about it?" said Mrs. Bragg. "Got a right to call the police, I hope, I pay taxes, and not the first time either since them Johnstones've been in Number Three. I don't mind folk taking a drink now and then, and it's none of my business are they really married or not, which I don't think they are, but when it comes to getting roaring drunk three nights a week average, and taking 'em both as it does, him trying to beat her up and her yelling blue murder, well, l've got my other tenants to think of, I hope you can understand that-"

  "Yes, of course, why don't you get rid of them?"

  "0h, well, she's a nice woman when she isn't drunk, quite the lady, and the rent on the dot first of every month. Funny thing is, it never lasts long, you see-half an hour and they quiet down. Beats me what fun they get out of it, but there it is, it takes all sorts. Thing is, it went on a bit longer Friday night, and I thought it might kind of bring them to their senses if I called the police, which it did as it has before-they quieted down soon as they come and the older one, he gave 'em a good talking-to, and never a peep out of them afterwards? She eyed him speculatively. "Might be real handy, have one of you here all the time.

  You're sure you don't want to move? It's a real nice apartment-now you're here you might's well see over it, just on the chance. Three and a half rooms, all utilities, and furnished real nice if I do say so-just take a look around-and only ninety a month. The gentleman I've just lost out of it, he was a real gentleman, if he did have a funny name-Twelvetrees it was, Mr. Brooke Twelvetrees, kind of elegant-sounding at that when you say it, isn't it?-and he took real good care of everything, I was sorry to see him go. You can see he left everything in apple-pie order, to tell the truth I haven't got round to cleaning it up myself since, except for emptying the wastebasket and so on. Which, however, would be done before you moved in, even to windows washed. Handy to everything, market two blocks away, and thirty minutes to downtown. Now you can see-"

  Submerged in the flood, Mendoza was swept ruthlessly across the tiny living room (pink Bowers in the rug, Prussian blue mohair davenport, blond step-table beside a maroon-upholstered chair) into an even tinier bedroom, in which there was just room for a double bed of blond finished pine, a bureau enameled cream, and a straight chair. The bed bore a pink chenille spread with fringe, and there was a small bedside table with a lamp about nine inches high which wore a madly ruffled shade very much askew. The rug here had maroon flowers.

  Mrs. Bragg pounded the bed vigorously. "Good mattress, good as new, you can see. Oh, I tell you, I was sorry to see Mr. Twelvetrees go-a real gentleman he was, and finicky as a lady, you can see by the way he left everything so neat. Here's the bathroom, shower and tub if they are all together so to speak, and real tile, not that plastic stuff." It was mauve, and the shower curtain was embellished with improbably blue fish.

  "I'm really not interested-"

  "Plenty of closet space, even for a man like Mr. Twelvetrees and he had as many clothes as a woman, you shoulda seen-a real snappy dresser he was. And the kitchen, if I do say, is all nice and modern as anybody'd want-” Mendoza was prodded back across the living room to the kitchen, to admire a very small table with chromium-tube legs and a rose-colored plastic top, chairs to match, real blue tile on the drainboard, a practically new refrigerator and stove. Mrs. Bragg pounded the table to illustrate its sturdiness, and it rocked violently.

  "There now, he's got it over the trap-you don't need to worry about that, it's just what they call access for the plumber, case they have to get at the line underneath, and it don't hardly show a bit, you can see, it covered with the same linoleum. You see, it's steady as a rock, you get it in the right place. Everything handy. I don't deny it's small, but arranged very convenient, as you can see-" She made a sudden dart at the narrow kitchen door and snatched up an object from the threshold: I a shiny new trowel. "So that's where my trowel got to-he musta been at that Tree of Heaven again. Real helpful he was, and quite the gardener, I often said to him, ‘You ought have a place of your own.' He even got me some special plant food for the blamed thing, but it didn't seem to do no good. Well, now, you can see what a bargain the place is at ninety-"

  "But really I'm not interested in another apartment-”

  "-And I'm not one of those fussy landladies, either. Men will be men, single ones, that is, and some of the others, and women I don't mind, none of my business and live and let live I always say, as long as everything's quiet and no rowdy parties. The only thing I do draw the line at-just in the interests of my investment here, as you can understand-is pets and children, that I can't have-"

  Mendoza, between fascination and the feeling that he might willy-nilly find himself signing a lease on the spot, perceived that Providence was rescuing him. He said in that case the apartment would never do, as he had some cats. "Cats!" exclaimed Mrs. Bragg, recoiling a step.

  "Three cats," said Mendoza. "That is, a cat and two kittens."

  "Cats I will not have. I'm afraid if you want the apartment you'll have to get rid of them." She looked at him disapprovingly, he had disappointed her. Something peculiar about a man who kept cats, and three at that.

  "I'm only curious," said Mendoza, recovering his equilibrium, "but do you say that to prospective tenants with children?"

  "Tenants with children or pets I don't take. I'm sorry, but you should have explained that to start with and I needn't have
wasted time showing you over the place. I'm very sorry, but I can't make any exception." She all but pushed him out the door. "I'm sure you can understand that it's ruination on a furnished place."

  Mendoza got back into his car as she banged her own front door.

  " Quid! " he said to himself. "And my grandmother asks me why I don't marry a wife! A ningun precio -not at any price, take such a chance!"

  THREE

  He looked, in the places indicated to look, and found nothing. If there was anything funny anywhere, it didn't show in any way. He saw the kids again, the insolent, sullen kids who didn't clearly understand that they'd done anything wrong, just resented the cops for putting them in jail. Who said sullenly, insolently, that the cops were making scapegoats of them (though they didn't use that word) on the Bartlett thing-probably had some reason to put Bartlett away themselves and were covering for the real killer.

  He even thought about that, but not for very long, because while all cops in uniform and out, who carried guns at all, carried. 38's, they weren't smooth bores and Ballistics would have spotted it right away. He looked back in the records over Joe Bartlett's career, and at the family, and it was all one big blank.

  Hackett went to see everybody again, and it all sounded just the way it had before. Hackett said, "I told you so. Walsh, he hadn't had the experience, that's all, and it shook him-only natural."

  Mendoza began to agree. You just didn't run into the kind of thing it would be if it wasn't those juveniles-the fiction-plot thing, the obscure complexity.

  Walsh had come to see him on Tuesday, and by Thursday, having taken his closer look at it, Mendoza stopped looking. He saw Walsh again on Friday, and told him it looked like a mare's nest. And after Walsh had thanked him for listening anyway, and gone, he sat there with a couple of days' work in front of him and felt uneasy about it. He didn't know why. It wasn't a hunch; it wasn't the kids' stubborn denial, although there was a little something there, all right: it had made them feel like big-time pros to have shot that cashier; that one they hadn't tried to deny-of course they couldn't, there were witnesses. And the cashier hadn't died after all: the homicide charge depended entirely on Bartlett.

  It wasn't anything he could put a finger on-that made him wonder if he hadn't missed something…

  After a while he put it forcibly out of his mind and went back to the several cases on hand when Walsh had first come in.

  ***

  The day after that he happened to drop in at the same restaurant for lunch that Woods and Goldberg had picked. Federico's, where a good many of the headquarters officers habitually went, was closed for redecoration, and this was a hole-in-the-wall place which opened out unexpectedly into several large dining rooms. It wasn't fancy, but the food was good and not too expensive, and there were no jukeboxes or piped-in-music: you could eat in peace. Consequently it was crowded, and he wandered through the first two rooms into the third looking for a table. There, at the back, he ran into Goldberg and Woods just sitting down, and joined them principally because the only empty chair was at their table.

  Lieutenant Goldberg of Burglary and Theft he knew, but Sergeant Woods he didn't. Woods was young for a sergeant, not more than twenty-eight; he looked more like an earnest postgraduate student of something like anthropology. He was tall, thin, and gangling, with a pale face under already thinning dark hair, a rich bass voice, and a very quiet manner.

  Goldberg asked how life was treating Mendoza these days, and Mendoza said he couldn't complain. The waiter took their orders and went away, cigarettes were lit, and after a little desultory conversation Goldberg asked suddenly, "Say, what should you do for a cat that has fleas? Is the stuff for dogs too strong?"

  "Fleas? Cats that are properly cared for don't have fleas. Where does she sleep-or he?"

  "She, we've still got a kitten we couldn't find a home for. In the garage, at least I fixed a box with an old blanket, but half the time- ”

  “ Entendido, there's your trouble, leaving her outside at night to roam all over. Keep her in-I know people think they're nocturnal animals, but when they live with us they keep our hours, you know."

  "Well, I suppose I could bring the box into the service porch."

  "You can, not that it'll do much good," said Mendoza. "She'll pick her own bed, and quite likely it'll be yours or one of the kids'. Let her. If you've been feeding her things out of cans, stop it, and get her fresh liver and beef. Wheatgerm oil twice a week, and lots of brushing with a good stiff brush."

  "Look," said Goldberg, "I've got a living to earn, I can't spend all the time waiting on a cat, and my wife's got the house and the kids-neither can she. Do you know what beef liver's gone to now? Of course it's an academic question with you. All I asked was about flea powder."

  "And I told you what to do. Let a vet de-flea her now. Fresh meat only, horsemeat'll do, and meanwhile brush half a can of talcum into her every day."

  "Look," said Goldberg, "she's only a cat.”

  Mendoza put out his cigarette as the waiter came up and said, "You shouldn't have a cat, Goldberg, you've got the wrong attitude entirely. Cat people say, ‘We're only human beings.' "

  Woods uttered the deep rumbling laugh that sounded so surprising coming from his weedy-looking frame and said, "Reason I don't like cats around much-like a lot of people, I think-not that I don't like them exactly, but they make me feel so damned inferior."

  "Isn't it the truth," agreed Mendoza. "Yes, if they'd only admit it, I'm convinced that's the reason some people say they can't stand cats. Now I'm an egotist myself, I admit it, but it certainly hasn't cured me. Right now I've got a cat that's crazy-in a devilish sort of way-and even he makes me feel inferior.”

  "Is that so?" said Woods. "A crazy cat?"

  "Possessed of the devil. I intended to keep one of the kittens, but I ended up with this El Se n or as well because nobody else would put up with him. He's got no sense at all except for planning deliberate mischief, and that he's very damned smart at. I call him El Se n or for convenience-sometimes it's Se n or Estupido, and sometimes Se n or Malicioso, and other things. I believe he must have been a witch's familiar in another incarnation. But even when he's being stupid, he can look down his nose at me as superior as the other two."

  "Madame Cara," said Sergeant Woods, regarding his Beef Stroganov thoughtfully, "says that the highest point of animal reincarnation is represented by cats, and they're all of them superior human souls on the way-er-up the ladder again."

  "And who in hell is Madame Cara?" Goldberg wanted to know. Woods grinned. "This thing I'm on now. That embezzlement. I suppose I should say ‘alleged,' like the papers-I've got no proof he did it, and as far as I can see I never will unless I catch up to him-and it looks as if maybe he borrowed one of their spells and made himself invisible.”

  "Oh, that Temple of Mystic Truth thing," said Goldberg.

  "What is mystic about the truth?" asked Mendoza.

  "There you've got me, Lieutenant," said Woods. "All I know is what it says on the sign out front. Myself, I thought at first it ought to have been handed over to somebody in Rackets, but of course however the Kingmans came by the money it did belong to them-that is, to the-er-church, which is officially incorporated as a nonprofit organization-"

  "Now there's what they call labored humor,” said Goldberg.

  "-And this Twelvetrees hadn't any title to it just as their treasurer. Yes, I thought," said Woods, looking intellectually amused, "that I'd learned pretty thoroughly what damned fools people can be, but Madame Cara Kingman and her husband've given me another lesson. Twenty-three hundred bucks, if you'll believe me-one month's take."

  "Good God," said Goldberg, "I'm in the wrong business. Just for telling fortunes?"

  "Well, it's dressed up some. Quite fancy, in fact-fancy enough to attract people with money and-er-more sophistication than the kind who patronize the gypsy fortune teller at the amusement pier. But nine out of ten people are interested in that sort of thing, you know, it's just
a matter of degrees of intelligence."

  "Twelvetrees," said Mendoza meditatively. "He absconded with the take?"

  "That he did, at least he's gone and the money's gone, and at the same time. Where I couldn't say. I've been looking for six days, and not a smell. Mr. Brooke Twelvetrees has pulled the slickest vanishing act since vaudeville died."

  Mendoza laid down his fork. "Mr. Brooke Twelvetrees. Elegant-sounding name. Did it really belong to him, I wonder?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine. Sounds almost too good to be true, doesn't it? And sort of gratifying in a way-you know, the biter bit and all that-the Kingmans seem to have trusted him absolutely. Yes, he's done a very nice flit, overnight-left a note for his landlady and not so much as a bag of dirty laundry to provide a clue, and disappeared into the blue."

  “I suppose you've looked at his recent quarters, then-as well as elsewhere. Out on 267th Street."

  Woods stared at him, also laid down his fork, and said, "How d'you come to know that, Lieutenant? I didn't know Homicide was interested in Twelvetrees. What-"

  It ran a small finger up between Mendoza's shoulder blades, the feeling he'd waited for before in vain. "Woods-when did he go?" he asked softly.

  The sergeant cocked his head at him curiously, and then, as if divining his urgency, answered, terse as an official report. "A week ago last night. Last seen four in the afternoon by the Kingmans. They came in Monday to lay a charge."

  Mendoza said, " Donde menos se piensa solta le liebre -isn't it the truth, things happen unexpectedly… Indulge me a minute, Sergeant-he's just vanished, no sign at all of his leaving for anywhere, even in disguise?"