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Mendoza said, "Yes? Yes… Girl have a car?"

"I don't know. Probably."

"She'd have money of her own. There was something said about a trust fund from the father. Not really big money, maybe, but substantial."

"I'd think so," said Hackett heavily.

"I don't know that you sell me on this, quite. But we'll have a look. No harm. Suppose we go and see them if they're home." Mendoza got up and reached for his hat.

***

They were home. When the sour-faced maid opened the door to Hackett and Mendoza, letting a little light into the dingy entrance hall, the first thing they heard was the girl's shaking voice, loud, from the living room: "That's a lie-you know it's a lie!"

Mendoza handed his hat to the maid and walked past her, ignoring her protesting query, to the doorway of that room. He looked at the pair of them interestedly, and added a few mental comments of his own to Hackett's.

Mona Ferne was elegantly slim in honey-beige and dark brown today. Evidently she'd been about to leave the house: her alligator bag, gloves, a chic little brown felt hat with a veil waited on the arm of the couch. He paid academic tribute to the finished article, while guessing far more accurately than Hackett how much time and effort had gone into it. The gleaming perfect flaxen coiffure, the figure, the face-a very expert piece of work, all of it; and from fifteen feet away, before he heard her speak or saw her move, he knew it was all just about as emotionally affective as a combustion engine… The girl. Could be pretty. Alison would say, and be right, built to wear clothes-the height and the figure. Not one of the types he admired himself.

"Darling," said the woman, "I'm only saying-" And she saw them then in the doorway, and for the fraction of a second her eyes held an expression which surprised Mendoza very much indeed.

Vaya, que demonic,? he said to himself.

And the girl turned to follow her glance, and looked startled-looked confused, and took a step back to bring up against the white brick hearth, and leaned there.

"Why, it's the nice police sergeant back again-do tell me, Sergeant Hackett, have you found whoever it was did this awful thing? Is there something else I can do for you now?-I'm only too anxious-" But her eyes were busy on Mendoza, recognizing him as worthier quarry. She came forward gracefully.

Mendoza glanced at Hackett, who was looking at the girl. Incredulities came at him from two directions, he thought. That girl. And-

"You may indeed help us, if you will, Miss Ferne-it is Miss Ferne, I take it?" He knew instinctively just the sort of thing this one would like, would respond to: essentially it was the small-town Main Street mind-a veneer of sophistication very thin; and he smoothed his moustache thoughtfully in the approved man-about-town manner, gave her a faintly sardonic smile nicely blended of veiled admiration and cynicism. "Lieutenant Mendoza, madam. I apologize for intruding at such an early hour."

"But not at all, Lieutenant! Anything I can do, of course-" She gushed at him a little, and he let his eyelids drop and put more cynicism in his expression, to conform to type. He knew exactly the kind of girl she had been, all giggles, curls, and inconsequence; the tiresome kind, not a thought beyond the conventionalities; and the kind too who wouldn't grow out of it to any extent. "Do sit down."

"Thanks very much. You can oblige me first of all by telling me something I'd very much like to know. Who owns this coat here?" He nodded at it, getting out a cigarette. It was the first thing he'd noticed in the room. It was flung carelessly over the back of the couch, a woman's long wool coat, full-cut and voluminous: it was creamy beige and its sleeves had wide dark brown velvet cuffs. Before the woman could answer the girl spoke. "It's not mine," she said. "I never saw it before. I found it in my-I thought she-it's not mine!"

"Darling, I don't understand you lately. How absurd, you're not forgetful so young, are you?-of course it's your coat, Angel, I've seen you in it a dozen times. One of the few halfway smart things you have. But why should you be interested, Lieutenant?" She wasn't much concerned with the coat or the girl; she sank into a chair, carefully arranging the display just right, and preened herself under his gaze.

"That's your coat, Miss Carstairs? Well, well." He went over and picked it up. It was a costume coat, with a narrow rolled shawl collar, no buttons: its only decoration the dark velvet cuffs and a dark panel of velvet down each side of its front. "That's very interesting," and he divided a smile between them.

"I never saw it before! I-I-I- What's it got to do with you?"

Hackett came into the room, stood looking at the coat as Mendoza turned it in his hands, examining it. "We're asking the questions here, Miss Carstairs," he said harshly.

"Oh, now I don't see any reason to be mysterious about it," said Mendoza gently. The coat bore a label inside the collar with the name Jay-X, Fine Fashions. Not a name he was familiar with, but any department store buyer could supply information, and he had an idea what the information would be. Hardly a brand name you'd find at Magnin's or Saks': third-rate-quality wool, inferior cut. About thirty-nine-fifty retail, he judged. "We have reliable evidence that a woman wearing a very similar coat to this one is intimately concerned in the murder of Mr. Twelvetrees. Naturally I'm interested in knowing”-he cocked his head at them-"whether it was, in fact, this coat."

"In the murder!” exclaimed Mona Ferne. She sat bolt upright, graceful, horrified. "What are you saying? That Angel-? But that's ridiculous! Why, I expect there are hundreds of coats like that-"

"Oh, I don't know," said Mendoza. He sat down, with the coat over his lap, in the chair nearest hers, where he could direct leers as broad as he could manage with more effect; he noticed that she'd automatically chosen a seat which put her back to the light. "It's not a fashionable line this year, is it, the very full cut, and the velvet-more of a spring coat, too, by the weight."

"I think she got it last spring," said Mona Ferne vaguely. "I can see you're one to watch, Lieutenant Mendoza!"-and she actually giggled at him, looking up under her lashes coyly. "You know too much about feminine styles to sound quite respectable!"

Caray, but with this one you could lay it on with a trowel, he thought. With a trowel. Appropriate… What was this, what the hell was this? Motives. He remembered saying to Alison, sometimes you have to find out about the people first. "You're flattering me, lady," he said, and let a little more interested admiration show in his eyes. She giggled again and smoothed her hair, to show off long garnet-colored nails.

"I never-" said the girl Angel. She came to the middle of the room, looking from him to Hackett; she twisted her hands together, tight and nervous. "You mean-whoever killed him had-? I don't underst-I never saw that coat before in my life! It's not-it's not-it's not-"

"Do control yourself, Angel, you sound quite hysterical, dear. I'm sure the lieutenant doesn't mean he thinks an innocent young girl like you had anything to do with such a horrible thing." It was a vague murmur: most of her attention was on Mendoza, a new man to gauge, to angle for, to play to.

The girl Angel stared at her; suddenly she raised her clenched fists to her mouth. "No," she said against them. "No, I didn't-why would I-I didn't-him! I never-"

"No one's accused you of anything, Miss Carstairs," said Hackett in a colorless tone. "We'd just like to ask a few questions, if you don't mind. Do you have a car of your own and what make is it?"

She nodded mutely at him; she whispered, "The s-same as-hers-it's a '58 two-d-door Cad- I don't like it m-much, I don't-I don't drive much, she made me- Listen to me, please listen, I know by the way you look you think-but why, why, why? No reason-him-He wasn't anything-and I tell you I never saw-"