business.' As it happened, of course, to be the end of the month, he was paid up to date; having paid the customary two months' deposit when he came in, he was in fact due a rebate, and she had assumed that she would receive an address from him later on to send it to. She hadn't seen his signature or writing before-he always paid the rent in cash-and consequently she could offer no opinion as to whether the note was a forgery.
She had first noticed the note, neatly tacked in its envelope to the outside of Twelvetrees' door, late on Sunday morning as she left for church. It might have just been put there, or it might have been there for two days-she couldn't say: she hadn't set foot out of her own place since Friday night, having been trying to come down with flu and warding it off with rest and various potions. And as her door and Twelvetrees' were in the rear building, and no other tenant had had occasion to call on her those days, there was no evidence on when the note had been tacked to Twelvetrees' door.
The apartments, of course, shared a party wall, and she admitted that loud noises were audible through it now and then, but remembered nothing of that sort on that Friday night. 'Of course, with them Johnstones kicking up a row again, and I was over there to Number Three twice before I called the police, well, you can see there might've been something going on in Mr. Twelvetrees' place I just didn't hear.' Of course, of course. And Saturday, nothing; Sunday morning, nothing. His key had been enclosed in the envelope with the note, and she had naturally handled it, not that it was likely to have borne any helpful print. The same could be said of the bolt on the trap, which Mendoza himself had handled.
All the prints in the place belonged to her or to Twelvetrees; but a few places where one might expect to find prints had been polished clean, which was neither very helpful nor interesting-the table in the kitchen, the top of the bureau, the bedroom chair. If that said anything, it said that whoever had cleaned those places probably had not visited the apartment for long (or often), if those had been the only things touched.
The trowel, she said, was kept in a box sitting on the small bench inside her carport, along with a few other tools. She didn't think any of the other tenants were likely to know that: they hadn't any occasion. It was account of Mr. Twelvetrees taking interest the way he had in her Tree of Heaven that he knew.
Ballistics would, Mendoza hoped, tell him something about the gun in time.
All those handkerchiefs…
The alcoholic Johnstones admitted frankly that they remembered little about that Friday night, and were suffering hangovers all day Saturday. Sober, they were very sorry they'd disturbed everyone. None of the other tenants who'd been home could recall anything helpful at all: nobody remembered whether or not there had been a light showing in Twelvetrees' apartment, or whether his car had been in his carport, either on Friday night or any other…
The congregation gabbled a long response to a cue from the altar, and Mendoza muttered profanely to himself. The car-damn it, he should have thought of that before. Phone in and get an inquiry started right away. Because Twelvetrees' Porsche must have been taken away immediately afterward: whoever had finished arranging his planned departure could not know that Mrs. Bragg wouldn't be out and about, that somebody else wouldn't notice the car unaccountably still there after he had supposedly left. The car had been abandoned near the Union Station, and that was quite a trip from 267th Street. Unless there were two people involved, it must have meant that someone had to take a taxi back to 267th, or thereabouts, to pick up his or her own car. The question of public transportation didn't enter in: he doubted very much that there was any out there, after six or seven o'clock, and in any case it would be infinitely slow. No problem at all if there were two people in the business, of course.
There was also that snapshot. That dark girl, something teasingly familiar about her. Leave it at the back of his mind, it would come to him eventually…
And that seemed to be the last outburst from the congregation; the robed figures had vanished from the altar, and-ah, of course-now came the important part of the whole business, the attendants passing down the aisles with little velvet bags, taking up the collection. Not much audible jingling of hard money; there wouldn't be, by the sum missing from Twelvetrees' keeping.
Missing?
And, Dios mia, of course, what had happened to the bankbooks? The attendants missed him there in the last row; the congregation began to drift out. He let it go past him until the hall was empty, and wandered out after it. What was probably a nucleus of-could one call them?-charter members was gathered in the little lobby around the Kingmans. The blonde; a scrawny old woman in rusty black; a buxom hennaed female with a foolishly loose mouth and a mink stole; a scholarly-looking middle-aged man; others more nondescript.
Mendoza leaned on the wall and lit a cigarette, watching and listening-principally to the Kingmans. He was interested in the Kingmans. He didn't listen long: the lobby was too small for anyone to go unnoticed, and he began to collect curious glances. So he detached himself from the wall, went up to them, introduced himself, and asked for a private word with them.
'Dear me!' exclaimed Cara Kingman, opening her eyes very wide on him. 'A policeman! What can we have done?' He put her down as nearing fifty. She was so thin she looked haggard; her fair hair in its thick coronet of braids had only lost color, not turned gray. She had very pale china-blue eyes, and wore, apparently, no cosmetics: she was a ghost-figure head to foot, colorless, still in her white robe bound with a velvet rope at the waist. Round her neck dangled a long silver chain with a medallion, and her long fingernails were enameled silver.
'About Mr. Twelvetrees…' said Mendoza gently.
'Ah-poor Brooke,' she said deeply, lowering her eyes. 'Of course, of course. For a moment I had forgotten-do forgive me. One must put all these worldly matters aside during the Renascence. Martin-' She turned to her husband gracefully.
'We must put ourselves at your service, sir,' said Martin Kingman gravely. He had a fine rich baritone, eminently suited to public speaking; Mendoza had noted it during the ritual. He conveyed a kind of ultimate respectability, of upper-middle-class conventionality, which must be worth a great deal in this business. He looked like a reliable family lawyer or doctor: bald, a little paunchy, very neat in a navy blue suit-he had removed his cassock-a white shirt, a sober tie. He had intelligent brown eyes behind rimless glasses. 'Anything we can do to help you, of course, Lieutenant. My dear, we'll ask these good people to excuse us-'
A general murmur, curious glances at Mendoza; they began to drift away politely.
'Dear Madame Cara,'-the buxom lass-'such a dreadful disappointment for you-we must all concentrate on forgetting it-”
'So unworldly, so trusting,'-the scrawny old lady-'There's such a thing as too much faith, Martin. Indeed!' Snapping black eyes darted toward Mendoza; she didn't seem to think much of him. Evidently the watchword on Twelvetrees was forgive-and-forget, and also don't-mention; they muttered goodnights as embarrassedly as if he had brought up something obscene.
The blonde touched cheekbones with Madame Cara, delicately. 'We must try to remember only the good, isn't that so, dear?'
'The only charitable thing, dear Mona. Now do come and see me for a cozy little private chat, soon.'
'Won't you come up to our quarters, Lieutenant?' invited Kingman. 'Quite a draft here, and we must think of my wife's health, she takes cold so easily. Now I don't recall meeting you before, do I? There was a very polite young man-er-Wilson, Williams, Woods-that was it-”
'Yes, the case has been handed on to me.' Mona. That was nice to know, he thought.
'Oh, I-I-SEE. If you'll just step this way, the elevator-'
Yes, money had been spent here…
'Dead?' exclaimed Kingman. 'Dead-Brooke?' He sounded incredulous; his rich voice trembled with all the proper emotion. 'And in such a way- But then, how we have maligned him!' He sat back in his chair, whisked out a handkerchief, and blew his nose loudly. 'This is dreadful news, dreadful.'
'My very thought, Martin,' said Cara Kingman mournfully. 'We found it hard to believe,' her pale eyes turned on Mendoza, 'that dear I Brooke would do anything dishonest-and to steal from the Temple treasury, of all dishonorable things. I said at once-you remember, Martin-there is some other explanation, which will be revealed
