Extra Kill - Dell Shannon (18 page)

Yesterday he'd felt sorry for her; today, she made
him mad. At the deliberate waste, the senseless negation.

And at the same time, facing this empty shell of a
woman, he understood it.

He didn't want to stay in this house any longer than
necessary, but he had questions to ask; he went on asking them.
Mendoza had guessed right on one thing: it had been Mona Ferne who
introduced Twelvetrees to the Kingmans and their Temple. She had met
him through a small theatrical group—very careful to emphasize, not
amateurs, but studio extras, bit players, that sort—"These
brave young people, so ambitious and hard-working! I was one myself
at one time, you know, and I realize how much it means, any little
encouragement and support."

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 Twelvetrees' 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
café, 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."