lacquer. Carmine ended in concluding that Robert and Gordon Warburton had been pulling a few tetchy New England legs. Jokesters and pranksters, not Philistines.
Out of the Fairlane, up the flagged path toward the red door; before he was halfway there the red door had opened to disgorge two men who shut it firmly behind them. Perhaps five paces apart, Carmine stopped and they stopped, each side examining the other.
What Carmine saw were two absolutely identical men about thirty years of age. They had the kind of streaky brown hair that suggests tow-headed toddlers; it was well barbered, thick, and wavy. The face they shared had regular features and an enquiring expression, with greenish, grape-like eyes contributing most of the enquiry. As they stood side by side on the path, Carmine could not put one a fraction taller, heavier or wider than the other, and their physiques were exactly alike: narrow shoulders, slim waists, no hips, though the feet were splayed like a ballet dancer’s. They wore the same knitted shirts, casual trousers and loafer shoes, except that one twin was clad in black, and the other in white. Had they not worn different colors, it would have been impossible to tell them apart, and that was very strange in mature men: identicalness diminished with the years.
He pulled out his gold badge and introduced himself.
“I’m Robert Warburton,” said the black clad twin. “You’ll always know us apart by the colors we wear. Robbie dark, Gordie light. We thought it had better be black and white today in case you’ve come about our black and white house that was.”
“So you already know I’m a policeman?”
“You have been pointed out to us, Captain.”
There was the faintest suggestion of femininity about them; Carmine found himself wondering if, had he not been known to be a cop, the slight suggestion might have been a downright scream.
“Are you related to Miss Amanda Warburton?” he asked bluntly.
They gave a stagey jump, perfectly synchronized. “Yes, we are,” said dark Robert, apparently the spokesman.
“She never mentioned you last night, though I would have thought she’d stand in need of relatives.”
“You saw her last night? Not a date, obviously. Actually she wouldn’t have mentioned us.” He giggled. “She doesn’t know we’re living in Carew.”
“Any reason why, sir?”
Robert and Gordie shrugged in unison. “Not really, just the way families are, Captain. Amanda’s our father’s generation-our only aunt-even if there aren’t many years between us. A pity, I feel. The three of us are the last of the Warburtons. One reason why we decided to have a house near Amanda.”
“And then not tell her.”
Both pairs of skinned gooseberry eyes opened wide, but neither twin answered.
“I’d appreciate your letting Miss Warburton know,” Carmine said. “Your aunt is the victim of a weird kind of persecution, gentlemen. Her glass shop has been vandalized three times in a week, and Miss Warburton was injured last night during the third attack. A motive is hard to find, hence my visit to you.”
“Ooo-aa!” Gordie squealed.
“You mean we’re suspects?” Robbie asked sharply.
“Yes. Have you been in Holloman all week?”
“Well, yes,” dark Robert admitted.
“Are you gainfully employed, sirs?”
Both faces lit up identically. “Are we gainfully employed? Are the Marx Brothers a success? Are Olivia de Havilland and Joan Fontaine sisters? We are movie stars!” Gordie announced.
“Glad to hear you can speak too, sir. May we go inside?”
“A Californian’s home is his castle,” said Robert. “No, Captain, we stay out here.”
“What’s inside? Dead bodies? Stuffed dodos?”
They understood the reference to dodos, but ignored it. “Whatever it might be is our business until you produce a legal warrant,” Robert said, chin out. Gordie’s chin was out too. “I note that New Englanders are not a trusting bunch, so why did you think Californians would be?”
“It’s Miss Warburton concerns me,” Carmine said, rather enjoying this interlude. “I hope you’re planning to tell her you’re here, like today or tomorrow?”
“Don’t you want to hear about our career as movie stars?” Gordie asked, sounding injured.
“I don’t go to the movies,” Carmine said solemnly. “There are three repertory companies in Holloman, and American Shakespeare is just down the road at Stratford.”
“Yecch!” gagged Gordie. “Stage is phoney.”
“Film is phoney,” said Carmine.
“Twins! Identical twins!” cried pale Gordie.
“Huh?”
“And there you have it, Captain,” said dark Robert. “We are identical twins who can
“And that’s just the tip of our iceberg!” shrilled Gordie.
“Shut up, Gordie!” Robert snapped.
“How can movie stars live in Connecticut?”
“Paul Newman and Kirk Douglas do,” said Gordie.
“We have two more houses, Captain,” said Robert; it was clear that he was used to cleaning up after Gordie’s indiscreet remarks. “One is in San Diego that we rent out, and one in the Hollywood Hills is our residence while we’re on the West Coast. Work in California, rest in Connecticut.”
“Does either of you keep a diary?” Carmine asked.
“It’s a joint effort,” they chorused.
“Now why doesn’t that lay me flat on the ground in surprise? Bring yourselves and the joint effort diary to the County Services building, Police Department, tomorrow morning at nine. And make sure your diary goes back to the beginning of March.”
“Why? What have we done?” Robbie asked.
“Just helping with enquiries, sir. There’s a rapist loose in Carew.” He nodded to them and retreated down the path, the Warburton twins staring after him in horror.
Hank Murray was waiting in his VIP’s office, rather than the one where he kept plans, records, mountainous files and his secretary.
“A man your size could hardly move down there,” he said, seating Carmine in a green leather chair. “This one is for my clients and members of the Board. Cappuccino? Long black with cream? Ursula’s waiting for the order.”
“Cappuccino,” said Carmine.
“Danish?”
“Would not go amiss, Mr. Murray.”
Within five minutes Hank’s secretary appeared with a loaded tray, including his favorite, apple Danish.
“Fill me in on the bank robbery,” said Carmine.
“A definite inside job, Captain. Whoever stole the money had a set of keys. They came in the back door off the service corridor, and had keys to the strong room.”
“Do you have keys to the strong room, Mr. Murray?”
Hank gasped. “Lord, no! I have keys to the service door, of course, but to nothing else in any Busquash Mall bank branch.”
“Did Sergeant Jones ask you?”
“Uh-no. I wasn’t with him when he went to the bank.”
I hope it’s when, Carmine thought as he found the emergency stairs and went down a floor. Avoiding elevators was one of the ways he dealt with Desdemona’s cooking.
Having declined Hank’s company, he walked around to the Mall proper and entered the bank through its front
