"Do you mind telling us where you were on the evening of Friday the thirtieth?"
"I-was-here," she said dully. She was looking at her mother again, not Hackett. "All that evening. Like every night. Like always and forever and eternity. I was here-and nobody else was."
"Really, Sergeant," said Mona Ferne, absent and sweet, "you can't think Angel-" And now her eyes were busy gauging Mendoza's suit, the Sulka tie, the custom-made shoes. Gauging his prestige value as something in pants to be seen with. He read them (fascinated, curious, passionately interested in this woman, now) as he would read a page of print. Money, they said-more than presentable, if not exactly handsome-charming-knows the score.
"The maid-?" said Hackett.
"She isn't here-at night," said the girl. "Nobody-I went to bed, I think, about-about midnight-I-” But that was absently said too; she was still looking at her mother. "The coat," and that came out in a whisper. “Somebody with a coat like that-? D'you mean-the one did it, k-killed-"
Slowly she turned back to Hackett. Could be and was, different things: she looked plain, dowdy, in a shapeless gray dress, flat brown shoes; hair pinned back carelessly to fall lank and lifeless, and no make-up. "Please," she said, "how can you think-you do think so, I see you do, but I don't understand! I didn't-he was nothing! The coat. The-I never saw it before, why d'you think it's here, because I f-found it there in my wardrobe-just a while ago, I thought- It's a hideous coat, I'd never have-I brought it down to ask- It's not mine!
"When did you buy it, Miss Carstairs, how long have you had it?” asked Hackett woodenly. I
"Oh, my God," she muttered. "No. I don't-not-oh, my God!"
And she moved from her rigid stance; her eyes went blank and she ran, as a child or an animal ran from inexplicable wrath. They heard her on the stairs, stumbling.
"So clumsy, poor child,” murmured Mona Ferne, and crossed her legs the opposite way, with nice attention to arranging the skirt at just the proper place to show off the ankle and not the ugly swell of the calf with its blue-mottled veins.
Mendoza nodded at Hackett to go after the girl. And he knew: now he knew: and it was a psychic knowledge, the D.A.'s office would laugh at it-so, look for solid tangible evidence to back it up, sure. But the thing inside him, that was worried by ragged edges, by the picture hanging crooked, by the answer to the problem that he didn't know (and that offending his essential egotism, too), settled back with a satisfied sigh and said, So, that's the answer. He felt better; he felt good.
Much of the reason Mendoza had this little reputation as one of the bright boys (maybe a head doctor would say) was that he had to prove it, over and over again: anything he didn't know, it was a kind of insult if to the essential Mendoza; he had to find out. So finding out the answer, the truth-it affected him like a good stiff drink, and he felt fine.
Now he knew. But he didn't know why, or exactly how.
He gave Hackett a glance and nod, to go after the girclass="underline" and he gave Mona Ferne a look that was almost a leer and hitched his chair a little closer to hers…
FIFTEEN
Hackett caught up with the girl at the top of the stairs. She was leaning on the bannister there, crouched and shaking, silent. The maid stood in an open bedroom door nearby, staring curiously.
"What's the matter with her now?"
The girl straightened abruptly. "Oh, go away!" she said wildly to both of them. And then, "No-wait-Winter, please, you can say, you, can tell them! That coat I brought down, just now-you've never seen me in it, have you?"
The maid sniffed. "I dunno, couldn't say. I don't take no notice what you wear much. It ain't Miss Ferne's, that I do know."
Angel shut her eyes, leaned on the bannister again. "You wouldn't say-if you could. I know. People never-1ike me, want to help-and no wonder. No wonder…"
Hackett said angrily to the maid, "Go away, for God's sake! Go downstairs or somewhere. I'm-questioning Miss Carstairs officially and that means privately."
A spark of interest showed in the maid's eyes. "Questioning? About the murder? Did she do it? For the Lord's sake-all right, all right, I'm going…" But she lingered on the way, looking back avidly.
"I didn't," said Angel. "Really I didn't."
Hackett surprised himself by saying, "I know you didn't. And damn it, it isn't any wonder you haven't any friends and stay around alone, when you look like this, when you don't go to meet people halfway! Why the hell don't you cut your hair and comb it once in a while?-put on some make-up-get some decent clothes-my God, you've got the money! Make a little effort at it, for God's sake. It doesn't mean you're acting like her, going to turn into one like that, you know. There's a-a middle course to these things, after all! You can't expect anything out of life if you don't put something in-hanging around here feeling sorry for yourself like a spoiled kid-"
She looked up at him through a straggling lock of hair that had come unpinned, fallen across her cheek; she brushed it back, and her mountain-pool eyes were blurred by tears. "Oh, God, I know," she said. "I know. How did you know? I-I got off on the wrong track, it was her, but I-but it's too late, I don't know how, I don't know anything, how to do-how to-be nice, make people-I want to, I want to, but I don't know where to start, or how. She-"
"You listen, you just listen," said Hackett. He was mad; he didn't know exactly what he was going to say or how they'd got onto this, but at the same time he thought this was about the oddest examining of a witness he'd ever done. He made her sit down on the top step and sat down beside her-like a pair of kids, he thought. "Listen, you've got to get out of this house, this damned haunted house. That tree-my God, it's like living in a cave. Don't be silly, it's never too late to do something. Only you've got to put a little effort into it."
She blew her nose and looked at him solemnly over the wadded handkerchief. "I j-just hate my name," she said. "It's such a silly name. She-thought it was cute. A baby named Angel. Only I g-grew up, and it's silly. A great big lummox like me-she said that. D'you think I could change it?"
"You can do anything you want to, damn it. It doesn't matter what your name is, it's what you are yourself! Listen, you know what you ought to do? You ought to go to one of these charm schools. Sure it sounds silly but they'd teach you all those things, see? You could be a pretty girl, Angel, just take a little trouble."
"C-could I?"
"Well, sure. I know someone runs one of those places too, she'd help you a 1ot-Miss Alison Weir, she's in the phone book. You remember that, now, and do something about it."
She mopped at her eyes again. "Is she your g-girl friend or something?”
"No," said Hackett. "Not mine, she doesn't-belong to me." Suddenly (this was the strangest little interval he ever remembered experiencing) he was filled with inexpressible sadness for all the lonely, cheated, needing people. Because, once or twice, he'd seen Alison Weir looking at Mendoza when she didn't know anyone was watching her. At cynical, marriage-shy, self-sufficient Mendoza, who ranked women along with poker as off-hours recreation and that was all
… "Listen, stop crying, can't you?"
"I'm n-not really. I'm-it was just-yes," she said with a little gasp, "I've got to get out of this house. Her house. I knew she hated me-I've always known that-ever since I stopped being a baby and began to grow. To let people know she was getting older too. And to be a-a person, not just like a-pet she had, other people taking care of it. But I didn't think-it was so much that she wouldn't mind if I was arrested-for-"
"Nobody's going to arrest you," said Hackett. He thought, damn it, it's got to be the Kingmans-logical thing; that story was a slick bunch of lies, that's all. They were on the spot at the right time, they had a motive; what the hell else did you need? Look around and the solid evidence would show up. But, he thought, but… That coat. Oh, hell, coincidence. And she was easily rattled, of course she'd deny it in panic. He took a breath to begin talking calm and sensible to her, persuade her to tell him all about the coat; and Mendoza came out to the entry hall down there, shot a glance up the stairs, and beckoned him down.