Extra Kill - Dell Shannon (19 page)

"Mmh. But it'd have been a last resort for him.
I'll bet you something else, that the services rendered wouldn't,
shall we say, call for overtime pay. That kind of woman is always
cold as a fish, and Twelvetrees could have picked up something a damn
sight more bedworthy....We ought to get something from Pennsylvania
some time today. Meanwhile, I'll tell you what I've got .... "

Hackett listened, said, "Well, maybe it's a good
thing I didn't lay any bets on Walsh's business. Though I still
think— But anyway, it begins to look as if it was that Friday
night. You don't really think you're going to find that light coat
with dark trimming, or a glove with a missing button, or the serape,
at the Kingmans' apartment, do you? Neither of them is that stupid."

"You never know. One thing to remember here,
somebody got one hell of a shock on Saturday night or Sunday when it
first came out in the papers that the body had been found. That
hadn't been the idea at all, and it's quite possible that until then
whoever it was hadn't thought it necessary to get rid of those
things. Maybe there hasn't been a chance since. We can hope, can't
we? And I've had another idea—to start with, you remember what I
said about a laundry bag? Well, I've got some idea of what went into
it."

"How?”

"I called this doctor Twelvetrees had been going
to. And he said among other things that he'd prescribed this and
that, and,"—Mendoza sat back over his coffee and lit a
cigarette—"I got to thinking. You know, it's like the roof
light on the squad car, and patrolmen changing round—we're so apt
to overlook the little, familiar things. I called some pharmacies in
the general areas where Twelvetrees might have gone—hit the right
one fourth try, place near the doctor's office. And then I thought
some more, and what I came up with was this." He handed over a
slip of paper.

"Atomizer, bottles, tie—" read Hackett.
"What's this?"

"It's a list of things we didn't find anywhere
that ought to have been there.
Ya lo creo
,
I'm not sure about all of them, but a couple of things we've got for
sure. Dr. Graas had prescribed a solution for spraying up his
sinuses, and for that he had to have one of those atomizer things.
And some antihistamine capsules. And the pharmacy says, and the
doctor says, that on Friday afternoon, a little after four o'clock,
Twelvetrees came into the pharmacy to have both prescriptions
refilled, though he had some of each left, and he asked for a double
amount because he was leaving on a trip."

"You don't tell me," said Hackett. "More
confirmation. That's very nice.”

"I thought so. The pharmacist called the doctor
to check, and the doctor spoke with Twelvetrees over the phone and
gave his O.K. Well, as I say, having my attention called to these
little items that hadn't been there—in the apartment, the
suitcases, or on Twelvetrees—I began to think of other things we
hadn't found. First of all, there's the atomizer bottle, and the
spray solution in a bottle about five inches high—ho1ding sixteen
fluid ounces, so the pharmacist says—and the little plastic bottle
of antihistamine capsules. Both those bottles with his name and the
doctor's on them, the name of the pharmacy and the prescription
numbers. Those we know were missing. Then, you know, the corpse
wasn't wearing a tie. He was all dressed except for that, and all the
ties we found had been neatly packed. I think we can say almost for
certain he was going to leave for somewhere that night, and he'd have
put on a tie before he left. While he was busy packing, he'd have
taken it off, or more likely he'd changed his clothes when he came
in—hadn't put on jacket or tie while he packed. I can see that,
can't you? But he'd leave a tie out, ready to put on. What else? He
had on a shirt with button cuffs, so, no cuff links. But he had quite
a collection of jewelry, didn't he? I think he'd always wear a tie
clasp, or one of those new tie tacks. There'd be that left out ready.
And—"

"Wel1, maybe. He might not have intended to wear
a tie."

"Sure, I said some of this is maybe, but keep it
in mind. He was a snappy dresser, and it's not hot weather, when a
lot of men aren't wearing ties. But here's something that must have
been there—his watch. You're not going to tell me he didn't have
one—how many men you I know don't have some kind of watch, if it's
only a five-dollar one from the drugstore? The odds are it was a
wrist watch, because only older men or very conservative types carry
a pocket watch these days."

"That I'll give you. Funny we missed it
before—one of us should have spotted that."

"I see him, you know—thinking of what we've
got so far—coming home to pack and clear out. Changing his clothes,
maybe, and leaving off a few last-minute things that'll hamper him a
bit in the process of packing and so on. The tie. The jacket—"

"He had a jacket on. Have you ever seen anybody
put a jacket on first and then his tie?"

"I'm telling you about this little vision,"
said Mendoza. "Wait for it. He's packing. He leaves a few little
things out, ready, for when he's finished. A tie and tie clasp. His
watch. His jacket, probably hung over a chair, with a fair supply of
handkerchiefs in it—or maybe a couple of clean ones waiting there
on the bureau with these other odds and ends. The atomizer and the
prescription bottles—maybe he meant to carry those on him, but I
think more likely to put them in last, on top of everything else, to
be handy. It's possible he had one of those plastic or leather cases
for medicine bottles, to put them in. And possibly a hat. Quite a few
young men don't wear hats any more, out here, but he hadn't been in
California long, maybe he'd kept his Eastern habits. And another
thing we can say for sure about—the bankbooks. He'd have carried
those on him, but I think because he'd changed his clothes they were
lying there on the bureau with the other things. And the twenty-three
hundred bucks, in cash—not a little item to be overlooked,
no
es verdad
? And something else that's a
maybe—documentary evidence on what he had on the Kingmans. I don't
say he'd need a document to show the faithful congregation,
because—always assuming that he was blackmailing them—it was
probably something fairly concrete, like a prison term, that anyone
could verify with a little trouble. But the kind of people who go for
Mystic Truths are usually pretty hard to unconvince, and Kingman's a
very smooth and plausible fellow. I don't think Twelvetrees could
have stayed the pace this long without some tangible threat to hold
over them, something that would have convinced even Miss Webster."

"Very much maybe."

"O.K., so it is. Then, did you ever know a male
from the age of ten up who didn't carry some kind of pocket knife?
Whether it was one of those genteel little flat silver things, or a
horn-handled sheath knife? That was there on the bureau. And while he
doesn't seem to have been a heavy drinker, I think almost certainly
he'd have kept a bottle at home, for the odd occasion when he wanted
a drink before going to bed, or if somebody dropped in. I don't know
what it'd be, Scotch or gin or vodka, but I think it was sitting
there too. He wouldn't care about leaving the odds and ends of stuff
in the kitchen, and there wasn't much—a half bottle of milk, a few
strips of bacon, a couple of eggs, a little coffee. But he'd take the
bottle along. And I also think there was another package or so of
cigarettes, maybe a whole carton—because there were only ten or
eleven in his case, and a smoker doesn't let himself get down so
1ow."

"I'll give you that one too."

"So there he is, almost finished packing—we
still don't know why he was getting out, or whether he was in a hurry
or just leisurely. Anyway, there he is, almost finished, except for a
few little things and his soiled laundry, for which he has this bag
laid out ready—I'm not guessing  whether it was a paper bag or
an ordinary cotton laundry bag. And at that point he has a visitor.
Say two—the Kingmans. Skip the cross-talk, if there was any, and
come to the murder. Now, here's my new idea. I see them in a little
dither, as we've agreed confidence operators aren't given to
violence. They're in a hurry to get away, also to protect themselves,
and I see them snatching up this hypothetical documentary evidence,
having a last look around to be sure they've left nothing
incriminating—wiped off all prints and so on—and starting to
leave—only to find that squad car sitting out there. So? They
aren't sure they haven't been seen-it doesn't matter then, nobody
knows yet there's been a murder, but it will matter, later on. By the
time they decide that patrolman, who has apparently seen them there,
had better be put out of the way, the car's gone. And they spend a
while chasing after it, cruising around looking and getting in more
and more of a dither—before they find it. I'm supposing, by the
way, that the gun was Twelvetrees', and was lying there on the
bureau, all convenient. Well, after they've found the car and had a
try at the driver, they've got no way to be sure the man's dead and
no danger to them—and so back they come, with another idea, to get
rid of the corpse and try to pass his disappearance off as
voluntary."

Hackett said, "This is a fine story, I can see
Hitchcock making a dandy movie of it. But you're building it without
much evidence."

"I know, I know. But go on listening. I think
that note to Mrs. Bragg was either already written—by Twelvetrees,
just to save time and trouble—and sitting there on the bureau, or
he'd mentioned to them that he hadn't yet told her he was leaving, or
they'd have had no other way to know that and consequently know the
necessity for the note. Anyway, they make the whole plan hastily.
Casting around for what to do with the body, they find that trap—and
what better place? They can work at leisure, and no need to go
trundling the body around in the car. They get the body buried, and
they finish his packing for him and dump those suitcases down the
trap. By this time they're worked up some more, they've had quite an
evening, and there's still his car to dispose of. And then, just as
they think they can relax a little, all of a sudden they spot these
miscellaneous odds and ends on the bureau. Easy to overlook, you
know, the state they were probably in. They'd remembered to put his
jacket on him—easier than to cram it into a suitcase already
full—but they hadn't bothered to put a tie on—what did it
matter?—so they hadn't looked for one. And the idea of going down
that trap again to jam all this stuff in a suitcase, or even just
dump it—well, can't you see them sticking it all into that bag
handy there, and taking it away for disposal later?"

Slowly Hackett nodded. "I can. Yes. But where
does this woman down at Olvera Street come in? Why did Mrs. Kingman
have to do all that alone? And why was it the woman who drove the
Porsche down there instead of him, anyway?"

"That part I don't know," said Mendoza.
"Some reason may show up. But so far, I like all that, don't
you?"

"It hangs together, after a fashion,"
agreed Hackett grudgingly. "And one thing, a couple of those
items wouldn't be so easy to destroy or get rid of. They could soak
the labels oh? the bottles. But if it's a modern apartment there'll
be no open fire, to burn anything. Nothing identifiable about a tie,
or the cash—but a watch, even the knife—"

"Especially as dear Brooke was given to having
things monogrammed. Me, in that position I'd take the whole
collection down to a lonely stretch of beach and consign it to the
Pacific, but they haven't had much time, as I say. And speaking of
that, I'd better not sit here detailing theories any longer—I'll
see them and we'll have a look. What's your program?"

"I'm going out to Eagle Rock," said Hackett
rather morosely, "to see this fellow Dave Morris who's some
leading light in that theatrical club. See what he can give us on
Twelvetrees."

"Then,
pues
vamos!
—let's go, and see what turns up."

* * *

Hackett hadn't sounded very enthusiastic about all
that, but on his way out to Eagle Rock he found himself hoping
Mendoza was right, that it was those Kingmans. Because he'd started
having a little vision of his own, and he didn't like it. Which was
absurd on two counts: the first being, of course, that an efficient
police officer should look at a case, and the people in it,
objectively. You began feeling sorry for them, or mad at them, or
contemptuous of them, and you couldn't look at the evidence fair and
square.

And the second count was that the Kingmans were the
obvious answer, that a thing like that in his mind was out of a
paperback detective thriller; you just didn't run across such things
every day. But they happened, oh, yes. Now and then. Maybe this was
one of the times.

And he wasn't happy to think it might be. No reason
for it; what the hell were these people to Art Hackett?

Just because she had nice eyes, and he'd felt sorry
.... The things people did to each other. A lot of talk about active,
deliberate evil, and it did harm, no question; but he sometimes
thought more mischief was made by the plain stupidity, by the
passive, self-centered uncaringness. A culmination, Mendoza had said.
And Hackett could see that happening. The last straw, you might say,
for that girl Angel (my God, what a name!). That after Mona had, in a
sense, turned her into what she was, the graceless ugly duckling—when
she fell in love with a man, knowing he'd never look twice at her, it
was Mona who had him. Never mind in what way. Making everything boil
up in her all at once.