Exploit of Death

NINE

BOTH HACKETT AND HIGGINS had had a number of varied experiences in their combined years on the L.A.P.D., but Dr. Thomas was something new to them. He agreed quite amiably to accompany them to meet a friend and they waited while he dressed in a new gray suit, clean white shirt and tie. They took him straight out to the psychiatric ward at Cedars-Sinai and left him there, and went back to look at the hotel room. There was a suitcase full of nearly new clothes and in one of the side pockets was nearly seventy thousand dollars in cash. They also found a few of his other souvenirs, bloodstained knives and four other wallets with female I.D.'s in them, all the addresses in New Jersey.

"This is the damndest thing I ever remember," said Hackett. Somebody in the lab went out and took his prints and he wasn't in their records, so they wired them to the Feds and NCIC. Just before six o'clock they got a teletype back from NCIC. The prints belonged to Richard Conroy who was an escapee from a state mental asylum in New Jersey. He had been committed, further information added later, for twenty-five years and was known to be homicidal. Prior to the commitment, he had raped eleven women and murdered five. He had escaped five months ago and New Jersey was looking for him hard. There was evidence that since he had got out, he had raped three more women and was thought to be responsible for the murder of a prostitute in Newark. One of the rape victims had had nearly ninety thousand dollars in cash hidden in the house and he had walked away with it.

Palliser said, "Good God. The things we see."

Hackett fired off a teletype to the New Jersey State Police. On Saturday morning, a Captain Runyon called him.

"Thank God you picked up that nut. We've had visions of him leaving a trail of bodies all over the state. I wonder how in hell he ended up in California, he's never been out of the East as far as we know. But of course he had all that cash. I swear to God, I sometimes wonder who is sane and who isn't. The idea of keeping that much cash loose in a box on a closet shelf-my God in heaven."

Hackett said, "People will do it. Well, he's tucked away safe. I suppose you want him back?"

Runyon said, "It's a goddamn nuisance. But, yes, we'll have to send somebody out to fetch him. How did you drop on him, by the way?" When he heard, he laughed. "We do sometimes get the breaks, don't we? Well, a lot of females can sleep easier tonight. There's been a little wave of terror around the southern part of the state where the asylum is. I'll get back to you and let you know who'll be out to get him."

"Any time," said Hackett.

It was still hot but not as bad as the last few weeks and by the middle of October it would probably slack off. The night watch had left them another heist and everybody seemed to be out on something except Palliser who was on the phone. After a minute he put it down and said, "Just trying to prod the lab on this Rawson thing. They didn't pick up any good latents in that place except the victim's. That's got to be something else insane. Like your fruitcake. The drunk running amuck, something like that."

"It sounds that way. And another one without a handle, if there's no lab evidence. God, I'll be glad when we get into fall and it cools off. This has been a rough summer. I wonder how Luis is doing in Paris. Damn it, there must be some record of that girl there, But just how to find it-"

Palliser said, "I just hope he's not getting high blood pressure arguing with the Surete." Landers came in with another heist suspect and he went to sit in on the questioning.

Higgins and Galeano had prodded at Vasquez some more yesterday but he wasn't about to give them a confession and it didn't matter.

There were no five possible heist suspects they were looking for. The tedious legwork was always there to be done. When Hackett came back from lunch, Lake greeted him with some relief. "I was afraid I wouldn't see any of you the rest of the day. Something new's gone down, half an hour ago. A couple of bodies on Allesandro Street."

"Oh, hell," said Hackett. "More paperwork." Galeano came in just then so they went to look at it together. It was a small apartment in an old building on that narrow street and there were two bodies-a rather pretty young blond woman in the mid-twenties and a little girl about four. Patrolman Zimmerman said, "Where the hell have you been? I called in forty minutes ago when I got sent up here. I didn't know what to do with the woman. She's sitting in the squad still crying. Well, the girl was her daughter. She found them about an hour ago." Even Zimmerman, taking a casual look at the scene, had read it as faked. "I had to turn the gas off. There wasn't much built up in here, but I figured it was safer. These old windows are so loose, there wasn't much gas in here at all, just enough smell so you'd notice it. It was the oven turned on and the pilot light off, but it could be there was a clogged line."

Galeano said, "Hell, you touched the knob."

"Well, I tried to be careful, sir. I'm sorry about any prints, but I thought it'd be safer."

The girl was on the livingroom floor, on her side in front I of the couch. She was wearing a white sundress and thong T sandals. Hackett squatted down and looked at her. There was a dark bruise on one side of her jaw. She'd been alive when she got that or it wouldn't have showed. He felt carefully through the disheveled blond hair and said to Galeano, "She's had the hell of a crack on the skull here-just back of the temple. Feels as if the bone's caved in."

Galeano said, "Anyway, neither of them died of the gas."

The bodies were the wrong color for that. Victims of gas poisoning showed bright pink skin. The little girl was in a chair in the living room, lying across one arm of the chair, her head twisted at an odd angle to her shoulders. She had on a skimpy playsuit and thong sandals.

"I'd have an educated guess her neck is broken," said Galeano.

"Yes," said Hackett. "Somebody trying to set up the fake suicide, Nick, and a damned crude one. You'd think any fool would know the autopsies would show it up. We'd better talk to this woman, find out who they were."

She was sitting in the back of the squad and she had stopped crying now. Galeano got into the backseat with her and Hackett into the front. She was a woman probably in the forties, plain-faced with greying brown hair. Her name was Ena Schwartz. She said the bodies were her daughter Gloria and Gloria's little girl, Joan. Gloria Pratt. She said, "Gloria'd never kill herself. That's just impossible. And I besides, there wasn't hardly any gas- I'd never believe that, and she'd sure never want to kill Joan. They'd just moved in here, got settled, and had everything arranged and it was going to work out good- I was so glad when she left that man, he's a no-good drunken bum. I tried to tell her when she married him, but she was only eighteen and you can't talk to a girl in love. She found out-she put up with him too long, but she finally had the sense to leave him, and the divorce just got final. She was going to get alimony and support for Joan-not much, but with the job she could make it all right. She'd just got the job, going to start Monday, at a drugstore up on Vermont, and this place was handy to me. I'm just over on Rowena. She was going to drive Joan over to me every morning-"

"What's her husband's name?" asked Galeano.

"Neil Pratt. He's a no-good bum. He never supported her and he was mad when she had the baby."

"Do you know where he lives?" asked Hackett.

"They had an apartment on Fountain, I don't know if he still lives there. Why? Please, can I go home now? This has been an awful shock to me, I want to call my sister. Oh, I'm thankful my husband's dead, and that's a terrible thing to say, but this would have broke his heart, he loved Gloria so much. We tried to stop her marrying that guy-but Gloria'd never kill herself and the baby, she'd got over that ‘ man. She was going to have a better life. Everything was all arranged-"

"Are you all right to drive yourself home, Mrs. Schwartz?" asked Galeano.

"Yes, I'm all right. Thank you." She got out of the squad and walked down to an old Chevy at the curb.

Hackett said, "Let's hope there'll be some lab evidence. But it looks open and shut, Nick. Unless people have got more complicated since the last time I noticed."

"We can poke around here a little," said Galeano. "See who's home."

The apartment was on the second floor and there was a manager on the premises, in a downstairs front apartment. There were four apartments down and four up. And on a hot Sunday, only five people were at home. Four of them said they'd been watching T.V. or reading, didn't know if anybody had come visiting other tenants. But the manager, a sharp-eyed elderly woman named Potts, said, "Why, yes. I noticed a man come in about nine this morning, I'd just stepped out to get the paper-the boy comes by about then. What's this about that girl killing herself? I never had any police here before, any trouble like this. No, he was a stranger to me."

"Could you describe him, Mrs. Potts?" asked Galeano.

She considered. "I guess he was about thirty, dark hair, I didn't take much notice. Well, I might know him again."

They'd let Zimmerman go back on tour. Hackett had called the lab and a man was busy in the apartment. "You want to bet?" asked Galeano sleepily.

"No bets," said Hackett. Mrs. Schwartz had given them the address on Fountain. They drove up there and found Neil Pratt blearily watching T.V. and drinking straight Scotch. He was more than half drunk and they couldn't question him like that, so they took him down to the jail and left him there. They could hold him twenty-four hours I without a warrant.

RAMBEAU CALLED MENDOZA at the hotel just as he was finishing breakfast. "It marches, my friend. On Juliette, no-the number of Martins in the Paris directory is formidable. But we have found the employer. His name is Trennard, M. Pierre Trennard. And you and I are now going to talk to him. I will call for you in fifteen minutes."

"My God, I'd begun to think you'd never come up with anything. I'll be waiting."

"Some of my men have the little imagination. They looked for similar names and M. Trennard was turned up ten minutes ago. It is an address on the Boul'St. Germain."

Mendoza collected his hat and was waiting in front of the hotel when Rambeau drove up in a middle-aged Renault.

"Do you know what the business is?"

"We will discover." When Rambeau located the address he said, "There," and pointed. It was an old four-story building with a modest sign over the entrance, BEAUMONT FOURNIER ET CIE. "This is a district for publishers. This will be one of them if I guess right." He parked the car in a public lot across the street and in the small lobby of the building, a blond receptionist answered his questions, regarding them incuriously. There was an elevator and Rambeau pressed the button for the top floor. There, in a carpeted hallway, three doors faced them. The one opposite the elevator bore the lettered name PIERRE TRENNARD and Rambeau opened it on a square little office with windows facing the street, a desk, a covered typewriter on a lower typing desk, a desk chair, another upholstered chair. A man came out of an inner office and asked questions in staccato French, and Rambeau answered him. The man looked at Mendoza with faint interest. He was a tall dark man foppishly dressed in a dark business suit, white shirt, and rather flamboyant tie. He said in English, "Yes, I speak the English very well. You are police? The man who telephoned to ask if I know Juliette Martin?"

"This is an American police officer, monsieur, Mr. Mendoza, and he has no French so I ask you to speak in English. Juliette Martin, she is in your employ? I will ask you to look at these photographs."

Trennard looked and said, "This is Juliette, my secretary, yes. But these, they do not look- Why do you ask?"

"She is dead, M. Trennard. Murdered."

He was startled. "But this is a tragedy you tell me! She is only a young woman. In America? She was going to America-it was most inconvenient to me. No doubt she was due to take a holiday, but it was impossible to find a temporary replacement meanwhile. She was to return on the first of the month. This is very sad news, gentlemen. You had better come into my office." It was an expensively furnished office with upholstered chairs, a large mahogany desk. He sat at the desk and indicated chairs. He said formally, "I am very desolated to hear this. Mlle. Martin had been with us for five years and was a most excellent secretary. She was useful to me, you understand, because she spoke English and German and we have branch offices in both countries. But I can tell you very little about her personally. You see, I have been in the Paris office only eight months. My uncle, M. Fournier, was the head of the firm until then and Miss Martin was his secretary. It put everything wrong when he died suddenly last February," and he gestured. "There are no other partners. All the staff here is experienced and capable, the business runs itself in a way, but since I am now in sole charge-I was in our London office- I mean to strike out on new lines. My uncle was an old man and had not changed his business methods in many years. You understand me, I do not criticize-" he gave a vast, Gallic shrug "-We have a very profitable business, we publish the textbooks, art works, reprints of the classics, all very well no doubt-the learned, scientific works on the archaeology, history, travel-but one must modernize any business, and I intend to try a line of fiction."

Rambeau said, "Come back to Miss Martin, monsieur."

"But I am telling you I know nothing about the girl personally! Very likely my uncle did, I believe he had known her family, had taken her on here for some such reason. That is only an impression, I really do not know. He was a bachelor, there is no family left. Miss Martin was merely my secretary, I do not know her friends or her interests outside the office. I am very sorry to hear that she is dead, but-"

He flung out his hands.

"You can supply us with her home address?"

"That, yes. It will be in our records." He picked up a phone and issued a rapid order. "There are, I think, some thirty employees in this office, but I do not think any of them would have known Miss Martin, except casually. The readers, the editors, their secretaries, the stenographers, they are all on the floors below and she would have no occasion ` to go there. But her address we can supply." A moment later a slim dark girl came in and gave him a slip of paper which he presented formally to Rambeau.

Rambeau glanced at it. "Ah, yes. This arrondissement -convenient to the office. I thank you." They exchanged bows.

Mendoza stood by impatiently while Rambeau talked to the employees on the next floors down in a succession of offices large and small, occasionally translating the answers briefly. When he led Mendoza back to the Renault, he lit both their cigarettes and said, "It is unsatisfactory, but I can see how it comes about. None of these people knew her personally. She is simply the secretary to the head of the firm. These women who read the manuscripts, they are all older women, and Juliette would have no contact with that office, with the editors, except now and then. The editors keep a different lunch hour, she did not go out until one o'clock. Even if they all frequented the same cafe, you see-they all knew her and liked her, but none of them know where she lived or that she was affianced. Or, of course, what the fiance's name is. But her apartment will tell us more." He started the engine with a flourish. "If there is a concierge in the building-"

But it proved to be one of the new high-rise apartment buildings with no manager living there. Rambeau swore in French at length. "It is more delay. But we will still proceed." He took Mendoza back to his office. Mendoza had been interested to see that that office was laid out on the general lines of his own, a much larger one beyond, housing a number of desks where men typed reports, questioned witnesses. Rambeau issued peremptory orders to the man nearest the door. "It will not take long to find out," he said to Mendoza, and within twenty minutes was looking at a sheet of paper with a name and address on it. "So. The building is maintained by what you would call a management corporation. They oversee many such buildings, apartments and offices, for the owners. They will know, some answers."

Suddenly he erupted into a whirlwind of energy. He bundled Mendoza back to the car, to another tall building down anonymous streets, finally into the office of a small man in a sharply tailored suit. They went on talking with many gestures for some time and the small man brought manila-covered files from a row of file cases in a larger office. At last he went away and was gone for some minutes.

Rambeau said, "So we progress. He has gone to get us the key. And it was something I should have foreseen. Rents in Paris are very high now, and often girls like Juliette, they share an apartment with another, two other girls. That has happened here. Only the one girl officially leases the apartment, you see. Up to four months ago, that apartment was leased under the name of Claire Ducasse. Since then, the checks for the rent are signed by Juliette. The lease is to end in December. Who knows what happened?-perhaps this Ducasse has lost her job or gets married or has a little argument with Juliette. But of course the address and phone number will be in her name in the directory. Never mind. We have got there in the end."

The small man came back and handed him a key and they exchanged formal bows. Rambeau drove rapidly back to the apartment building. Juliette Martin's apartment was on the fourth floor, and the door opened into a pleasant living room with upholstered couch and chairs, a lady's writing desk with a fold-down lid, a small T.V. in one corner, all very neat and clean. There was one bedroom with twin beds, a bureau, a chest of drawers, a lamp table between the beds. Clothes hung in the closet. A metal stand held shoes on the floor. Rambeau went back to the living room and made straight for the desk while Mendoza began to search drawers in the bedroom.

Fifteen minutes later, Rambeau said, "There is something stranger than we had thought here, my friend. There is no correspondence at all in the desk. No address book. No list of phone numbers beside the telephone, and it is across the room from the desk, it would only be natural- Me, I am a bachelor, but that is not to say I know nothing about women. Always they keep the love letters, even the little notes, the letters from friends. They keep so much!-but aside from this there should be her bankbook, the canceled checks-she is a businesslike young woman, she would keep perhaps a book of accounts-and there should be receipts for the rent."

Mendoza stood in the middle of the living room, rocking a little heel to toe, his eyes vacant. He said, "There's nothing in the bedroom ?Media vuelta! But, pues si. They had to have her keys. That made the delay. That and maybe something else. Saturday to Tuesday."

"What are you saying?"

"They had to get her keys to get in here. I don't know if she'd have packed her address book, planning to be gone only three weeks or a month-the people she might send postcards to, she'd have known their addresses. The fiance, friends. Our anonymous X's would have known her address from the letters to Grandfather, but they needed the keys. They got those as soon as she arrived. That autopsy report-yes, it's on the cards she was kept on enough sedatives to be docile all that while-Saturday to Tuesday-and somebody came over here to clear out the apartment. The address book, if it was here, everything personal. I think she'd have kept Grandfather's letters, you know. So that even if the police ever got this far, there'd be no definite connection." He focused on Rambeau. "Does it strike you that this place is a little too clean? It hasn't been occupied for nearly a month. There ought to be more dust."

"In the name of seven devils!" said Rambeau. "To remove all the fingerprints? That is not so easy to do."

"No," said Mendoza. "Maybe that was just somebody trying to be extra thorough. And Trennard identified the photographs, but that isn't quite the same as identifying the body. And such a businesslike, ambitious fellow, apparently he hadn't got an eye for a pretty girl, it could be argued that he couldn't be sure. Do you know what it adds up to, Rambeau? I don't think they ever expected anybody to get this far. But just in case, they made a clean sweep."

" Sacree Mere," said Rambeau. He brought out a cigarette and then put it away again. He said, "If there is anything for the scientists to find-but now I will say something also. Grandpere. He becomes an obsession with me as with you. But if you are right, something else emerges, and that is-money. All of this-what we deduce-has cost someone a respectable amount of money. The bribing of the witnesses to the Hoffman business, and now a flight to Paris-"

"Yes, and it's another dead end," said Mendoza. "Where do we go from here?"

Rambeau said violently, "By the good God in heaven, we will go on from here! This animal, he insults me with his little cleverness. We will scour France for this Claire Ducasse- I will bring the technicians here, and somewhere there will be Juliette's fingerprints. We will inquire at all the shops and businesses within half a mile of here and that office-she must have purchased food, clothing, necessities at local places, and she will have gone to shops with her friends-somewhere she will be known and perhaps the friends remembered. There are the banks-we will find where she kept an account, examine the records. My friend, there must be something to lead us on."

"I wonder," said Mendoza.

PALLISER AND LANDERS walked down Jefferson Boulevard toward Thirtieth Street. The nearest parking slot had been a block away. Landers said, "This is a damned waste of time."

"Probably," agreed Palliser. They went into the drugstore on the corner. It was a dingy old place with miscellaneous merchandise on two long counters. No customers were in at the moment, and there was a man sitting on a high stool behind the pharmacy counter at the rear of the store, bent over a ledger. Palliser said, "There it is." Just inside the front door on the wall was a cork bulletin board and there were several little handwritten signs thumbtacked to it. FREE KITTENS, and a phone number. GOOD TRANSPORTATION CAR $300. SEWING MACHINE OR SALE-BABYSITTING- "Freeman remembered the fellow's name was Len. I just thought we could have a look at him."

At the bottom of the board, there was a little card attached with one thumbtack to the cork. In neat ballpoint print it said, Len, any hand work, with a phone number.

Palliser looked at it, took it down, and walked down the length of the store. The man on the stool looked up inquiringly. He was a middle-aged black man in a pharmacist's white smock. "Do you know anything about this fellow?" asked Palliser, showing the card.

"Oh, sure. I wrote that for him, I don't think he can read and write, he's kind of simple. He comes in here on errands for his mother sometimes and she always sends a note, says what she wants. I guess he could do any kind of work like cleaning or yard work-he's big enough."

"Do you know what his last name is-where he lives?"

"Sure. She writes me checks sometimes. Up on Twenty-ninth, their name is Williams. She's Martha Williams. The apartment on the corner."

They left the car where it was and walked the block up there. It was another ancient apartment building. The mailbox said that the Williamses lived in 4-A at the rear.

There wasn't any bell. Landers knocked on the door. After a dragging minute it was opened by a tall thin black man with a vacant face and dull eyes. Palliser asked, "Did you do some work for a fellow named Rawson last Friday, on Thirtieth Street?"

Before he answered, they realized that he was drunk. Beyond him they could see a bare, untidy living room. A T.V. was on with the volume turned down and there were a couple of empty bottles on the floor in front of it. He was nearly falling-down drunk and he certainly didn't look too bright. He said, "Huh?" And Palliser hesitated. There wasn't anything to be got out of him. And then Williams said in a thick, slurred voice. "Tha' fella-yeah-yeah- I guess I show him! Tha' damn cheapskate dude." He hiccuped and clutched the door for support. "Him inshult a guy, give me ten lousy dirty bucks for all tha' damn work-I cut 'em up good, I did!" He staggered against the door and slid down to the floor and passed out.

Landers said to Palliser, "For God's sake, are you starting to have hunches like the boss? My God. And of course it's not an admissible confession, but-"

"Three people dead, like that," said Palliser. "It never crossed my mind, Tom. I just wanted to ask if Rawson had talked to anybody else that day." They looked at the long limp body on the dirty floor and they felt a little tired. This gave them that much more to do. "Get the lab out here looking for the knife. Get a warrant. Talk to him when he's sobered up. Talk to the mother." And he'd probably be certified as unsuitable for trial and wind up in the asylum at Atascadero. They were always glad to clear one away, but they couldn't claim any credit for this one. And whatever happened to Len Williams, it wasn't going to bring three people back to life.

HACKETT WAS TYPING the initial report on Gloria Pratt when his phone rang and he picked it up. "Robbery-Homicide, Sergeant Hackett."

"Oh, Art," said Alison's voice at the other end. "You aren't hypnotizing people now, are you?"

Hackett had never hypnotized anybody in his life, in any sense of the word, but he answered the sense of the question equably. "Not since the court threw it out as admissible evidence. Why? We never used it here as far as I remember. It can be useful in getting people to recall plate numbers and so on, but I suppose the court figured it's a little too close to black magic."

"Well, l thought maybe somebody down there could put me in touch with a good hypnotist-one the police had used. Luis called last night and he's hit another dead end. This French detective who's been helping him still thinks they can find something, but Luis doesn't-and I know that girl said something else, and I just can't remember, and I thought maybe a hypnotist might get it out of me."

Hackett massaged his jaw. "We1l, somebody at the lab will probably know. I can find out for you."

"Find out now, Art, will you? If there's anything buried in my subconscious mind I'd like to get it for Luis."

"I'll call around and get back to you," said Hackett.

MAIRI MAC TAGGART said in a cross voice, "I'm not liking this at all, my girl. It's a verra dangerous thing to do, letting a doctor or anybody at all go poking around at your brain."

"Don't be silly," said Alison. "Thousands of people are hypnotized every day. I just hope I'm a good subject."

"And suppose you come home all changed around like in your brain, what would I say to the man?-him finding maybe you've forgot who you are at all."

Alison said briskly, "Don't fuss, Mairi. Nothing like that's going to happen. But I don't know how long it might take, and this Dr. Cargill's way out in Westwood. I'll be home as soon as I can."

Mairi said gloomily, "And I only hope it'll be with your brain in one piece, achara."

HACKETT GOT HOME late. It was starting to cool off the last couple of days, had only gone to eighty today, and please God they had seen nearly the last of this summer. The ridiculous huge mongrel Laddie was chasing around the backyard with Mark and Sheila. They all came running to greet him and Laddie nearly knocked him over. He went into the kitchen and kissed Angel. "I suppose the freeway was murder," she said.

"I stayed overtime to finish a report. Alison went to be hypnotized this afternoon, did she tell you about it?"

"For heaven's sake, what for?"

"Try to trigger her memory about that girl." Hackett yawned. "I am bushed. I think I'll have a drink. But at least we've cleaned up those two homicides."

HE AND GALEANO had gone over to the jail to talk to Neil Pratt when it could be presumed that he was sobered up. Unless they got anything definite out of him they couldn't hold him any longer.

But Pratt was another stupid lout, which they could have deduced from that clumsily faked suicide. He was surprised and aggrieved that they'd seen through it. When they explained how they knew, it passed straight over his head.

"I thought everybody'd think she did it herself," he said naively. "It was the way I set it up to look." After he had been seen by that sharp-eyed manager, who would probably recognize him, and batted them on the head with some weapon before turning on the gas-and leaving the bedroom window wide open.

"Why did you want to set it up?" asked Galeano.

"Goddamn it," said Pratt, still annoyed. "Everybody should've thought she'd done it herself. Well, goddamn it, I couldn't afford to give her all that money! That goddamn judge said a hundred and fifty a month and I couldn't afford it no ways. I don't know why she had to have that damn kid in the first place. I need all the money I make to live on. Goddamn it, I still don't see how anybody knew she didn't do it herself! "

MENDOZA WAS IN THE MIDST of a graphic dream. He dreamed that Laurent Rambeau had found Grandfather for him and they were questioning him in the first interrogation room down the hall at the Robbery-Homicide office at Parker Center, which seemed quite logical to the dreaming mind. Grandfather looked exactly like the picture of Fagin in the illustrated Dickens Mendoza had read in high school. He was small and hunched, with a scraggly white beard and beady little crafty eyes. Rambeau was thundering at him, "You villain, what have you done to the little Juliette?"

And Grandfather leered at them and said solemnly, "You will never prove it. We have buried her in a filing case at the main library." This struck Mendoza as the most fiendish method of homicide he had ever heard of and he was recoiling from Grandfather in loathing and disgust when he became aware that there was some intrusive extraneous sound.

He swam up from the depths of sleep and heard the telehone ringing. After a moment he was enough awake to sit and grope for the switch on the bedside lamp. The phone ent on ringing. He picked it up and answered it.

"Oh, Luis, thank goodness you're there, I thought you were out, they've been ringing you for ages-"

" Que es esta? What's wrong?-the twins, the baby-"

"Nothing's wrong, why should there be? I knew you'd want to hear-"

"It's the middle of the night here, carina, and I was sound asleep."

Alison laughed. "Good Lord, I am sorry, Luis, the time difference went right out of my mind-and I suppose Mairi would say it's all the poking around. But listen, I saw this Dr. Cargill, and he hypnotized me, he says I'm a pretty good subject, I went under right away. And he had a tape going and he got it out of me-what the Martin girl said that I couldn't remember. It was there in my subconscious mind."

" Maravilloso. And what was it?" He groped for cigarettes on the table.

"Well, it was just after I'd asked her if she lived in Paris that I went to sleep. But my mind took in what she said. She said she had lived in Paris for five years since she worked for Mr. Fournier. But before that, they had always lived at Evreux because her father was attached to the museum there. That was all I came out with. But, Luis, it could help, couldn't it? If you can trace her parents, there'll be other people-"

"It could help one hell of a lot, mi vida, " said Mendoza. "It was a brainstorm. Muchas gracias. Everything all right there?"

"The twins have discovered that first grade isn't as much fun as they'd expected. That old Sister Grace is awful strict. And El Senor caught a toad and was sick. Everything else is fine."

"Muy Bien. Keep your fingers crossed, querida. This might mean a big break."

"Evreux!" said Rambeau. "The museum!" He smote himself on the forehead. "Ie Musee de l'Archeologie et de l'Histoire Naturelle. And Maman and Papa died only six months ago. Now, indeed we will march! Allons! "

He drove out of Paris at a rate to frighten Mendoza, who didn't like being driven. It was not far out of the city, and Rambeau seemed to know his way. He braked outside an old stone building with several wings, bustled Mendoza in and demanded the director. Within five minutes they were talking to an alert-looking elderly man with a fringe of white hair, Professor Rigaud. "I ask you to speak in English if it is possible, for the benefit of my colleague."

Rigaud's English was hesitant, but adequate. Indeed he had known Dr. Andre Martin and his wife, Dr. Martin had been with the museum for nearly thirty years, he was a most distinguished Egyptologist. It had been a great tragedy when they were killed by the drunken motorist. Indeed he had met the daughter-a charming girl and quite brilliant. He did not mingle a great deal in social circles, and the Martins had been younger. Perhaps their closest friends had been the Boyers, Edouard and Leonie Boyer. Dr. Boyer was absent on a field trip in Egypt but he could direct them to the house.

It was a pleasant little stone house with a walled garden where a few roses still bloomed. Leonie Boyer was a pretty woman still, though she was probably in the fifties, with delicately tinted blond hair, skillful makeup, smart clothes. Rambeau was magnificent with her.

"Madame, the reason for this I will recount to you later," he said after introducing himself and Mendoza and ascertaining that she spoke English. "I can only tell you that you will be of inestimable aid to Juliette Martin, to my colleague, and to myself if you will answer our questions freely."

"Of course, Inspector." She looked a little bewildered, but she responded automatically to his gallantry. "Come in and sit down. Ask whatever you please. As you hear, I speak English very well. I used to speak it with Elise, Julie's mother, I do miss her so very much," and her eyes were sad. "We were dear friends, and I look on Julie as a niece, almost a daughter. I have no children, you see."

"I'd like to ask you something about her, too," said Mendoza. "Had you known her since she came to France, Mrs. Boyer?"

"Oh, yes. Since she and Andre were married. She became Elise then. In America, her name was Elsie, such an ugly name. Like thud, thud. But always she had an affinity for France and the French language."

"Then you know about her father and about Juliette's visit to him."

"Yes, indeed. I look forward to hearing about that when Julie is home. Elise, it did not trouble her very much that he was so angry about her marriage. He was a cold hard man, she always said, and her mother had died when she was fifteen. There was no real home for her there. But also he was jealous, you comprehend-no man she wished to marry would have pleased him, for she was his favorite and the only daughter."

"And then after all, and after all these years, he wishes to be reconciled to his granddaughter," said Rambeau.

She said,."I understood why Julie felt she should write to him. There is such a thing as the family feeling. Of course we did not have a proper address, there had been no communication for thirty years-well, twenty-five-for Elise had written him when Julie was born but never had a reply. All I could tell Julie," she smiled, "it was a little joke between Elise and me-her old home in America. It was all so different for her here, the country-the people-a cosmopolitan surrounding. But she had become very French. Ah, that curious address in America." She pronounced it carefully. "Indian Canyon Road, Rural Route Two, San Fernando. So very American. And Julie's letter sent on, he is not there any longer, but he wrote to her. Yes, he was very pleased to have her letter. He wrote that he had often wanted to get in touch with Elise, but of course did not know where to write. He is," she sighed, "very old and feels remorse, and he was pleased to know about Julie. He asked her to send a snapshot, and of course she looks very much like her mother. They had corresponded since then. He sent Julie the money for the airplane fare."

"Ah," said Rambeau. "He has money, then."

"Oh, no, I do not think so." She was surprised. "It was a very poor place they lived when Elise was a young girl."

"Do you know the name of Claire Ducasse?"

"Why, of course. She is Julie's closest friend. They were at school together. They shared an apartment in Paris until Claire was married a few months ago. Her husband has been transferred to Bordeaux, he is in a wine merchant's office. And Julie had missed her, but she said she would keep the apartment alone until she and Paul are married in January."

"The fiance, Paul-"

"Paul Goulart. He is a fine young man. A doctor like his father, he is finishing out his term at, what is it in English, internship at the Paris General Hospital, and then he will go into practice with his father. He is such a handsome young man, they are so much in love. I have been very happy for Julie."

"What," asked Mendoza, "is Elise's father's name?"

"Oh, that is very American, too. Elias K. Dobbs-more thud, thud," and she laughed.

"Juliette's first letter to him was sent on. To where?" demanded Rambeau. "She agreed to visit him, he sent her the money for the plane ticket, somewhere in or near Los Angeles-where?"

She put her hand to her cheek. "I could not tell you. I am sorry. Julie must have said the name, but I am not familiar with American names and I do not remember. It was not important. Julie has gone to see him-of the family feeling. The old man, sentimental and sorry-it is only for a short time. Inspector, I must ask you why you are asking me all these questions. I do not understand."

Rambeau leaned forward and patted her hand. "Now, you will be brave, madame. We must tell you that Juliette Martin is dead. That is right, you weep for her. I can only say you have helped to avenge her death."

But when they came back to the Renault, parked in the quiet street, he was looking distracted. He stopped on the sidewalk and said, "But why does that name ring a small bell in my head? Paul Goulart, Paul Goulart. However, we now have the name of Grandpere."

"And like the ones I handed you-a common one. But we have telephone directories, too," said Mendoza.

"So again, allons! You will get there, my friend. You will find Grandpere." Rambeau reached the key to the ignition and stopped. He sat frozen, motionless for thirty seconds. And then he said very quietly, " Sacree Mere. I have just remembered. Paul Goulart." He lit a cigarette and sat smoking silently, staring through the windshield of the Renault.

"He was murdered," he said softly. "The reports that pass across my desk, other men investigating other cases than concern me-the names cross my mind and go. But that much I remember. This Paul Goulart has been murdered."

He switched on the engine. "We will go to the office and look up the report on him. Your mystery-it gets to be stranger and deeper, my friend."

THEY TALKED to Dr. Jules Goulart briefly that evening, in the parlor of his rather shabby comfortable old house in a suburb north in the city. "I have nothing left," he said. He was a leonine man with an aristocratic profile. "Paul was a fine doctor, a son to take pride in-and his life is taken for no reason. A burglar stealing what little he had-perhaps a drug addict. He was to have taken my practice. And now you tell me Juliette is dead, such a dear girl, the right wife for Paul." After a silence, "If it is possible, I would like to have the ring back. Paul gave it to her as an engagement ring. I had it made for his mother when he was born. It is unique, a diamond and sapphires."

"You know," said Mendoza in the Renault, "that ring is somewhere in the sewers of Los Angeles."

"It is always well to be thorough," said Rambeau. It was a small jewelry shop in the Rue Lafayette. The youngish man behind the counter said, "I remember the ring, sir. M. Goulart brought it in for cleaning, to see if the stones needed tightening. My father was interested, for he designed it. He is in the rear office-you may talk to him."

M. Dupres said, "Indeed, it is a unique ring. I designed it, it would be some twenty-six years ago. The account book would give the date." He was fussy and slow, looking up the record. "I can give you a sketch of the design. My memory is excellent, despite what the young people say. It is a yellow-gold ring-eighteen-karat gold-a diamond and two sapphires, all the stones are of half a carat weight." He insisted upon drawing a neat little sketch.

Rambeau said at the hotel, "So, my friend, you go home to find the solution to your mystery. And when you do, write and tell me, for I am interested to know. I shall never forget the little Juliette."

HACKETT AND HIGGINGS had just come back from lunch when a man from Communications brought in a cable.

Hackett scanned it rapidly POSITIVE PROOF IDENTITY. BRINGING DEPOSITIONS. LEAN ON DAGGETTS HARD.

Hackett said, "Well, I will be damned. Hie seems to have got what he went after."

Sergeant Lake looked up from the switchboard. "You've got a new one just gone down-a body."