Which, Candelaria conceded to himself, he had every right to be thus far. On the evening in question, he claimed to have been cruising with friends, a favorite after-dark activity among his age group although it was a continuing marvel to the police that they could afford the gas. If the friends went on supporting his story—as they undoubtedly would; in spite of his youth and slender build, Romero shimmered with menace like a radiator with heat waves —the police couldn’t prove otherwise. The presence of his wallet in the dead woman’s driveway could be explained away in seconds: the thief and real attacker had dropped it there.
He had at first denied ownership of a knife at all, and when a passing detective had asked sarcastically, “What’d you stab that guy from Phoenix with, a sharp spoon?” he had continued glibly “. . . since then.” Confronted with his informing friend’s statement about a knife which was a prized possession, he had looked openly deadly for a moment and then said he had lost it a month ago.
Where had he lost it? On a camping trip in the Pecos Wilderness. There was some derisive laughter at this, because he was patently as interested in camping as a snake in a shoe sale, but again they couldn’t shake him. Nor had they been able to locate anyone in the area who had seen or heard the victim before the pick-up driver had stopped for her.
Candelaria, a man twice Leroy Romero’s size and age, shut his eyes and tried to put himself in the boy’s position. He had attacked a woman and she had gotten away from him (because—they thought they had this figured out—a coronary unit had been in the neighborhood, its siren sounding like a police car’s). He would have a wild vision of the woman giving the police a usable description of him. He would know that there must be blood on him, so it would be a matter of bolting home to wash himself and his clothing.
He hadn’t worn gloves—the bite mark on his thumb suggested that—so, apart from being his pride and his status symbol, the knife bore his fingerprints as well as the woman’s blood. Where to conceal it in the dark between her driveway and his own, safe from searchers but findable when this blew over?
Much better to keep it with him, thought Candelaria, now warming thoroughly to his theme. There was an outside faucet beside the Romero back steps, where he could wash the knife and then hide it— where?
That convenient faucet (sluice his face and hands at the same time?) kept bobbing up in Candelaria’s mind. Because it suggested something else, so familiar to him from boyhood that he hadn’t given it the attention an alert and curious outsider might? He did now, concentrating on the suspect’s back yard, trying to recapture a half-forgotten formula, thinking about weather conditions at the time involved.
He hadn’t yet received a copy of the detailed autopsy report, but a glance at his watch showed him that he might still catch the police surgeon; Stoddard was a man to avoid calling at home if at all possible. He pulled the telephone toward him, consulted the list of numbers pasted on a pull-out board of his desk, and dialled.
Mary had just said goodbye to a bewildered Mrs. Ulibarri, over a distant chorus of background barking, when the light tap sounded at her door.
She hadn’t put the chain on, but at least the knob wasn’t turning. Jenny always signalled, so was this, incredibly, a maintenance man about her lamp? The chambermaid, having thought of a new place to look for the earring? No, she would have come right in. Mary called a query, and opened the door to Owen St. Ives.
For a moment, she was terrified. Something had happened to Jenny at the pool, even though in the water she was like a bird in its element, and he had come to break it to her. Then he said, “I have a great favor to ask of you, if you’re not busy for the next fifteen minutes or so. I’ve been—”
He broke off there, studying her with the blue gaze that was so much darker than Spence’s. He asked curiously, “Do I frighten you for some reason? At times—I notice because you have very pretty eyes, you look as if . . .”
“No, of course not,” said Mary, feeling the blood rise to her face. “It’s just that you remind me of someone I used to know.” To her own ears that sounded very equivocal, and she stepped back at once, turned to the desk for a cigarette to give her something to do with her hands, took time to inspect it because this was the kind of moment in which she might well light the filter end. “If it’s something I can do?”
“I’ve been entrusted with twenty-five dollars to buy a birthday present for my sister-in-law, preferably a poncho or a shawl. I don’t know why my brother would think me capable of this, as I’m no good about women’s clothes, but she wants something from Mexico,” said St. Ives, “and I wondered if you’d help me pick something out.”
Mary was obscurely glad about part of his statement; if necessary, Spence could have selected an entire wardrobe for a woman without going wrong anywhere. She said doubtfully, “Oh, but—”
“She’s tall,” said St. Ives, recognizing this demur, “and . . . large. She has red hair.” He considered for a few seconds. “Very red,” he added.
Mary thought privately that anyone tall and large with very red hair would be better off without a poncho, but she said, “Well, I’ll try, if you can give me five minutes first.”
He nodded his appreciation. “I’ll get the car and meet you in front. We’ll be quick about this, I promise.”
Mary washed her face rapidly, put on light fresh makeup,
