“God,” she said, and put the back of her hand hard against her mouth.
“He was shot at five or six times,” I said. “And missed all but twice. He was cornered in the shower stall. It was a pretty grim scene, I should think. There was a lot of hate on one side of it. Or a pretty cold-blooded mind.”
“He was quite easy to hate,” she said emptily. “And poisonously easy to love. Women—even decent women— make such ghastly mistakes about men.”
“All you’re telling me is that you once thought you loved him, but not any more, and that you didn’t shoot him.”
“Yes.” Her voice was light and dry now, like the perfume she didn’t like to wear at the office. “I’m sure you’ll respect the confidence.” She laughed shortly and bitterly. “Dead,” she said. “The poor, egotistical, cheap, nasty, handsome, treacherous guy. Dead and cold and done with. No, Mr. Marlowe, I didn’t shoot him.”
I waited, letting her work it out of her. After a moment she said quietly: “Does Mr. Kingsley know?”
I nodded.
“And the police, of course.”
“Not yet. At least not from me. I found him. The house door wasn’t quite shut. I went in. I found him.”
She picked the pencil up and poked at the handkerchief again.
“Does Mr. Kingsley know about this scented rag?”
“Nobody knows about that, except you and I, and whoever put it there.”
“Nice of you,” she said dryly. “And nice of you to think what you thought.”
“You have a certain quality of aloofness and dignity that I like,” I said. “But don’t run it into the ground. What would you expect me to think? Do I pull the hankie out from under the pillow and sniff it and hold it out and say, Well, well, Miss Adrienne Fromsett’s initials and all. Miss Fromsett must have known Lavery, perhaps very intimately. Let’s say, just for the book, as intimately as my nasty little mind can conceive. And that would be pretty damn intimately. But this is cheap synthetic sandalwood and Miss Fromsett wouldn’t use cheap scent.
And this was under Lavery’s pillow and Miss Fromsett just never keeps her hankies under a man’s pillow. Therefore this has absolutely nothing to do with Miss Fromsett. It’s just an optical delusion.’”
“Oh shut up,” she said.
I grinned.
“What kind of girl do you think I am?” she snapped.
“I came in too late to tell you.”
She flushed, but delicately and all over her face this time.
Then, “Have you any idea who did it?”
“Ideas, but that’s all they are. I’m afraid the police are going to find it simple. Some of Mrs. Kingsley’s clothes are hanging in Lavery’s closet. And when they know the whole story—including what happened at Little Fawn Lake yesterday—I’m afraid they’ll just reach for the handcuffs. They have to find her first. But that won’t be so hard for them.”
“Crystal Kingsley,” she said emptily. “So he couldn’t be spared even that.”
I said: “It doesn’t have to be. It could be an entirely different motivation, something we know nothing about. It could have been somebody like Dr. Almore.”
She looked up quickly, then shook her head. “It could be,” I insisted. We don’t know anything against it. He was pretty nervous yesterday for a man who has nothing to be afraid of. But, of course, it isn’t only the guilty who are afraid.”
I stood up and tapped on the edge of the desk looking down at her. She had a lovely neck. She pointed to the handkerchief.
“What about that?” she asked dully.
“If it was mine, I’d wash that cheap scent out of it.”
“It has to mean something, doesn’t it? It might mean a lot.”
I laughed. “I don’t think it means anything at all. Women are always leaving their handkerchiefs around. A fellow like Lavery would collect them and keep them in a drawer with a sandalwood sachet. Somebody would find the stock and take one out to use. Or he would lend them, enjoying the reactions to the other girl’s initials. I’d say he was that kind of a heel. Goodbye, Miss Fromsett, and thanks for talking to me.”
I started to go, then I stopped and asked her: “Did you hear the name of the reporter down there who gave Brownwell all his information?”
She shook her head.
“Or the name of Mrs. Almore’s parents?”
“Not that either. But I could probably find that out for you. I’d be glad to try.”
“How?”
“Those things are usually printed in death notices, aren’t they? There is pretty sure to have been a death notice in the Los Angeles papers.”
“That would be very nice of you,” I said. I ran a finger along the edge of the desk and looked at her sideways. Pale ivory skin, dark arid lovely eyes, hair as light as hair can be and as dark as night can be.
