"Like that?" She looked amused, and then sobered. "But that's another thing that happens, Lieutenant-the old, old story. I've never laid eyes on him either, don't know what kind of a boy he is, but-"
"Oh, yes, that's the first thing one thinks of here-If it was a private killing, so to speak. If she was pregnant, if she could make trouble for him, if he lost his head-It's happened. It'll happen again. We'll find out if it happened here."
"And how easy," she said, "to talk about it like a crossword puzzle. After all, she's dead. Nineteen… She had a private session with me yesterday. She said she'd decided to stop bleaching her hair-" Alison stopped abruptly and looked up at him. "I have thought of something, but it doesn't sound like much-"
"I'll tell you whether it does when I've heard it, Ms. Weir-or is it Mrs.?"
"I got my own name back after the divorce," she said absently. "It was only a year. And aren't you the autocratic male. Well, for what it's worth, Elena asked me yesterday what to do about 'a guy annoys you'-that's how she put it-she said he 'sort of' followed her and stared at her."
"?No me diga! " He sat up. "Don't tell me! That might be it, you know. Tell me every last little word she said about it!"
"But there wasn't anything, really! I'm afraid I didn't take it as very important. You mean it might have been-?"
"It might have been. There aren't any rules for lunatics-or part-time lunatics-but even lunatics don't often kill utter strangers without some reason. Nor what you or I'd call a logical reason, but a reason. I'm not even at the point of guessing about that here, but it's probable that at least he'd seen the girl before-consequently she may have noticed him. Let's have it-all of it!"
Alison looked stricken. "You'll want to murder me, Lieutenant-I didn't give her a chance to say much about it. In fact, I used it as an excuse to give her a neat little lecture on Making Oneself Conspicuous. She said-let me think!-'Miss Weir, what should you do about a guy annoys you?' and I asked, Annoys you how? That was when she said he 'sort of followed' her and stared at her. And as I say, I seized the opportunity to point out that sometimes a girl seems to invite such attentions by making herself look cheap-and so on and so on-" Her voice died; she shut her eyes and pressed both hands to her cheeks, trying to remember. "There wasn't anything else-she said she understood about that, and that was when she told me she'd decided to stop bleaching-we talked about different things, you know, one thing leading to another-"
"That you needn't tell me! Women, they never keep to the subject!"
"But there was something else, I know it. Yes-" She straightened. "Just as she got up to leave, she said, 'But it's not exactly like that, Miss Weir, like he was trying pick me up or nothing like that. It's just-funny. Awful funny." And I said something like, Well, just be sure you're not encouraging him, and that was that-she left, her consultation time was up."
"God favor me with patience!" said Mendoza violently. "And they say women are curious and fond of gossip! The girl tells you some strange man is annoying her, and you talk about hair dye and never ask one question? She says there's something 'funny' about him, and you-"
"How should I know it was anything important? If I'd-no, but listen, Lieutenant-she didn't say it as if she thought it was important, anything to be worried about! You see? If there'd really been anything very queer about him, to frighten her-" Her voice dropped.
"Yes, you've remembered that she was a stupid girl," he said sardonically. "And how did she mean that 'funny'?"
" Extrano, like that-she said, 'It's just funny' or 'He's just funny,' and then she said it in Spanish, as if the English word didn't quite express what she meant. Es un muchacho extrano."
"I will be damned," said Mendoza. "Something at last, maybe. 'A queer boy."' He looked at her in cold exasperation. "And you didn't ask so much as where and when she saw him, what he looked like?"
"There's a saying about hindsight," retorted Alison, but meekly. "Would you have?"
"No, but then I'm not a woman. My God, I'd have thought you'd be a little curious! Well, it can't be helped." He got up. "I'll ask you to make a formal statement about this, if you will."
"Yes, of course." She went to the door with him. 'Where do I go and when?"
"Tomorrow will do." Abruptly in better humor again, he smiled down at her. "I'll take you down to headquarters myself, not to expose any of my sergeants to temptation. I make it a rule not to mix business with pleasure, but if you turn out to be irrelevant to business, I'll be back- con su permiso."
"Permission be damned, you mean! I do like your nerve," said Alison pleasantly, leaning on the open door. "When you're quite satisfied that I didn't murder the girl-maybe because she was so stupid-or egg your lunatic onto her, you'll condescend to find me good enough to be seen with. Un hombre muy arbitrario, in fact! And doesn't it occur to you that I might have a possessive six-foot admirer hanging about to raise objections?"
"What, to compete with me? I don't let those worry me any day."
"As if I needed telling. What time tomorrow?"
"In a hurry to be rid of me? One o'clock?"
"But naturally," she said, widening her eyes at him. "I'm panting for you to get to work and absolve me of guilt, what else, with such a reward offered? One o'clock-I'll be ready." The small amusement faded from her eyes then and she added, "I hope I have helped. Good luck with it."
"That I've had my share of for today. Until then." Scarcely a wasted afternoon, no-however you looked at it. He reflected pleasurably and with anticipation on Alison Weir-a sophisticated, shrewd, sensible woman (deliver him from romanticizing and possessive young girls!) and a very lovely one-until he slid behind the wheel and started the engine. He then removed his mind from her firmly and thought about what she had told him.
Hackett was waiting for him in his office; Hackett had been busy, and there was quite a list of miscellaneous bits and pieces to think about. Of greatest importance was the Ricky Wade business. That had to be looked into: it was so obvious. Hackett agreed with that: he would call there this evening, to catch both the boy and the father at home: a phone call assured that they would be, Mrs. Wade sounding surprised and uneasy (but what have we to do with this sordid matter, her tone implied).
The proprietor of the rink had been out, but some useful information had been obtained from his two employees, and Hackett was to see him at four. Two of Hackett's men were now out chasing down the patrons definitely stated to have been in the place last night. That was a place to be very thorough, the rink and everybody connected with it, for the girl had almost certainly been on her way home from there. When Hackett left, Mendoza shoved aside everything to do with this case, conscientiously went over all the other pending matters under his authority. The still-unidentified corpse found in the freight yards; Sergeant Clock hadn't come up with anything new. The liquor-store holdup, a clerk shot; Sergeant Brice was on a faint track there, from the usual anonymous Information Received. The woman who'd shot her husband before witnesses: nothing to investigate but much tiresome routine, collecting statements for the District Attorney's office, in that sort of thing. Sergeant Galeano thought he had it about tied up now. A new memo from the captain's office, more routine: particulars of a man New York wanted for parole violation, one Ray Dalton, five-ten, one-eighty, age 42, Caucasian. Mendoza swore to himself and reached for Hackett's notes again.