Extra Kill

ELEVEN

There was, of course, one obvious thing to do with this new information, and Mendoza did it; he came back to headquarters and set about getting a search warrant for the Temple and the Kingmans' apartment. As that would take a little time, he deferred his visit there until after lunch and meanwhile did some looking at various other odd bits of news that had come in, and some thinking about them.

They didn't have much on Twelvetrees' close associates aside from the Temple crowd; but barring the emergence of a girl friend with a grudge, or a rival ditto-something like that, maybe from among his theatrical acquaintances-the Kingmans still looked like the best bet, because when it came to motives for murder, money was always high on the list. That Miss Katherine Webster, the old lady, had been about the only one of the crowd who hadn't liked Twelvetrees, but it scarcely looked like anything that would have led to murder. She was one of the Kingmans' prize pigeons, a very wealthy old lady indeed; it was a little confirmation of his idea about Twelvetrees blackmailing the Kingmans, that in the face of old Miss Webster's dislike and openly voiced distrust, they hadn't obliged her by getting rid of him.

Miss Webster employed a chauffeur and had a four-year-old black Cadillac. It had curved-up fins.

The Kingmans had a three-year-old dark gray Buick with curved-up fins.

Mrs. Bragg, urged to remember, said she had at various times seen cars belonging to Twelvetrees' visitors standing in front of his place but, beyond the fact that one she'd noticed once was dark-colored and big, could give no details. He hadn't had many people come to see him; he wasn't there much, and had never given parties, anything like that. She herself had a two-year-old dark red Olds, and (depressingly) it too had curved-up fins.

But there was nothing to guarantee, of course, that Walsh had been right about that, his brief glimpse of that car.

At least, if this rather curious story of the exotic lady who'd bought the serape from Mr. Perez and taken that cab ride out to Polk Street, had come unexpectedly, still it served a useful purpose: it pinned down the night pretty definitely. Again, not exactly solid evidence, but suggestive. Coincidences did occur, but that missing glove button, the scuffed brown leather suitcase, the obvious attempt to evade recognition, and the areas in question-near where the Porsche had been found, near the apartment-all pointed to the fact that she had something to do with this business. Even more eloquently was that indicated by what he'd got from a phone call to that address on Polk Street: people named Fawcett, sounded like a young housewife he'd talked to, baby crying in the background: no, they had not expected any out-of-town visitor that weekend, no one had come to the house all that Friday evening.

And about that time Mendoza remembered Dr. Graas on Fairfax Avenue, and the allergy: not much in it, he'd thought, but you never knew. He called Dr. Graas; and what he learned then sent him calling elsewhere… When Sergeant Lake came in with the search warrant about noon, he was brooding over a half page of notes. He tucked the warrant into his pocket, told the sergeant to have Piggott and Landers meet him at the Temple at one o'clock, and went out for lunch, meeting Hackett in the corridor.

"Let's catch each other up over a sandwich. You're looking gloomy » about something, what's gone wrong?"

"Just human nature generally," said Hackett. When they were settled in a booth in the hole-in-the-wall cafe, he described the Mona Ferne set-up.

Mendoza listened in thoughtful silence, and at the conclusion said irrelevantly, "It'd be a help if we could get that gun identified. I do wonder if it's the same one Twelvetrees used in that play. No, no particular reason it should be, but you know those amateur groups-makeshift arrangements-they need something as a prop, somebody says, ‘Oh, I think I know where I can get one.'… It might have been his own. Quite a few honest people don't bother about a license, and I doubt if Twelvetrees would have… Bainbridge thinks, by the way, that it may have been the weapon. The wrong end of it, that is. Failing anything else there-we know the man wasn't knocked down against the bedpost or something, the way it's always happening in books-I'm inclined to agree… Yes, nasty-those women-just as you say. And a kind of culmination of everything else between them, if the girl was in love with Twelvetrees too-"

"Not too," said Hackett. "That woman's never been in love with anybody but herself."

" Es claro. And neither of them, probably, meant anything to dear Brooke. He'd have taken up with La Ferne to begin with thinking she could do him some good in the way of theatrical contacts, but he must have found out by now she doesn't have a pull there any more. It was her money kept him dangling-an ace up his sleeve, tal vez. I'll bet you she'd given him other little presents than that fancy cigarette case-maybe those expensive shirts and ties, the flame-of-love bottles.

Nuances in these things, sure-nothing crude about it, pay for services rendered-he'd make the graceful protests on the ground of his pride and so on, he'd have been good at that. And in case worst came to worst, and all his other rackets played out on him, and he'd got nothing in prospect better, he might have married her. She'd have jumped at that?"

"Oh, very definitely, I'd say."

"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.

And how the hell any woman-a man like Twelvetrees, another one all front, the too-handsome collar ad- But look at it objectively: people didn't show much common sense about these things. Ever. When it came to feelings. How many men had fallen for a beautiful face and found that's all there was? And he was, wasn't he, just the type a girl like that would have fallen for-a girl without experience, younger than her age in some ways.

A girl not in a very sound psychological state to begin with. Whether she knew it or not… All right, he told himself almost angrily: build it; how might it have happened?

Mona Ferne would have had his address: the girl would have known where to go. Did she drive, have a car of her own? Find out. What would it be in her mind? Please look at me, I could give you more than she ever could! And him laughing at her? Or, If I can't have you, she never will!

The gun. His own? Or had she planned it, come prepared? All that business afterward-no, she couldn't- How could he say for sure? A streak there of deliberate planning, yes; the ways she devised for punishing Mona. She wasn't a mental defective by any means.

"Hell," he said aloud to himself. The law said motive wasn't very important. You needn't go hunting up a plausible motive to match the nice solid tangible facts the law liked-ownership of weapon, presence on the scene, witnesses, fingerprints, and so on and so on. But in practice, that was one of the first things you had to look for. A lot of murders were done for very little reason, a moment's loss of temper, the ten bucks or thirty cents in the victim's pocket, a mere suspicion of wife or husband, things like that; but as a general rule, nobody got worked up to murder without some hell's brew of emotion churning inside them-whether it was what you might call rational emotion or not, lasting a minute or a year.

He didn't like the idea, but he could see it happening, since he knew the girl had been in love with Twelvetrees.

And it was, of course, a really wild one, no evidence there at all-something like one of Mendoza's hunches. He thought he'd keep it to himself for a while, see how things piled up-or didn't-on the Kingmans. If and when there was nowhere else to look, then look.

Meanwhile, he found the address Mona Ferne had given him: Dave Morris was at home and unsurprised to see him.

"I wondered if I ought to come in, when I saw the papers-but I hadn't seen him for a day or so before he supposedly left, I don't know anything really to tell you. Everybody's been calling me up, shall we go to the police or not-you know-" He shrugged. He was a stocky dark young man with an ugly, attractive face, and vitality exhaled from him with every breath; he was a restless talker, gesturing, changing position every ten seconds.

"Well, maybe you can help fill in some of the background, but first, when did you see him last?"

"On Wednesday the twenty-eighth," said Morris promptly. "I've got all this pat in my mind, ready for you, see. Some of us met here to talk over a new show we're thinking of doing, and for what it's worth I'll tell you that it was the first time Twelvetrees didn't jump at a part. He was-oh, what the British call cock-a-hoop that night-kept hinting we might get a surprise soon, that sort of thing… No, nothing definite. He was just-on air, as if he'd just heard he'd inherited a fortune or something. Tell the truth, I wasn't very curious, and when he didn't show at our next meeting, I didn't do any crying over it… "

Morris liked to talk, and Hackett was used to listening. Some more background emerged. Most of the people in this group had got on the lowest rung of the show-business ladder at least; Twelvetrees had been one of only three amateurs, without any experience, among them. "And he was an awful ham, but the girls fell for his looks, you know." It hadn't been for quite a while they'd found out how he'd earned a living-"if you can call it earned"-he'd apparently tried to keep his different lives in separate compartments; and when they did, they'd kidded him about it some. If Hackett wanted Morris's opinion, Twelvetrees didn't take the Mystic Truth very seriously, except of course as an easy living. Which was understandable. Morris himself wouldn't look down his nose at anything like that; eking out subsistence with on-call TV work as an extra was pretty precarious. No, Twelvetrees had never said much about his background, specifically where he came from, except just Pennsylvania. He wouldn't say that Twelvetrees had been bosom pals with anybody in the group, though he was faithful in attendance at their meetings and always eager to take a part in one of their plays.

"Which kind of canceled out, if you get me, because while some of us aren't always able to take on a part-on count of prior commitments we'll get paid for-we do like to have competent actors in our little productions. We get a certain number of producers and so on keeping an eye on what we're doing, you see, which is why we go to the trouble and expense of putting shows on, besides giving ourselves experience. Stop me, by the way, if I get irrelevant, maybe you're not interested in all this. Well, for one thing, he was a bit older than most of us, you know, and the men didn't like him-including yours truly-because, well, we don't usually care much for the too-too-handsome boys who go round preening themselves in mirrors, do we? Yes, he was rather like that. And the girls, a couple of them are faithful devoted wives, and a couple more have enough common sense to see through that kind. And as for the couple left who'd have been thrilled-to-pieces-darling if the divine creature had asked them for a date, he did a lot of arm patting and general showing off, but beyond that, not a tumble."

"You trying to say he was on the nance side?"

"Oh, Lord, no, don't think so. A bit la-de-da, but I put that down to his having deliberately taught himself, you know-not to be snobbish about it-upper-class manners. I think he may have come from somewhere lower down, which is nothing against him, and acquired the polished veneer, and people like that usually overdo it a little. He never acted casual, if you get me. About the girls, I figured myself he had a steady, and for some reason never brought her round or mentioned her. Just conjecture, but maybe when it came to females he preferred the kind he knew in the lower ranks, and didn't care to exhibit one of 'em to us."

"Possible," said Hackett. "Any of these girls in your bunch named Marian Marner?"

"Never heard of her. Not even a Marian in the lot."

"Wel1," said Hackett. "Of course, he was going around with Miss Mona Ferne-"

Morris let out a bellow of laughter and started to tell him just what that amounted to. They'd all got a hell of a kick out of that-not, of course, in front of Twelvetrees. Like all that kind, he didn't have much sense of humor about himself. The first time he'd met her he'd been all over her, putting out the full wattage of boyish charm. Maybe it'd been a dirty trick, but the rest of them hadn't said a word to him-seeing what was going on-about her being a dead one so far as the profession went, kaput, washed up long ago, and no use as a patroness. Which was obviously the idea in his mind. And of course she was all too pleased to have him dancing attendance… "that woman, that damned awful woman." They put up with her because she was a regular at their shows, one admission ticket to count on, and you couldn't offend people who might talk, good or bad, about you in public; one thing you could bet on, they never had got and never would get any cash support from Mona, however much she talked about her sympathy for these brave struggling young people. Had Hackett met her? Wasn't it the damndest thing how she still saw herself as the glamour queen? All the same, not that she needed convincing about it, one reason she'd been a soft mark for Twelvetrees; it wouldn't be every day she picked up a handsome young man so anxious to oblige. And mind you, she wasn't-Morris would say-a fool, when it came to money and so on, either; a shrewd streak there, but by all accounts she never had seen through Twelvetrees, because she was so anxious to believe it was, so to speak, her beaux yeux alone that held him.

"Another little reason none of us cared for him-I mean, hell, I'm no moralizing prude, but there are limits. He found out for himself soon enough she couldn't wave the fairy wand and waft him in front of a big producer who'd fall on his neck with the glad cry, ‘My boy, you're just what I've been looking for!' But by then he'd also found out she was loaded, and so damn pleased to have him hanging around there was graft to be had-you know, the little present for a good boy."

"We'd figured that one," said Hackett. "Off the record, you think it went any further than taking her around night clubs and so on?"

"Who knows?" said Morris. "All I can say is, I doubt it very strongly. For all I've been saying about him, he was fastidious as a cat-me, I'm not, exactly, but I wouldn't have wanted to go any further, in his position, if you take me. Would you? No matter how much you liked the gold cigarette case and the fancy clothes?"

Hackett laughed and said you never knew what you could do until you got really strapped, but it didn't seem Twelvetrees had been down so low. Morris agreed. "Why didn't we get rid of him? Not so easy. And maybe it's a case of the pot calling the kettle black, because he had more money to spend than most of us, and he was always glad to fork over-props, theater rent, costumes and so on-so long as he was one of the boys and girls all chummy together, and got a chance to tread the boards once in a while."

"Speaking of props, about a year ago you people did a show that called for a gun. Where did it come from and where did it go afterward?"

Morris cocked his head. "A gun? He wasn't shot, was he? I know you can't answer any questions, but I'm being a good boy and not asking any because I know that, I'm not disinterested. We're all seething with curiosity-our glamour boy murdered! Was he shot? The papers didn't say."

"No, he wasn't. There's no reason you shouldn't know. We found a gun there and just wonder if it was his. This gun you used in the play-"

" Bitter Harvest," said Morris. "I remember. Twelvetrees supplied the gun, all right, but I don't know whether it was his or he'd borrowed it somewhere. He never said. I don't know much about guns, it was a pistol of some sort-" He measured with his hands. "Longish barrel-looked fairly old, but I don't know. When we went over the list of props for that show he said he'd contract to get the gun, and he showed up with it at the first rehearsal-that's about all I know. Don't think any of the others could tell you any more, but you could ask… Loaded? My God, no, at least I don't think so, he wasn't that big a fool. Well, actually it doesn't get fired during the play and Twelvetrees had it all the time on stage. We ran that show for seven nights, our usual, and then packed it up, and that's the last I saw of the gun-he took it away again."

"Would you recognize it?"

Morris thought so. Hackett said they'd have him take a look; but when he'd thanked him and started back downtown, it didn't seem Morris had added much useful. Except the cocky mood Twelvetrees, had been in on Wednesday night. Not likely to be much in that-or was there? Be nice to know why. Be nice to know a lot more than they I did.

Suppose it was the same gun; that didn't say it was Twelvetrees' own, or where he'd borrowed it… Question the whole lot of these people who'd known him, about seeing him with a gun, hearing him mention one. And probably came up with nothing.

A little routine to take care of. Not that it mattered much, but send somebody to check with that Kent woman Mona Ferne had visited on Friday night: (yes, and it might matter, for consequently Mona wouldn't have known if the girl was out). See if anything had come in from Pennsylvania. Also, now they knew that Twelvetrees had been at that pharmacy on Fairfax after four o'clock, it might not be a bad idea to have a look round the places adjacent, see if he'd stopped anywhere else in the vicinity.

He thought again, unwillingly, about that ridiculously unwelcome hunch of his about the girl… He wondered how Mendoza was getting on.