by Dell Shannon
Now and then they put on shows, in a community theater they could rent cheap, near Exposition Park; it was at one of those she'd met Twelvetrees. He'd been a new member of the group then; this was four years ago, he'd have been here only a few months. "I saw at once he had talent-oh, he needed training and experience, but the essential thing was there. The work this splendid little group was doing was excellent for him, though the poor boy was impatient at the lack of recognition."
Did she (he didn't expect much on this one) remember any comments Twelvetrees had made about the Temple or the Kingmans, after his first visit there? Well, nothing specific; he had, of course, been tremendously impressed, as anyone would be. Such a spiritual atmosphere, and dear Martin so impressive in his robes.
"Yes. Do you happen to know whether Twelvetrees owned a revolver?"
"A revolver-heavens, I don't think so, did you find one, I mean in his apartment? Oh, I mustn't ask questions, of course, I'm so sorry! I don't think I ever saw him with-But there," she said with a coquettish little moue, "I'm telling a lie. I did. But I don't think it was his. It was when he was in a play they were doing, oh, all of a year ago it must have been-and he only had it on the stage, of course, it would have been a prop." She angled her new cigarette in its jeweled holder at him, in expectation; perversely he bent over his notebook, pretending not to notice, and let her light it herself.
"And if you don't mind, just for the record, Miss Ferne-were you at home on that Friday and Saturday night?-the thirtieth and thirty-first, that was."
She didn't answer immediately, and then she said, "Oooh, I will begin to think you suspect me! Was that when he was-? Do you know, I mean? I thought-the papers said-but you police are so clever, I expect you have ways of finding out things." And by now Hackett was unwillingly fascinated, at the apparent extent of the woman's faith in her private illusion. A pretty sixteen-year-old innocent on her first date might get by with such provocative glances and giggles, such arch wriggling girlishness; from this woman it should have been absurd, and instead was somehow horrible. "Wel1, let me see. Of course I know you have to ask, it doesn't mean you think I- As if I'd any reason, my dear Brooke-but I mustn't make a parade of feeling, one has to bear these things… Let me see. That was a week ago last Friday and Saturday? Oh, of course, on the Friday night I went to see Miss Kent. Janet Kent-do you want the address? She's an old servant actually, she was Angel's nurse, such a reliable woman, but she was quite old then and now she can't work anymore, and hasn't much to live on, poor thing. She's very proud, she won't take money, but I do give her clothes and things like that, you know, and-not to sound as if I'm praising myself or anything-I do go in as often as I can, if it's just for a minute or two, to cheer her up a little, you see. It's rather tedious sometimes-old people can be such bores, can't they?-but I try to do what I can."
"Yes. What time did you get there and when did you leave?"
"Well, it felt like eternity, I couldn't get away from her that night, she wanted to talk-she gets lonely, poor thing-and she does so love to play cards, I had to sit down and play with her. I couldn't tell you exactly when I got there, but I think it must have been about seven-thirty, because I left right after dinner here-and when I did get away, I felt so exhausted-such a bore-I thought it must be midnight, but it was only a quarter of eleven. I came straight home
… And the next night, of course, I was at the Temple for the service, as I am every Saturday night."
"Thank you," said Hackett, and stood up.
"Is that all you want to ask me? I do hope I've been of some help, though I don't see how I could tell you anything important."
"One more thing," said Hackett, and made himself smile at her, sound sympathetic, "I hope you don't mind a personal question, Miss Ferne, but-well, you'd been out with Mr. Twelvetrees socially quite a bit, and-er-well, was there anything like a formal engagement, or-er-?" He thought he'd done that quite well, the insensitive cop trying to be delicate.
"Ah," she said, clasping one hand to her cheek, lowering her eyes. "I-I shouldn't like to feel that such a private matter would go into your records, to be pawed over by anyone-" An appealing glance. He produced a very obviously admiring smile and murmured something about off-the-record. "I-1 can't say what might… But there were difficulties, you see? Dear Brooke was so proud, and of course I do have more money than he did. And there was a little difference in our ages, nothing to matter, but he-I'm sure you understand. But mostly, it was-Angel. I'm afraid the poor girl was quite foolishly in love with him-oh, quite understandable, of course, but utterly hopeless, naturally. Brooke never- She never said anything to show she was jealous, or-but I knew, and so did Brooke, of course. The way she behaved. I've seen her look quite-quite wild, sometimes, when we were going out somewhere together. These young girls… But it would have made difficulties. Brooke was so understanding, he hadn't said a word to me, yet, but we both knew-you do see what I mean?"
Hackett said he did. She added suddenly, a little nervously, "I do hope you won't have to question her, Sergeant-she's so odd, she never shows what she feels. Now I simply can't help it, a bundle of emotions, but then most women are, aren't we? But she hasn't been herself at all the last-well, since we knew, I expect it's been, though she's been very quiet and strange for a week or so. I really wouldn't like her upset further-"
"I don't think it's necessary." Hackett didn't know when he'd been more anxious to get out of a place; it was an unhealthy house, as if a miasma hung over it like that damned tree, darkening the spirit as the tree darkened the rooms. He went out to the entry hall, her high heels clacking sharp and light on the parquet floor there, behind him. And there was the girl again, swinging the door open for him, mocking, metallic…
"What, isn't he arresting you, Mother dear? What a disappointment!" He felt the hate like an invisible sword poised.
"Darling, you mustn't joke to the police, they might take you seriously. And I hoped you were lying down, you've not been at all yourself lately, you know."
"What d'you mean? I'm all right! What on earth-oh, I see, showing how solicitous you are of me! How ridiculous, I-" And she caught his glance, that held anger and pity because he couldn't help it, and suddenly, astonishingly, shamed color flooded her face. She flung around furiously and ran away from both of them, up the stairs.
"So difficult-young girls," murmured the woman. "So unpredictable. Quite wild, sometimes-she has always been- But I mustn't bore you with my troubles. I do hope you'll find whatever wicked person did this dreadful thing, soon. You've been so kind and understanding, Sergeant-"
ELEVEN
There was, of course, one obvious thing to do with this new information, and Mendoza did it; he came back to headquarters and set about getting a search warrant for the Temple and the Kingmans' apartment. As that would take a little time, he deferred his visit there until after lunch and meanwhile did some looking at various other odd bits of news that had come in, and some thinking about them.
They didn't have much on Twelvetrees' close associates aside from the Temple crowd; but barring the emergence of a girl friend with a grudge, or a rival ditto-something like that, maybe from among his theatrical acquaintances-the Kingmans still looked like the best bet, because when it came to motives for murder, money was always high on the list. That Miss Katherine Webster, the old lady, had been about the only one of the crowd who hadn't liked Twelvetrees, but it scarcely looked like anything that would have led to murder. She was one of the Kingmans' prize pigeons, a very wealthy old lady indeed; it was a little confirmation of his idea about Twelvetrees blackmailing the Kingmans, that in the face of old Miss Webster's dislike and openly voiced distrust, they hadn't obliged her by getting rid of him.
Miss Webster employed a chauffeur and had a four-year-old black Cadillac. It had curved-up fins.
The Kingmans had a three-year-old dark gray Buick with curved-up fins.
Mrs. Bragg, urged to remember, said she had at various times seen cars belonging to Twelv
etrees' visitors standing in front of his place but, beyond the fact that one she'd noticed once was dark-colored and big, could give no details. He hadn't had many people come to see him; he wasn't there much, and had never given parties, anything like that. She herself had a two-year-old dark red Olds, and (depressingly) it too had curved-up fins.
But there was nothing to guarantee, of course, that Walsh had been right about that, his brief glimpse of that car.
At least, if this rather curious story of the exotic lady who'd bought the serape from Mr. Perez and taken that cab ride out to Polk Street, had come unexpectedly, still it served a useful purpose: it pinned down the night pretty definitely. Again, not exactly solid evidence, but suggestive. Coincidences did occur, but that missing glove button, the scuffed brown leather suitcase, the obvious attempt to evade recognition, and the areas in question-near where the Porsche had been found, near the apartment-all pointed to the fact that she had something to do with this business. Even more eloquently was that indicated by what he'd got from a phone call to that address on Polk Street: people named Fawcett, sounded like a young housewife he'd talked to, baby crying in the background: no, they had not expected any out-of-town visitor that weekend, no one had come to the house all that Friday evening.
And about that time Mendoza remembered Dr. Graas on Fairfax Avenue, and the allergy: not much in it, he'd thought, but you never knew. He called Dr. Graas; and what he learned then sent him calling elsewhere… When Sergeant Lake came in with the search warrant about noon, he was brooding over a half page of notes. He tucked the warrant into his pocket, told the sergeant to have Piggott and Landers meet him at the Temple at one o'clock, and went out for lunch, meeting Hackett in the corridor.
"Let's catch each other up over a sandwich. You're looking gloomy » about something, what's gone wrong?"
"Just human nature generally," said Hackett. When they were settled in a booth in the hole-in-the-wall cafe, he described the Mona Ferne set-up.
Mendoza listened in thoughtful silence, and at the conclusion said irrelevantly, "It'd be a help if we could get that gun identified. I do wonder if it's the same one Twelvetrees used in that play. No, no particular reason it should be, but you know those amateur groups-makeshift arrangements-they need something as a prop, somebody says, ‘Oh, I think I know where I can get one.'… It might have been his own. Quite a few honest people don't bother about a license, and I doubt if Twelvetrees would have… Bainbridge thinks, by the way, that it may have been the weapon. The wrong end of it, that is. Failing anything else there-we know the man wasn't knocked down against the bedpost or something, the way it's always happening in books-I'm inclined to agree… Yes, nasty-those women-just as you say. And a kind of culmination of everything else between them, if the girl was in love with Twelvetrees too-"
"Not too," said Hackett. "That woman's never been in love with anybody but herself."
" Es claro. And neither of them, probably, meant anything to dear Brooke. He'd have taken up with La Ferne to begin with thinking she could do him some good in the way of theatrical contacts, but he must have found out by now she doesn't have a pull there any more. It was her money kept him dangling-an ace up his sleeve, tal vez. I'll bet you she'd given him other little presents than that fancy cigarette case-maybe those expensive shirts and ties, the flame-of-love bottles.
Nuances in these things, sure-nothing crude about it, pay for services rendered-he'd make the graceful protests on the ground of his pride and so on, he'd have been good at that. And in case worst came to worst, and all his other rackets played out on him, and he'd got nothing in prospect better, he might have married her. She'd have jumped at that?"
"Oh, very definitely, I'd say."
"Mmh. But it'd have been a last resort for him. I'll bet you something else, that the services rendered wouldn't, shall we say, call for overtime pay. That kind of woman is always cold as a fish, and Twelvetrees could have picked up something a damn sight more bedworthy…We ought to get something from Pennsylvania some time today. Meanwhile, I'll tell you what I've got… "
Hackett listened, said, "Well, maybe it's a good thing I didn't lay any bets on Walsh's business. Though I still think- But anyway, it begins to look as if it was that Friday night. You don't really think you're going to find that light coat with dark trimming, or a glove with a missing button, or the serape, at the Kingmans' apartment, do you? Neither of them is that stupid."
"You never know. One thing to remember here, somebody got one hell of a shock on Saturday night or Sunday when it first came out in the papers that the body had been found. That hadn't been the idea at all, and it's quite possible that until then whoever it was hadn't thought it necessary to get rid of those things. Maybe there hasn't been a chance since. We can hope, can't we? And I've had another idea-to start with, you remember what I said about a laundry bag? Well, I've got some idea of what went into it."
"How?”
"I called this doctor Twelvetrees had been going to. And he said among other things that he'd prescribed this and that, and,"-Mendoza sat back over his coffee and lit a cigarette-"I got to thinking. You know, it's like the roof light on the squad car, and patrolmen changing round-we're so apt to overlook the little, familiar things. I called some pharmacies in the general areas where Twelvetrees might have gone-hit the right one fourth try, place near the doctor's office. And then I thought some more, and what I came up with was this." He handed over a slip of paper.
"Atomizer, bottles, tie-" read Hackett. "What's this?"
"It's a list of things we didn't find anywhere that ought to have been there. Ya lo creo, I'm not sure about all of them, but a couple of things we've got for sure. Dr. Graas had prescribed a solution for spraying up his sinuses, and for that he had to have one of those atomizer things. And some antihistamine capsules. And the pharmacy says, and the doctor says, that on Friday afternoon, a little after four o'clock, Twelvetrees came into the pharmacy to have both prescriptions refilled, though he had some of each left, and he asked for a double amount because he was leaving on a trip."
"You don't tell me," said Hackett. "More confirmation. That's very nice.”
"I thought so. The pharmacist called the doctor to check, and the doctor spoke with Twelvetrees over the phone and gave his O.K. Well, as I say, having my attention called to these little items that hadn't been there-in the apartment, the suitcases, or on Twelvetrees-I began to think of other things we hadn't found. First of all, there's the atomizer bottle, and the spray solution in a bottle about five inches high-ho1ding sixteen fluid ounces, so the pharmacist says-and the little plastic bottle of antihistamine capsules. Both those bottles with his name and the doctor's on them, the name of the pharmacy and the prescription numbers. Those we know were missing. Then, you know, the corpse wasn't wearing a tie. He was all dressed except for that, and all the ties we found had been neatly packed. I think we can say almost for certain he was going to leave for somewhere that night, and he'd have put on a tie before he left. While he was busy packing, he'd have taken it off, or more likely he'd changed his clothes when he came in-hadn't put on jacket or tie while he packed. I can see that, can't you? But he'd leave a tie out, ready to put on. What else? He had on a shirt with button cuffs, so, no cuff links. But he had quite a collection of jewelry, didn't he? I think he'd always wear a tie clasp, or one of those new tie tacks. There'd be that left out ready. And-"
"Wel1, maybe. He might not have intended to wear a tie."
"Sure, I said some of this is maybe, but keep it in mind. He was a snappy dresser, and it's not hot weather, when a lot of men aren't wearing ties. But here's something that must have been there-his watch. You're not going to tell me he didn't have one-how many men you I know don't have some kind of watch, if it's only a five-dollar one from the drugstore? The odds are it was a wrist watch, because only older men or very conservative types carry a pocket watch these days."
"That I'll give you. Funny we missed it before-one of us should have spotted that."
"He had a jacket on. Have you ever seen anybody put a jacket on first and then his tie?"
"I'm telling you about this little vision," said Mendoza. "Wait for it. He's packing. He leaves a few little things out, ready, for when he's finished. A tie and tie clasp. His watch. His jacket, probably hung over a chair, with a fair supply of handkerchiefs in it-or maybe a couple of clean ones waiting there on the bureau with these other odds and ends. The atomizer and the prescription bottles-maybe he meant to carry those on him, but I think more likely to put them in last, on top of everything else, to be handy. It's possible he had one of those plastic or leather cases for medicine bottles, to put them in. And possibly a hat. Quite a few young men don't wear hats any more, out here, but he hadn't been in California long, maybe he'd kept his Eastern habits. And another thing we can say for sure about-the bankbooks. He'd have carried those on him, but I think because he'd changed his clothes they were lying there on the bureau with the other things. And the twenty-three hundred bucks, in cash-not a little item to be overlooked, no es verdad? And something else that's a maybe-documentary evidence on what he had on the Kingmans. I don't say he'd need a document to show the faithful congregation, because-always assuming that he was blackmailing them-it was probably something fairly concrete, like a prison term, that anyone could verify with a little trouble. But the kind of people who go for Mystic Truths are usually pretty hard to unconvince, and Kingman's a very smooth and plausible fellow. I don't think Twelvetrees could have stayed the pace this long without some tangible threat to hold over them, something that would have convinced even Miss Webster."