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-'
