Extra Kill

FOUR

It was six o'clock before they were finished at the apartment. Mendoza went down again with the surgeon and the men to fix up some kind of light; all of them let out frequent curses, crowded together down there. Woods went down to look at the corpse when its face emerged; he provoked an outburst of profanity on his way up by inadvertently pulling out the wire from the nearest outlet down the trap, and plunging the laborers into darkness. He shoved the plug back in and said to Hackett tersely, "Twelvetrees, all right."

Down below, Mendoza could be heard telling someone to keep his clumsy paws to himself, they'd get to the corpse all in good time, but if there was any little something buried with it by accident, he'd like to see it before it got buried again. "Well, well," said Hackett. "It is, is it? How?"

"Surgeon thinks a bang on the head, or several bangs."

Hackett grunted. They sat smoking, carefully sharing the ashtray out of the Facel-Vega to avoid using anything here, until Marx and Horder climbed out of the hole laboriously with all their equipment and Marx called back down, "What d'you want up here, Lieutenant!"

"Everything, everything! And don't forget the bottoms of window sills and the tops of doors!”

Marx sighed and shrugged at Horder; they went into the bathroom to start. Mendoza came up and hauled out the suitcases, one by one, as they were handed to him. "O.K., boys, now we get busy." He sat down on the davenport and produced a folded envelope.

"Treasure-trove from the grave."

They looked at the thing he shook out into his palm-a small round pearl-finished button. "Could've fallen down the trap any time and rolled," said Hackett dubiously.

"Don't think so. It was about an inch under the surface, in the loose dirt shoveled over him. Couldn't have been there very long, either by the look of it, even if it just happened to be there when he was covered up. And I think it tells us what we're going to find out anyway-someone was smart enough to wear gloves."

"Why?"

"It could be off a number of things, this shape and size and color." It was flat on top like a stud, not rounded, it had a shank, it was amber-colored. "A woman's blouse. A man's sport shirt. A dress, even a skirt, though I'd say it was too small for that. But what I think it came from was a glove-a glove with a button, or buttons, at the wrist." He put it away carefully. "Now, the suitcases. They've all been printed outside, and they're clean. Which is very odd indeed, only not in this case, of course." He laid the first one beside him on the couch, brought out a key ring-“From the corpse, I haven't searched him, except for these, when I found the cases were locked"-and opened it. Clothing, neatly packed: six solid-colored sport shirts, in two layers, on top-just back from the laundry, by the way they were folded and pinned: the kind of shirts that sold for fifteen dollars and up. Two of them monogrammed.

Another half-dozen less expensive white dress shirts underneath. A leather case with eighteen or twenty ties neatly folded in it. Clean socks rolled up in pairs. Shorts and undershirts, almost all of knit nylon. Three pairs of silk pajamas, all of exotic colors. Two pairs of shoes, on trees and wrapped in paper: one pair tan suede, the other black.

"Thirty bucks at a guess," said Mendoza, setting them down carefully without touching the shoe trees. Under the tied-down flap of the lid was a leather case containing an electric razor, a manicure set, and a number of jars and bottles, all bearing the same green-and-gold label and, in tortured script, the words Flamme d'Amour .

" Que hombre! ” said Mendoza, removing the top from a bottle of cologne with handkerchief-shielded fingers, and sniffing.

"He wouldn't like himself much right now," commented Woods. Another fitted case with hairbrushes and comb. Six belts, tidily rolled up. A flat leather jewel case containing half a dozen pairs of links, tie clasps, a monogrammed sterling buckle.

"Don't," said Hackett to Woods earnestly, "ask him for any deductions or we'l1 be here all night. One of the things he's an expert on is clothes."

"Nobody needs to be an expert to deduce from all this that he was a man of no taste," said Mendoza. "The latest fashion, the expensive, but"-he lifted his lip at the cologne bottle-"Main Street masquerading as Beverly Hills." He opened the second case, which was of the tall and narrow kind designated a fortnighter; it contained four suits, six pair of slacks, and four sport coats, all carefully arranged on the hangers, and four more pairs of shoes.

"However," said Mendoza, "all this has something to say besides that," and he looked at the two cases thoughtfully before opening the third.

This was older than the others, of scuffed brown leather instead of plane-weight aluminum; it looked as if it had seen hard usage. When Mendoza lifted the lid, all of them stared in silence, and then Mendoza called Marx and Horder. " Pronto, let's see if there's anything on this."

"Very pretty," said Woods. "Never saw one quite like it-looks kind of antique, would you say? But he wasn't shot, was he?"

"It's an old one," agreed Hackett. "Look at the length of the barrel. A six- or seven-shot of some kind-open cylinder like one of those old colt six-shooters, but not quite the same-" They watched the two men from Prints lift it out carefully and set to work.

Mendoza looked at Hackett pleasedly. " Cuanto apuestas -how much do you bet it's a smooth bore?" he asked happily.

Hackett fingered his jaw. "Walsh's business. You want to hook it up to this. I don't know that I'd lay any bets, Luis, but I can't see any connection offhand."

"Can't you? Well, it's all up in the air yet, nothing solid, but I can see a couple of little things to build a plot on, you know-stories to tell ourselves about it."

"You don't suppose that any surgeon's going to be able to say, this man died at eight o'clock P.M. on Friday the thirtieth? After all this time? What are you trying to make out-that Bartlett saw this murder done and just forgot to mention it to Walsh, and the killer followed them and an hour and a half later shot Bartlett? I used to like fairy tales, about thirty years back, but they don't thrill me any more."

" Tengo paciencia, I'm not filling in that plot yet-we'll just file it for reference. But I'll say this about the Bartlett business. Here we've got a homicide that isn't fresh enough so the surgeon can say within a day or a day and a half when it started to be a homicide. Isn't it a little helpful that we've got this other thing nailed down as to time? Coincidences do happen, but this is just the least little bit suggestive, or it could be. We can't operate on the arbitrary premise that these two things must be hooked up, but let's keep it in mind, because if they are, we've got a much narrower time limit for the corpse than the autopsy could possibly give us. And now let's look at the rest of this." He turned back to the third suitcase.

The top layer here consisted of soiled shirts, handkerchiefs, underwear, and socks, crowded in haphazardly; several ties in need of cleaning, also crumpled together and shoved into a side pocket; clean handkerchiefs, rumpled out of their folds and stuffed into every crevice; two pairs of soiled pajamas and a clean pair crushed in together; a pair of leather slippers. In the bottom was a dressing-gown of scarlet silk moire; it had been neatly folded.

"Yes," said Mendoza, feeling delicately in the pockets of the robe and coming up with another soiled handkerchief and nothing else.

"Yes. It all says a little something, doesn't it? What elementary deduction occurs to you, Art?"

"That Woods hasn't been slandering Mr. Twelvetrees," said Hackett absently. "Or at least, if he wasn't planning any embezzlement, he was planning to leave. With all his lares and penates. Because-"

Mendoza said parenthetically to Woods, "Speaking of foibles, you notice he forgets his favorite role now and then-the big dumb cop. You catch him off guard, he can actually pronounce three-syllable words."

" Estese quieto, I'm deducing," said Hackett. "He didn't do all that packing in fifteen minutes, and the way he's been so careful to sort and fold everything all neat and tidy, it was him did it. He expected to be using all this stuff for some time to come, it represents quite an investment. It looks as if he'd been packing, he'd got almost everything in, except the stack of clean handkerchiefs and all his dirty laundry, and at that point something happened to put him in the hell of a hurry all of a sudden. He just shoved everything else in, cramming it down any old way-"

"Or somebody did it for him,” said Mendoza. "You may get to be a lieutenant someday after all. Yes. You know, I think somebody finished his packing for him. Because from the state of the other cases, he was a finicky customer. Like me. We can't help it, it's an automatic thing, like-like cats washing themselves. I don't, maybe, go quite so far as this one did with his flame-of-love cologne and his nail buffer and his- vaya por Dios, are these bath salts?-but I'm enough like that myself to guess at the kind of thing he'd do or not do. And however much of a hurry this one was in, I think he'd have put all that soiled laundry into a bag for packing. I think he'd have had that bag handy, laid out ready for when he wanted it, and so he wouldn't have had to waste time getting it and skipped it for that reason… 1 wonder what happened to it, that bag. It wasn't in the bedroom on Wednesday morning… "

"Let's look," said Hackett, "for clues that might exist, friend, not ones we dream up ourselves, hah?"

Marx said from the other side of the room, "The gun's clean, Lieutenant. Not a thing on it anywhere."

"Yes, of course,” said Mendoza. "I don't know why we bother to take you boys out on a job at all any more. Even those six-year-old shoplifters Juvenile's getting these days know about fingerprints." He got up and wandered into the bedroom. "A large stout paper bag," he murmured to himself, "or a bag made for the purpose-a cotton laundry bag, with a slit in it, or drawstrings. You see them at dime stores, with stamped patterns for embroidering." He lay down prone and looked under the bed. “My grandmother has one, a hideous thing, with a design of hollyhocks on it. Red and orange. And Laundry spelled out underneath." He went into the closet.

"I get the general idea," said Hackett patiently. "But there are things called hampers too."

"Not here." Mendoza came out of the closet looking dissatisfied. "The bathroom isn't big enough."

"You were just saying a while ago that bachelors living alone don't pay much attention to these things. Now you want to make out-and it's a piddling little thing anyway, what does it matter‘?"

"It may not matter a damn, I'd just like to know. You miss the point. It's a personal thing. You take me, I wouldn't notice about the kitchen floor needing waxing or the mirrors needing to be washed, it's only me and my personal things that have to be just so-and he was like that, by his clothes and packing… What do you do with soiled laundry?"

"I've got a drawer for it. Easiest thing. Logical thing. Probably he did too."

"No. Not here. Not enough drawers, with all the stuff he had." Mendoza gestured at the one bureau. "And not logical, but slipshod, that is. You ought to get married, be taken care of properly."

"Give advice, never take it," said Hackett.

"But that's just it, I don't need a wife for that, which is the only reason to acquire one in the long view. I'm much more particular at looking after myself than most women, and I can afford to hire the housekeeping done. Caray, dirty clothes in a drawer, I'm surprised at you." He looked in all the drawers; Marx and Horder had left them liberally covered with gray powder, and a number of nice prints had showed up: with very little doubt they would prove to belong to the dead man, or Mrs. Bragg. All the drawers were empty except for sheets of clean newspaper. "I take it," he said to Woods, "that Mrs. Bragg hadn't got round to cleaning in here between my visit and yours, and that you hadn't let her in since?"

“This is all very interesting," said Woods, sitting down on the bed and looking more like an earnest postgraduate than ever. "You've got Twelvetrees down pat, Lieutenant, by what I've got on him. The Kingmans and a couple of other people-members of that, er, sect-they all say he was a sharp dresser and finicky about himself. One woman said to me, and it kind of stuck in my mind as an apt description, you know-this Miss Webster it was, the only one I've talked to who didn't like him-she said he was like a big black tomcat preening himself… And that's right as far as I know, about Mrs. Bragg. I told her on Wednesday afternoon not to touch anything here. But it didn't seem important enough to put a seal on the door. Matter of fact, of course, there wasn't anything here really useful to me, I just wanted to keep it open a day or so, maybe have a closer look. But it's her property and she's got a key, I couldn't say whether she's been in or not."

"Yes. A paper bag she might have taken away-we'1l ask. But I don't think an ordinary laundry bag."

"What does it matter?"

Mendoza stood in the middle of the room, hands in pockets, and stared vaguely at the maroon flowers in the rug. "Well," he said, "well-it might just be-yes, I can see it happening-that somebody wanted to carry away something-and for some reason wanted something to carry it in. Like that. Because it was, say, a lot of little somethings awkward to carry unwrapped-or revealing somehow-or because the somebody didn't have any pockets to carry it in. Or a handbag big enough. And there was the bag ready to hand… A big black tomcat, you said, Woods? Tomcat that way as well as this?"

"Oh, well, I wouldn't say definitely. Myself, I think he'd have liked people to think so, and that's about the extent of it. You've seen his picture?" Woods hauled out the photograph again and handed it to Hackett. It had been blown up from a not-very-good snapshot and was a little fuzzy, but the subject had distinctive enough features that that didn't matter. On the back were noted his vital statistics. Brooke Twelvetrees, if that was his real name, had been just a little too handsome, with fair skin, blue eyes, wavy black hair, a strongly cleft chin, a consciously winning smile showing even white teeth: five-nine, a hundred and sixty, age estimated as thirty-two or thereabouts. "Quite the ladies' man, in that sense only, I'd say."

Mendoza looked over Hackett's shoulder and laughed. "Oh, yes, I see. The arm-patter and door-holder-not necessarily the bed-jumper. These collar ads, usually not much else to them but front. And the same goes, of course, for the female of the species. They get by so easily on their looks, no reason for them to develop in other directions. So let's hear something about the Temple set-up."

"I wouldn't like to say whether it's a planned racket," said Woods. "Maybe the Kingmans are seriously sold on this Mystic Truth business. I didn't pay much notice to the ins and outs of it, but this Madame Cara-er-missionizes at everybody, and I gather it takes in a little bit of everything, from astrology to something called Pyramidology. I went and saw Amhelm in Rackets, but he's got no record of complaints, they've kept within the law. It's been a going concern for about five years, and it started on capital given to the Kingmans-outright gift-by half a dozen wealthy people, all of whom are still members of the sect. That-" He paused as the preparations for bringing up the body reached a climax. The ambulance men tramped in with their basket: Dr. Bainbridge hoisted his tubby middle-aged self out of the trap with some difficulty. Dwyer and Landers below heaved the body up to reaching hands, head first; it was an awkward thing to handle in that space, but they got it into the basket at last and took it out in a hurry. The burial and the clothes had helped, but it had still been dead a week or so.

As they went out, the men inside heard a long pleasurable sound from the little crowd gathered. A couple of men were questioning the other tenants, those who were home, and a number of the neighbors had drifted over to watch. . Dr. Bainbridge sat down on the other end of the couch, wiped his brow, and lit a large black cigar. "Next time, Luis, let's make it in a more accessible place, shall we?"

"Not my idea. What have you got to give me right now?"

"Not a great deal. Don't know that I can tell you much more after an autopsy, except odds and ends like what he had for his last meal. Though the body's very well preserved. He was killed by a blow on the head, several blows were struck and it may have been just one that did for him or a combination of all of them. Blows were struck from the front and side, the left side-his, that is. Nearest I can say as to time of death is between five and seven days. Say between a week ago yesterday and last Sunday."

"Could he have died round about seven-thirty that Friday night?"

"Certainly. Or the next night. Or ten o'clock Sunday morning. You pays your money and you takes your choice."

Dwyer, who'd gone back down the hole, emerged again with a lidless carton and presented it to Mendoza. "Contents of the pockets. I labeled 'em for you."

"Ah," said Mendoza, but he didn't look at them immediately. "Tell me, Bainbridge, just to reinforce my own opinion-about getting him down there, would it have taken great strength? Could a woman have done it?"

"Oh, well, you have presumably heard of the law of gravity," said the surgeon. "Always easier to get a thing down than up. If he was put down there more or less at once after death, when he was still limp, it wouldn't have been much of a chore, no-question of dragging him to the trap and sliding him through. And anybody can dig away enough dirt, even with a trowel, to cover a body as thinly as he was covered. It'd take a little time, and it's an awkward place to work-especially without light-though the kitchen light would have penetrated down the trap some, of course. But it'd just be a matter of patience and care. Certainly, a healthy woman could have done it."

"Mmh, my own idea, Apologies to interrupt you, Woods, just go on talking while I look at this." Mendoza regarded the little collection interestedly.

"… That," Woods calmly picked up where he'd left off, "hadn't really a thing to do with Twelvetrees and the money, I just had a look because I was curious. But anyway, you can say that this Mystic Truth is a profitable business, because evidently it's attracted people with more money than sense, whether the Kingmans planned it that way or not. Judging from the fact that an average month's gross was twenty-three hundred bucks. Twelvetrees and this old Miss Webster-I say old, but she's sharp as they come-even if she did fall for the Mystic Truth-were the only-er-officers of the Temple aside from the Kingmans. Have some fancy titles for themselves I don't recall off hand."

Left trouser pocket, where the keys had been, forty-eight cents in change, a half-used packet of matches from some place called the Voodoo Club on La Cienega. Right trouser pocket, a slightly soiled handkerchief, a small automatic pencil, and a cigarette case, a handsome aifair of rolled gold plate, alternating bands of dull Florentine finish with bright modern: it had a lighter in the top, and on the inner left side was a line of engraving in script: Brooke, affectionately, Mona. It was half full of Pall Malls.

"… Miss Webster, who I gather is fairly well off, doesn't take any salary for whatever she does-she volunteered that herself-but Twelvetrees was getting five hundred per for whatever he did, which seems to have been banking the take every week. Miss Webster wasn't at all surprised that he should run away with money that didn't belong to him. She never trusted him, a young man out for what he could get if you asked her, and not particular how he got it."

Breast pocket: clean handkerchief. Inside coat pocket: used handkerchief, wallet. Mendoza looked at both thoughtfully. And nothing in the other pockets except another handkerchief in the shirt.

"The-er-church property is owned outright-former store building way out on Wilshire. They've fixed it up some, and no makeshift do-it-yourself job either. The Kingmans live on the premises, there's a second storey done up as an apartment-I didn't see that. The whole business is incorporated, as I say, and the Kingmans take a very comfortable living out of the net. They bank at the Security on Western. As of right now there's $14,840 in the term savings account, and a little over $7000 in the checking account. All four officers had access to the accounts, as representatives of the Temple."

Dr. Bainbridge sniffed loudly. "Most successful con game ever put over on the human race, organized religion. Infallible. You'd think we'd have seen through it in a quarter of a million years or so, but most people never seem to."

" Me lo cuenta a mi -you're telling me!" said Mendoza. "And essentially as crude a con game as the old pigeon drop, too." But he said it absently; he picked up the wallet and began to go through it.

"Twelvetrees," said Woods, "became a convert to the sect about four years ago, in its early days. He'd then just landed here from some place back East, the Kingmans aren't sure exactly where, and was trying to break into the movies, without much success. Everybody liked him-except old Miss Webster-in fact he ingratiated himself so well that within a couple of months he was appointed treasurer at this comfortable salary, so he quit his job as a clerk in a men's store to devote all his time to the Temple."

"From rags to riches," said Mendoza. "Country boy makes good. Only he wasn't a country boy. Not when he habitually carried his wallet in his inside breast pocket."

"Did he?" said Hackett, interested. "Yes, that's the smart place-I do myself, so do you-but a lot of men don't, even city livers. He'd been around some, to do that."

"I went," said Woods, "to the place he'd been working, to see if I could get a line on where he was from, references he might have given, and so on. But it's a small shop, not a chain, and they don't keep such records that long. The manager remembered vaguely that Twelvetrees said he was from some place in New England. The studio agency he'd put himself on file with didn't have anything on that at all, all they were interested in was his physique and experience. For what it's worth, Twelvetrees had had a little vocal training and played the piano. He'd stayed on the agency's books, and got a little extra work now and then. And that's just about all I can give you."

"And a few possibly helpful points there, thanks very much." Mendoza had all the contents of the wallet spread out before him. Not too many contents, compared with the usual clutter a man accumulates in this substitute for a woman's bag. Everything had been fingerprinted, and the only prints were the dead man's, at first glance. Two fives, a ten, three single bills. Driver's license; and that lacked the optional thumbprint. Nothing too odd about that, of course: some people still connected fingerprinting solely with criminal records, and refused to give the D.M.V. a print. Social Security card. In the plastic slots, two snapshots, one of himself with a blonde woman, the other of a dark woman alone.

The blonde was very blonde, very Hollywoodish in a strapless gown. Brooke Twelvetrees was conscious of the camera, smiling his white winning smile, head tilted to show off the cleft chin and the wave in his dark hair. That was an interior shot, by flash, and showed the pair of them sitting at a table; Mendoza deduced one of those cheap night-club photographers. The woman in the other picture, a bad snapshot taken on a beach somewhere, was dark, slender, consciously posed. Mendoza looked at the second picture longer than the other, but finally put them both back into the wallet and everything back into the carton. "Yes. Well, if you think of anything else, hand it on."

"Oh, certainly," said Woods. "I'm only too pleased to be rid of this one, Lieutenant-we were getting nowhere fast, and I've got a couple of other things to get busy on. Not that I won't be interested in what you find out."

Hackett sighed and said gloomily, "We're not exactly casting around for something to keep us occupied either. I don't know why the hell you had to look in your crystal ball and find this one, Luis. There he was, peacefully moldering away, doing no harm to anybody. And now you've dug him up, I've got a hunch he's going to be a tough one to untangle."

"Maybe-and maybe not," said Mendoza.