conventional doll would. The gold curls, the eyelashes, the neatly rouged cheeks, the rosebud pout, the magenta fingernails. The irrational thought occurred to him that even the costume was exactly the kind of thing Elena would have admired.
He said to himself, I’m seeing ghosts-or catching at straws. What the hell, if the thing did look like her, or the other way around? Dolls. The whole thing was a mare’s nest. Overnight he had begun to suspect uneasily that he was wrong, dead wrong about this thing; he hadn’t taken a good long look at all the dissimilarities-he’d wanted to think this was the Brooks killer again, without any real solid evidence for it. Wasting time. Look at the rest of the facts!
Brooks: the handbag not touched. Ramirez: bag found several blocks away. True, apparently nothing taken, for Teresa said she wouldn’t have been carrying more than a little silver, to the rink where she’d leave her bag and coat on a chair at the side.
Brooks: colored, not pretty, not noticeable. Ramirez: very much the opposite.
Brooks: attacked on a fairly well-frequented street, in a fairly good neighborhood-just luck that there hadn’t been a number of people within earshot. Ramirez: attacked in that lot away from houses and in a street and neighborhood where a scream wouldn’t necessarily bring help.
The chances were, just on the facts, that there were two different killers: say irrational ones, all right, because there didn’t seem to be any good logical reason for anyone in either of the private lives wanting those girls dead. But two: and the first could be in Timbuctoo by now. He was annoyed at himself. He said, 'May I have this? Thank you.'
Let Hackett laugh at him for an imaginative fool! 'Now, about this woman, the one who came in and wanted to buy the doll-'
'Shorely, Lieutenant, I had a good rummage firs’ thing this mornin’ when Mis’ Demarest call me ’bout it, and I found that bitty piece o’ paper with the name and address-'
NINE
Because afterward, thought Morgan (both Morgans), there would be a time when Sue would look at him, that steady look of hers, and want the truth. And he had better know what he was going to say. He wondered if he could tell her half the truth convincingly (my God, no, I never meant-but when he got mad and pulled a gun, I-and afterward, I knew I couldn’t tell the police the whole story, you know-) and go on forever after keeping the rest a secret. He’d never been very good at keeping secrets from Sue. But a big thing like this-and there was also the consideration, wouldn’t it be kinder, fairer, not to put this on her conscience as it would be on his? Let her go on thinking it was-accident. Because he guessed it would be on his conscience to some extent. You couldn’t be brought up and live half your life by certain basic ethics and forget about them overnight.
All the while he was thinking round and about that, at the back of his mind, he was talking to this woman, this Mrs. Cotter, quite normally-must have been, or she’d have been eying him oddly by this time. He saw that he had also been taking notes in his casebook of a few things she’d told him, and his writing looked quite normal too. As usual now, he was having some trouble getting away: people liked to talk about these things. You had to be polite and sometimes they remembered something useful. He managed it at last, backing down the steps while he thanked her for the third time.
His car was around the corner, the only parking space there’d been half an hour ago; now, of course, there were two or three empty spaces almost in front of the building. As he came by, a long low black car was sliding quiet and neat into the curb there. The car registered dimly with him, because you didn’t see many like it, but he was past when the driver got out. It was the car, a vague memory of it, pulled Morgan’s head round six steps farther on. The driver was standing at the curb lighting a cigarette, in profile to him.
Morgan stopped. Absurdly, his mouth went dry and his heart missed a few beats, hurried to catch up. You damn fool, he said to himself. They’re not mind readers, for God’s sake! But, he thought confusedly, but- An omen? Today of all days, just run into one-like this. Casual.
That was a man from Homicide, a headquarters man from Kenneth Gunn’s old department. Lieutenant Luis Mendoza of Homicide. Morgan had met him, twice-three times-at the Gunns’, and again when their jobs had coincided, that Hurst business, when one of the deserted wives had shot herself and two kids.
Luis Mendoza. Besides the childish panic, resentment he had felt before rose hot in Morgan’s throat: unreasonable resentment at the blind fate which handed one man rewards he hadn’t earned, didn’t particularly deserve-and also more personal resentment for the man.
Mendoza, with all that money, and not a soul in the world but himself to spend it on: no responsibilities, no obligations! Gunn had talked about Mendoza: ordinary backstreet family, probably not much different from some of these in neighborhoods like this-nothing of what you’d call background… and the wily grandfather, and all the money. What the hell right had he to pretend such to-the-manner-born-if indefinable-insolence? Just the money; all that money. Do anything, have anything he damned pleased, or almost. And by all accounts, didn’t he! Clothes-and it wasn’t that Morgan wanted to look like a damned fop, the way Mendoza did, but once in a while it would be nice to get a new suit more than once in five years, and not off the rack at a cheap store when there was a sale on. That silver-gray herringbone Mendoza was wearing hadn’t cost a dime less than two hundred dollars. An apartment somewhere, not in one of the new smart buildings out west where you paid three hundred a month for the street name and three closet-sized rooms, but the real thing-a big quiet place, spacious, and all for himself, everything just so, custom furniture probably, air-conditioning in summer, maid service, the works. It was the kind of ostentation that was like an iceberg, most of it invisible: that was Mendoza, everything about him. Nothing remotely flashy, all underplayed, the ultraconservative clothes, that damned custom-built car you had to look at twice to know it for what it was, even the manner, the man himself-that precise hairline mustache, the way he lit a cigarette, the A womanizer, too: he would be. And easy to think they were only after the money: not, for some reason, altogether true. God knew what women found so fascinating in such men. But he remembered Gunn saying that, a little rueful as became a solid family man, a little indulgent because he liked Mendoza, a little envious the way any man would be-Poker and women, after hours, that’s Luis, his two hobbies you might say, and I understand he’s damn good at both… A lot of women would be fools for such a man, not that he was so handsome, but he- knew the script, like an actor playing a polished scene. And all for casual amusement, all for Mendoza, and when he was bored, the equally polished exit, and forget it.
Gunn had said other things about Mendoza. That he was a brilliant man-that he never let go once he had his teeth into something. All that, while the lighter-flame touched the cigarette, and was flicked out, the lighter thrust back into the pocket. Mendoza raised his head, took the cigarette out of his mouth, and saw Morgan there looking at him. And so Morgan had to smile, say his name, the conventional things you did say, meeting an acquaintance.
'How’s Gunn these days? He’s missed downtown, you know-a good man. I understand that’s quite an organization he’s set up.'
Morgan agreed; he said you ran into some interesting cases sometimes, he had one now, but one thing for sure, you certainly had a chance to see how the other half lived-but that’d be an old story to Mendoza.
'That you do,' said the man from Homicide, and smoke trickled thin through his nostrils; if he took in the double-entendre he gave no sign of it.
'Well, nice to run into you-I’ll give Gunn your regards.' Morgan seemed to be under a compulsion to sound hearty, make inane little jokes: 'I hope, by the way, we’re not concerned with the same clients again, like that Hurst business-nasty.'
'I want 2416.'
It was the building Morgan had just left; he said, 'That’s it. Be careful of the third step-it’s loose. I nearly broke my neck.'
'Thanks very much.' And more conventionalities of leave-taking, and he was free. He started again for his car. The gun was suddenly very heavy there against his chest. When he got out his keys, he saw his hand shaking a little. Damn fool, he thought angrily.
It’s going to be all right. Just the way I want it to go. No matter who, no matter what. And, by God, if it isn’t, if the very worst happens-whatever that might be-this was one time anyway he wouldn’t stand still to be knocked
