Dr. Bainbridge sniffed loudly. "Most successful con game ever put over on the human race, organized religion. Infallible. You'd think we'd have seen through it in a quarter of a million years or so, but most people never seem to."
" Me lo cuenta a mi -you're telling me!" said Mendoza. "And essentially as crude a con game as the old pigeon drop, too." But he said it absently; he picked up the wallet and began to go through it.
"Twelvetrees," said Woods, "became a convert to the sect about four years ago, in its early days. He'd then just landed here from some place back East, the Kingmans aren't sure exactly where, and was trying to break into the movies, without much success. Everybody liked him-except old Miss Webster-in fact he ingratiated himself so well that within a couple of months he was appointed treasurer at this comfortable salary, so he quit his job as a clerk in a men's store to devote all his time to the Temple."
"From rags to riches," said Mendoza. "Country boy makes good. Only he wasn't a country boy. Not when he habitually carried his wallet in his inside breast pocket."
"Did he?" said Hackett, interested. "Yes, that's the smart place-I do myself, so do you-but a lot of men don't, even city livers. He'd been around some, to do that."
"I went," said Woods, "to the place he'd been working, to see if I could get a line on where he was from, references he might have given, and so on. But it's a small shop, not a chain, and they don't keep such records that long. The manager remembered vaguely that Twelvetrees said he was from some place in New England. The studio agency he'd put himself on file with didn't have anything on that at all, all they were interested in was his physique and experience. For what it's worth, Twelvetrees had had a little vocal training and played the piano. He'd stayed on the agency's books, and got a little extra work now and then. And that's just about all I can give you."
"And a few possibly helpful points there, thanks very much." Mendoza had all the contents of the wallet spread out before him. Not too many contents, compared with the usual clutter a man accumulates in this substitute for a woman's bag. Everything had been fingerprinted, and the only prints were the dead man's, at first glance. Two fives, a ten, three single bills. Driver's license; and that lacked the optional thumbprint. Nothing too odd about that, of course: some people still connected fingerprinting solely with criminal records, and refused to give the D.M.V. a print. Social Security card. In the plastic slots, two snapshots, one of himself with a blonde woman, the other of a dark woman alone.
The blonde was very blonde, very Hollywoodish in a strapless gown. Brooke Twelvetrees was conscious of the camera, smiling his white winning smile, head tilted to show off the cleft chin and the wave in his dark hair. That was an interior shot, by flash, and showed the pair of them sitting at a table; Mendoza deduced one of those cheap night-club photographers. The woman in the other picture, a bad snapshot taken on a beach somewhere, was dark, slender, consciously posed. Mendoza looked at the second picture longer than the other, but finally put them both back into the wallet and everything back into the carton. "Yes. Well, if you think of anything else, hand it on."
"Oh, certainly," said Woods. "I'm only too pleased to be rid of this one, Lieutenant-we were getting nowhere fast, and I've got a couple of other things to get busy on. Not that I won't be interested in what you find out."
Hackett sighed and said gloomily, "We're not exactly casting around for something to keep us occupied either. I don't know why the hell you had to look in your crystal ball and find this one, Luis. There he was, peacefully moldering away, doing no harm to anybody. And now you've dug him up, I've got a hunch he's going to be a tough one to untangle."
"Maybe-and maybe not," said Mendoza.
FIVE
It was almost eight o'clock when he ended his block's walk from the nearest parking space and looked up at the sign over the door. Quite a modest sign, and unlighted. This wasn't the most glamorous stretch of Wilshire, but it was Wilshire, valuable business property; the building taken over by the Temple of Mystic Truth looked as if it might have started life as a small furniture showroom, or as duplex shops. It had been remodeled, and presented a rough fieldstone front with the entrance at one side, severely modern. A small board beside the front door, discreetly lighted from below, bore the legend: Sabbath Celebration, Renascence of Atman
Weekly Saturdays 8 P.M.
Novitiates 10-4 Tuesdays and Fridays
Ceremony of the Constellations, 3 P.M. Wednesdays
Ceremony of the Inner Chamber, 8 P.M. Fridays
" Vaya, Vaya " said Mendoza to himself, and went in. There was a very small brick-floored foyer, and double doors standing open at the right let him into a large, darkish place which must comprise nearly the whole ground floor. It was half chapel and half theater-very appropriate, he thought; padded folding chairs in rows like theater seats; a carved wooden fence round what was probably meant for an altar, pulpit, proscenium, or what-have-you; niches in the walls for statuettes-he noticed an Egyptian ibis, the inevitable horned bull, a goddess crescent-crowned in white alabaster.
No usher or attendant: he sat down in the last row. There was a fair crowd already gathered, perhaps sixty or eighty people, and in the next five minutes a dozen more came in. He remained the lone occupant of the last row; everyone else settled as near the altar as possible. There was just enough light from the lobby and a couple of wall fixtures along each side that he had a fairly good look at the late arrivals; among them he was gratified to spot the Hollywood blonde of the snapshot. She was, in fact, the last comer, and he had the feeling that in better light and a different place it would have been quite an entrance. She glided past him, erect and confident, in something dark that rustled and showed a good deal of white throat, the shining blonde hair, to advantage: and she trailed behind her an invisible cloud of spicy, heavy scent.
Mendoza inhaled thoughtfully and said to himself, "Flamme d'Amour, female species?" Something like chypre, anyway. Very interesting, but she would keep… A number of the congregation seemed to know her; she seated herself amid subdued rustlings and whispers of greeting.
Almost immediately the ceremony began. He paid little attention to it beyond remarking that it was handsomely staged. Impossible to gather much about the Kingmans at this distance: thin, ethereal Madame Cara, in a Grecian robe, and Kingman, looking distinctly odd with his naked bald head rising out of a voluminous black cassock. Several other people similarly clad took part. There was an elaborate ritual of procession about the altar; there was a tall gilt chalice, and an invocation pronounced by Madame Cara; there was chanted response from the congregation. There was mention of the great All-Parent, the cycles of the gods, the perfect circle of the four trinocracies, and the lesson of the Great Pyramid.
Mendoza sat back and thought about Brooke Twelvetrees, what they had on him so far, what they had on that Friday night, and about Joe Bartlett.
He couldn't help thinking about Bartlett, at least: he didn't like ragged edges to things, and it would be so much neater if Bartlett and Twelvetrees were hooked up somehow. But as he'd said to Hackett, they couldn't proceed on the arbitrary premise that Twelvetrees had been killed that Friday night-it was just something to keep in mind. Mrs. Bragg indignantly denied that she had removed anything from the apartment, even a paper bag. She had been in it, of course: finding the note announcing Twelvetrees' departure, she had checked the supply of linen and dishes, and had placed an ad in the Times, first appearing on Monday, which had brought several prospective tenants to look at the place before Woods had showed up. There had been no bag of any kind left-so she said.