“Yes. She came to get her mail and change clothes and things like that. She never stayed long. Yesterday she came here to get me, I don’t know why, and that’s when I heard her telephone.”
“Did you hear the conversation?”
“No, sir, I wasn’t paying attention. I think somebody asked her if she did something. And she said, ‘Me? Heavens, no!’ or something like that. And, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ That’s about all I heard.”
“Did she call anybody by name?”
“I think she mentioned Steve Ricks.”
“You know Steve Ricks?”
“Yes, sir. I know who he is. He asked me to go out with him once. But it was a school night.”
Mrs. Gait nodded approval. “I’ve always told the girl her education comes first.”
“Very sensible,” said Collins. “Well, back to Steve Ricks. Did he come around to Mrs. Wilkerson’s very often?”
“Every once in a while.”
“When was the last time?”
“Gee, I don’t really know. A couple weeks ago. It was a Sunday. They were talking about one of her ex-husbands who got drunk the night before.”
“Mr. Kershaw? Red?”
Rosemary nodded. “That’s who it was.”
“What did they say?”
Rosemary screwed up her face. “I think she said something like ‘Well, did you get him home?’ And Steve said, ‘Yes, but it was a battle. He was out like a light, all arms and legs.’ The reason I heard this is that I was waiting for her to pay me. Then, when I was going out, I heard Steve saying something about a ‘cute trick.’ ”
“A ‘cute trick’? Was he talking about a joke, or —”
“I really don’t know. I was on my way out. I did hear Molly say: ‘Tell me! coaxing-like, and Steve said, ‘No, I’m not allowed to tell a soul.’ ”
Up to this point Lieutenant Loveridge had stood quietly, hardly moving a muscle. Now he asked Rosemary, “Who would you say was Mrs. Wilkerson’s best friend?”
“Golly,” said Rosemary, “I don’t know. She didn’t have any woman friends.”
“Didn’t she recently give you anything to keep for her, or take care of?”
“No, sir.”
“Or anybody else?”
“No, sir.”
“Did she ever talk about coming into money?”
“Oh, all the time. She wanted to go to Honolulu more than anything, stay at one of the fancy hotels.”
“Who doesn’t?” said her mother gloomily.
“Did she ever mention anybody of whom she was afraid?”
Rosemary considered. “She was afraid of her boss. She thought he was going to fire her.”
They drove up Lagua Seca Road, past San Jose, to the residence of Mrs. Donald Beachey, just within the Santa Clara city limits: a comfortable house in a middle-class neighborhood. The lawn was green and mowed; the hydrangeas were trimmed; the beds of lobelia and verbena were cultivated with affectionate care. The contrast with Molly Wilkerson’s desperate way of life was remarkable. It was easy to understand why Molly, when she telephoned her sister, spoke in a half snarl.
Collins and Loveridge walked up the path, crossed a sandstone-flagged patio flanked by century plants, and rang the bell. A short plump woman in skirt and blouse answered the door. Her hair was straight and brown-blonde and she wore it in no particular style. Collins estimated her age at about thirty-five — three or four years older than Molly. Her face was pale; her eyes showed traces of recent tears.
“You’re Mrs. Beachey?”
“Yes.” She looked from Collins to Loveridge and back with a sad expression. “You must be policemen?”
Collins introduced himself and Loveridge. “May we come in a moment?”
Mrs. Beachey backed away from the door. Collins and Loveridge stepped into a living room littered with toys. Mrs. Beachey made an apologetic gesture. “Just scrape things aside and sit down. I suppose you want to talk about Molly. I don’t know much about her private life. She’s always been secretive.”
“Did she mention that she might be in some sort of trouble?”
Edna Beachey essayed a smile. “She told me nothing. I don’t even know where she was working. I gather it was some night club.”
“Did your sister hint that she might be afraid of anyone, that she had an enemy?”
“No. She seemed quite cheerful except for being short with the children.”
“Did she leave you any message, or letter, to be opened in the event of her death?”
“No. Why should she do anything like that?”
“Well, to be frank, Mrs. Wilkerson may conceivably have been attempting to extort money from a dangerous person.”
Edna Beachey drew a deep breath. “Yes, that would be Molly... So that’s why she wanted to stay here.”
“That’s my guess,” nodded Collins. “She never mentioned any names or circumstances which might be relevant to her death?”
“To tell you the truth, Inspector, when Molly came to visit me — which wasn’t often — she talked incessantly. The only way I could keep my sanity was to pay no attention to her.”
“Did she ever mention her ex-husband, Redwall Kershaw?”
“Is that the race-track man? She spoke of him once or twice. Not recently, though.”
“What about a man named Steve Ricks?”
“It seems to me he was one of her beaus. But I never met him.”
“May we look at her room?”
Mrs. Beachey took them to a bedroom with a nice green carpet and curtains of green and white flowered chintz. There were twin beds with blue and green striped spreads, both neatly made. “This is my guest room. Molly’s children slept in the one bed, Molly in the other.”
“Where are her belongings?”
“She didn’t bring very much. Just a few odds and ends. In the closet and the chest.”
In the closet was a large fiberboard suitcase.
“That’s Molly’s suitcase,” said Mrs. Beachy. It’s the only one she brought. The children don’t have much to wear.”
Loveridge tested the suitcase. “It’s locked.” He brought it out, shook it. From within came a rattling sound.
“Do you have a key?” Collins asked Mrs. Beachey.
“No. I can’t understand why Molly would want to lock it. I never pried into her affairs.”
Loveridge brought forth a pocketknife, cut a slit around the frame. The top flapped back. Inside they found a black patent-leather purse and a pair of black high-heeled shoes.
Collins looked into the purse. Within were a lipstick and a long flat key. Stamped on the handle was:
“This is what we’re looking for,” said Collins. “At least I hope it’s what we’re looking for.”
“Why in the world would she need a post-office box?” asked Mrs. Beachey.
“We’ll find out in due course. By the way, did Mrs. Wilkerson write any letters while she was here?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
She had nothing more to tell. Collins and Loveridge drove toward the San Jose Post Office.
Loveridge’s manner had become less absolute; he chewed at his mustache in frank puzzlement. “Why wouldn’t she carry the post-office key in her purse with the rest of her keys? Why lock it in the suitcase?”
Collins was thoughtfully silent. Loveridge went on, “As I see it, she wrote the murderer a letter — something like, ‘Dear sir, I know everything. And I will tell the police unless you pay me ten thousand dollars. Send in twenty dollar bills to Henry Jones, P.O. Box 1126, San Jose.’ This way she thinks she’s protected. The murderer can’t identify her, and she doesn’t need to worry.”
“She worried enough to move in with her sister,” said Collins. He ruminated a moment. “You’re probably right about the letter. She couldn’t have known too much, but that wouldn’t prevent her from claiming omniscience. And she would have written: ‘Don’t try any tricks; I have arranged for information to be sent to police in case something happens to me.’ ”