"And then," said Kingman with a strong shudder, "when you came and told us he'd been murdered-! And in such a way… I did some more worrying about it then, I can tell you-"
Mendoza got up, looking at them thoughtfully. "Yes, well, we'll leave it this way for the time being. I needn't caution you not to leave town and so on-you'll be familiar with the-mmh-ritual, shall I say?"
"Believe me, Lieutenant, we're grateful-that you believe, I mean-·"
"Oh, I never said I believed you," said Mendoza gently, smiling at them. "Just that I'm not quite ready to use that warrant-yet. We'll see. We like to be sure about these things-I'll do a little more thinking on it."
FOURTEEN
"I have not been brilliant in this thing," he said. He lit a cigarette and in the cold clear night air the little column of smoke was frost-white.
"They're not cleared," said Hackett. They stood there on the curb in front of the Temple, between the tail of the Facel-Vega and the bumper of Hackett's humbler black sedan. Hackett had his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, staring down at the sidewalk.
"By implication you might say they are," said Mendoza. "That traffic ticket. I can't see a third person unknown mixed up in this with them, and we can't get away from the fact that that woman who bought the serape and took that cab ride had something to do with the murder. If she didn't kill him, she disposed of the car. And if Mrs. Kingman-Sellers-Turner and her husband were on Avalon Boulevard about eleven o'clock or a bit after, getting a traffic ticket, then she wasn't that woman. Without using a siren, would you guarantee to get from 267th to the old Plaza or thereabouts inside an hour-even at that time of night? Most of the signals would still be working."
Hackett didn't look up, but rocked meditatively back and forth a little. "I might. She came down kind of heavy on playing the scatter-brained woman driver, I thought."
Boyce said, "I can't say I'd like to ride very far with her, Sergeant-I mean, after just listening to her dither."
" De veras," said Mendoza. "Nor me. Babes in the woods. No way to prove they'd known where Trask lived because Kingman tore that page out of his address book." He laughed. "Ca! No, I haven't been bright here… Do I believe them? It's a story, you might say, too full of double takes and dither not to be true. This gentlemanly old trouper and his amiable scatterbrained wife…"
"Would you think I was crazy, Lieutenant," asked Boyce diffidently, "if I said I felt kind of sorry for them? It must be an awful hard way to earn a living."
"Yes, but look at the living!" said Hackett sardonically.
Another frosty little cloud rose around Mendoza's head. "Well, this is probably the first really big money they've made… There are points in that story. Oh, yes."
“What the hell," said Hackett savagely, "they're slick actors, they pick up cues from each other and build a scene out of thin air, and you swallow it whole! You swallow this-this concoction as meek as be damned-like any new ranker on his first case-"
Mendoza smoked in impassive silence for a full half minute, looking at him; Hackett moved restlessly, got out his keys to play with. " Que paso, chico? ” asked Mendoza softly.
"Damn it, nothing's the matter except that I'm fed up with this whole slippery business. We haven't got anywhere at it, and we ought to have some idea by this time! I-"
" Tomelo con calma, early days-we found him on Saturday, this is only Monday. We'll get there. Something on your mind?"
"Yes," said Hackett, "yes, there's something on my mind, but I'll turn it over once or twice and tell you about it in the morning. Nothing we can do tonight anyway. I'll see you at eight." He turned away abruptly and got into his car.
"What d'you suppose is eating the sergeant?" wondered Boyce.
Mendoza dropped his cigarette, put a foot on it, and pushed it carefully into the gutter. "That I couldn't say… I'll drive you back to headquarters. You might get on to Traffic and locate that ticket."
He did a little wondering about the usually even-tempered Hackett on his way home, but more about the case. There were indeed a few interesting points in that story-which he was inclined to believe. Irritating, of course; but some new piece of truth-or what looked very much like it-came up and you had to change your mind, look at things another way… Something else in Trask's safety deposit box. (And didn't it point up one of the elementary pitfalls for detectives, that! Rudimeutary deduction according to types of people-the man couldn't have been a gardener. You couldn't know. People, they just didn't come in standardized patterns. And not a bad hiding place, either: shades of The Purloined Letter.) Something else of the same species as the document held over the Kingmans? Something burned in an ashtray.
He slid the car gently into the garage, let himself into the apartment, switched on all the lights. All three cats came to welcome him, and because El Senor was usually standoffish, Mendoza made a little fuss over him, encouragingly… A note from Mrs. Carter, the cats last fed at four o'clock. Another note from Mrs. Bryson, which announced simply, He's learned to open cupboards.
"Now have you?" he said to El Senor, who had both paws round his neck and was sampling his necktie. “Basta, ya!-not good for cats, leave it alone! Sometimes you act like a very smart boy indeed, too smart for your own good." It was apparently true: the low cupboard doors of the record cabinet stood open, and so-uncannily-did one of the cupboards over the kitchen drainboard.
"This," said Mendoza, "is too much of a good thing altogether. Must I put locks on all the cupboard doors? Or keep all the things not intended for curious cats on the very top shelves?" He put El Senor down on a kitchen chair, went to get their evening meal from the refrigerator. Somebody else in the same position in re Trask as the Kingmans. Not surprising. Somebody refusing to pay-did that account for his ugly temper that day?-but surely not a reason for him to clear out. Somebody a good deal more determined than Kingman, walking in on him and killing him…
As he put down the three dishes, the phone rang. "Oh, Lieutenant Mendoza, I thought I heard you come in," said Mrs. Bryson in his ear from the other end of the building. "Did you find my note?… Yes, the oddest thing-really, you know, it sounds silly but sometimes I'm almost afraid of that absurd kitten!" Mrs. Bryson was large, buxom, fiftyish, and blonde; she had no children, and perhaps consequently a deplorable habit of cooing baby talk to her beloved cats-but one must overlook these faults in otherwise nice people. "When I came to let them out for a little run, about two o'clock, he had your record cabinet open and an L.P. record out on the floor-Bach's Suite N0. 2 in B Minor, it was-and was sitting looking at it. Really quite uncanny."
"Well, at least he has good taste," said Mendoza.
"What I called about, I forgot to put down that your grandmother phoned, and you're to be reminded that her goddaughter, I think it is, is getting married on Saturday, and you're expected to come and-"
"And bring a gift," he supplied as she hesitated. "This autocratic old wretch, I know how she put it! Thanks very much, Mrs. Bryson… " He had no intention of doing either. In the first place, he had not set foot inside a church for twenty-two years and had no desire to break the record; in the second, the goddaughter was an unpleasantly smug and pudding-faced girl whom he disliked.
He let the cats out and got undressed.
Somebody-somebody-from that theater crowd? Senseless to blackmail someone who hadn't any money… But there were other things of value than money: someone, perhaps, who could do him a favor-introduce him to a producer, cast him in TV?
Mendoza took a bath. He let the cats in. He sat up in bed smoking, and El Senor sat on his lap and tried to catch the smoke wisps, batting at them with his large blond paws. "Senor Ridiculo," said Mendoza. Someone-