“All right little man,” I sighed. “Here.”
I flashed my license just long enough for him to read the part which said boldly “State of California,” without giving him time to get down to the details.
He sneered.
“Fuzz, huh? Well, you better come in. Leave us not keep the guardians of the peace standing out in the rain.”
He took me into a pleasant room overlooking a secluded garden.
“You wait here and I’ll tell her. You don’t want to tell me what it is she’s done, I guess?”
From the way he spoke, he wouldn’t have cared too much if his mother was a multiple murderer.
“Just tell her.”
He went away and I looked round the room. It was the kind of place I didn’t get to see often enough. A room for family life, sitting around talking or reading. A place where people lived, people who had no business with characters who got shot in the head and pushed off cliffs. There were bookshelves along one wall and I studied these idly. Mostly novels, and soft cover reprints, there was one section which made me take a second look. Each book in the section had to do with something artistic. I saw Shelley and a History of the Bolshoi, something about Rembrandt, when a voice said:
“You wished to see me?”
I turned at once, and looked at the woman who had come in. She could be in her late thirties at a guess, tall and dark. Her figure was full and not yet run to seed, the discreet green afternoon dress doing little to conceal the almost aggressive f emininity. She had a strong handsome face, with far too much character in it to be described as beautiful. She had been crying too, despite the fresh make-up around her puffy eyes. Behind her, the boy lounged, waiting to see what went on.
“Mrs. Prince,” I assumed. “This won’t take long. If I could see you alone?”
I nodded towards the kid, who scowled. His mother turned to him.
“Harry, go and find something to do.”
“I don’t think I ought. For all we know this guy might start laying into you with a rubber hose. I know all about their dirty little ways.”
“That will do, Harry,” snapped his mother. “Now do as I say.”
To my surprise the boy, after one last insolent shrug, turned and slouched out of the house, slamming the front door.
“You mustn’t mind Harry. He watches too much television,” she smiled. “Please sit down Mr.——”
“Preston. Thank you.”
We sat down, Mrs. Prince arranging her skirt demurely, so that I didn’t see more than I should of the long splendid legs.
“Well now,” she began brightly, “It can’t be a motoring offense. You always send a uniformed officer for those.”
She was uncertain, for some reason. A suburban matron, right in her own backyard, disturbed, but quite determined that nothing would be permitted to interrupt the domestic routine. Whatever it was I wanted, rape, arson, burglary, she would help if possible of course. But I would appreciate I must be gone, like the daily help, by cocktail time. The universal female.
“No ma’am, it has nothing to do with cars. It’s something rather more serious. You’re quite sure your son won’t be able to overhear?”
She smiled briefly.
“You mean Mr. Preston, am I quite sure he won’t eavesdrop. Well, I never met a child who wouldn’t. That’s why I sent him out of the house. He can’t get back in without my hearing. We’re quite safe.”
I thought the description child was rather inadequate for close to six feet of potential, if not actual, delinquent. But I hadn’t come about Harry. To my surprise, she continued speaking.
“You see it’s terribly difficult now that he’s getting older. A boy that size needs a father. Of course I work extra hard with him, but a woman alone is not always an adequate substitute.” She watched anxiously for my response, and that was the first time it dawned on me. She wasn’t concerned for herself at all. She thought darling Harry had probably stuck up a cigar store, or kidnapped a baby or something. Having seen him, I could understand her concern.
“I quite see that Mrs. Prince,” I assured her. “And if you’re thinking my visit has something to do with your son, please put your mind at rest. I’ve never heard a word said against him.”
Which was perfectly true.
Gratitude and relief fought for supremacy on her face.
“You must think I’m awfully silly, jumping to conclusions.”
“Very understandable. But I’m here about something quite different.”
I was beginning to wish I’d followed Sid’s advice. Here I was, getting a mother all worked up over her son, letting her off the hook, then preparing to slam another one in while she was still on the line.
“I’m making enquiries about a man who was murdered last night. I have information that you knew the man.”
Her face set back into tight lines, and each word was inspected carefully before issue.
“What could I possibly know about such people?”
“How do you mean, ‘such people’?” I queried.
She flushed, and spoke more quickly.
“I meant people who get mixed up in that kind of thing. It may be a matter of daily routine for you Mr. Preston, but this is hardly the kind of neighborhood in which we have any contact with those things. I don’t see how I can possibly help you.”
This wasn’t a worried mother any longer. Now that the young were in a place of safety, the female of the species was back to her more accustomed role. Now she was herself, calm, resourceful, watchful.
“Maybe you don’t read the newspapers Mrs. Prince,” I told her. “Murder is no great respecter of persons, or property. I find myself asking questions at addresses like this just as often as I do down Conquest Street. And it is less than two years since a woman a block from here shot her husband, in case you’d forgotten
