Killer's Choice

'Do you have any idea why they got divorced?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'He outgrew my daughter.' The words were delivered flatly with no emotion, a flat statement of fact.

'How do you mean, Mrs Travail?'

'He just outgrew her. Annie wasn't very bright. She's… she was my daughter, but not very bright. Always full of fun, though, and spirit, do you know the kind of girl I mean? Dancing, and laughing, and well… gay. And a boy like Theodore found her attractive. A lot of boys found her attractive. After a while, though…' Mrs Travail paused, and there was grief on her face still, but she was not thinking of death now. She was trying to vocalize things she had probably never said to anyone, things a mother doesn't say even to her daughter, except when the stranger Death intrudes, and then there are no secrets, then there are no feelings to protect, no pride to fear injuring. 'Theodore grew. Not only with his photography. I knew he would grow with that. But here.' She tapped her temple. 'He wanted more. He was hungry for learning, and experience, and stimulation. Annie couldn't give it to him. He asked her for a divorce.'

'Did she grant it?'

'Yes. She didn't like the idea. They'd had Monica by then—the girl, my granddaughter—and a woman gets afraid, Mr Kling. A woman who's been married for five years, living with a man, becoming a wife and a mother, she gets afraid. She doesn't know the… the game any more. The game the single ones play. It isn't easy to think you'll have to get back into the game again.' Mrs Travail sighed. 'But she let him go. You can't hold an eagle if you're a sparrow, Mr Kling. You just can't.'

'Did they part amicably?'

'Does any divorced couple ever part amicably?'

'Well, I…'

'Oh, yes, yes, very modern about it. Friends. And, of course, he visited Monica. But it's hard, Mr Kling, for two people who have known each other intimately, who have known each other's desires and thoughts and dreams, to suddenly part and pretend they are strangers. It's… you resent someone who knows you too well. You have asked him to no longer share, and you resent the fact that he once shared.'

'I suppose that's true. But there was never any open breach? On his visits, I mean. They didn't argue or anything?'

'Theodore is not a killer,' Mrs Travail said flatly.

'We have to consider every angle, Mrs Travail.'

'I know that. My daughter was murdered, Mr Kling. She was not a very bright girl, but you mustn't think I didn't care for her deeply. I did. Deeply. And I want the police to consider every angle. But Theodore is not a killer. He is a creator. Creators do not destroy.'

'I see,' Kling sighed. He knew they would have to question Boone, anyway, creator, destroyer, or both. He had learned, however, that one can explain police technique only so far, and then only if one is in a generous mood. The best technique of explaining police technique, he had discovered, was not to explain it at all. Listen, observe, remember, take suggestions. And then go about the job the way it had to be done.

'She was divorced when?'

'Two years ago.'

'In this city?'

'No. There was no adultery. Theodore lived by the rules as long as there was a contract.'

'I see. Did your daughter go to Reno?'

'Las Vegas.' Mrs Travail paused. 'Theodore paid for it.'

'And the child?'

'Monica stayed with me while Annie went west.'

'Do you have any other children, Mrs Travail? Did Annie have a brother or sister?'

'A brother.'

'Where can I reach him, Mrs Travail?'

'He's dead.'

'Oh. Oh, I'm sorry.'

'He was killed in the Second World War. He was a gunner on a navy plane.'

'I'm sorry.'

'He was nineteen when he died. First I lost my husband, and then my only son. All I… all I had was Annie. And Theodore, of course, later. Then… then Theodore was gone and now… now I'm alone again. Except for the child. I have the child. I have the little girl.'

'Yes,' Kling said.

'But a woman needs… needs men around her, Mr Kling. A woman needs men.'

'Yes.'

'Theodore was a good man.'

'Your daughter, Mrs Travail,' Kling reminded.

'Yes?'

'Had she been seeing any men lately?'

'Yes.'

'Who?'

'Several.'

'Do you want to give me their names?'

'Yes, surely. She was seeing a man named Arthur Cordis. She saw him… oh… every other week perhaps.'

'He called for her here?'

'Yes.'

'Would you know where he lives?'

'In Isola some place. I don't know the address. He's a bank teller.'

'Who else?'

'Frank Abelson.'

'How often did she see him?'

'On and off. None of them really meant anything to her. They were just… companions, I suppose you would call them.'

'And he lives?'

'Isola, too.'

'Who else?'

'A boy named Jamie.'

'Jamie what?'

'I don't know. I only spoke to him on the phone. He'd never been here.'

'But your daughter was seeing him?'

'Yes. They met somewhere. I don't know why he never called for her.'

'You're sure about this?'

'Yes. He called her on the phone often. She spoke of him, too. She said he was a very nice boy.'

'How about girl friends, Mrs Travail?'

'Oh, Annie had quite a few. Do you want me to name them all? Wouldn't it be easier if you took her address book?'

'Do you have it?'

'Yes.'

'When I leave, then.'

'Certainly.'

'Now, let's see,' Kling said, consulting his notes. 'She had been working at the liquor store for a year, is that right?'

'Yes. She had another job after the divorce. When she left that, she went to work for Mr Phelps.'

'Did she get on well with Mr Phelps?'

'Oh, yes. He was a very considerate man.'

'How?'

'As an employer, I mean. Very considerate.'

'Mmm,' Kling said, thinking of what Meyer had told him of Phelps. 'How do you mean, considerate?'

'Well, she always spoke kindly of him. And once, I remember, she was home sick with a virus and he sent her flowers.'

'Oh?'

'Yes. A dozen red roses.'

'Isn't that a little unusual?'

'Women like flowers,' Mrs Travail said. 'Annie was a good worker.'

'Where did she work last, Mrs Travail? Before the liquor store?'

'A furniture house. Herman Dodson, Inc.'

'Would you happen to know what she did there?'

'She was a saleslady.'

'Why did she leave?'

'I don't know. We never discussed it. I think the salary wasn't high enough.'

'How did she get the job at the liquor store?'

'I don't know. She just heard of it somehow.'

'I see.'

'Do you have any idea who did this, Mr Kling?'

'No. Not yet. We're just beginning, Mrs Travail. It sometimes takes a long while. You can understand that.'

'Yes, certainly. Of course, I can understand that.'

'Do you want to get that address book for me?'

'Yes, certainly. She kept it in her room, on her desk. I'll get it for you.'

Mrs Travail wiped at her mascara-running eyes and then left the room. Kling sat. When the front door opened, he turned automatically to face it, and his hand edged slightly toward the .38 Detective's Special in his shoulder holster. When he saw who was in the doorframe, his hand relaxed.

'Hello,' the girl said.

'Hello, Monica,' he answered, smiling.

The girl looked puzzled. She had bright red hair braided into pigtails. She wore a plaid skirt with shoulder straps and a white blouse. Her legs were straight and her teeth were good, and she looked at Kling with the wide-eyed candour of a child. 'How do you know my name?'

'I just do,' Kling said.