to us in time.'
'And you were right, as you so often are. I fear it was my more-um-worldly suspicion, Lieutenant Mendoza, which prompted me to issue the charge. You understand, we had trusted Brooke absolutely, but when he so unaccountably-um, absented himself from the Sabbath service, and a check with the bank on Monday informed us that he had not deposited the collection… Really, to my mind it seemed foregone, incredible as it appeared. But now-'
'Ah, the money,' said his wife. She shut her large, light eyes with the effect of switching off headlights. 'The money-quite unimportant-we must only share the awful responsibility, Martin, that it was because he had the money that he was killed in this terrible way. Some violent, greedy person-a young, young soul-knowing he had the money, breaking in, and dear Brooke struggling with him to protect the Temple's property-' She shuddered, delicately.
'Well, you know, we don't think it happened quite like that,” said Mendoza. 'A casual thief would scarcely take the trouble of burying him.'
She gave no sign that she heard, lying back on the couch, robe trailing, graceful. A comfortable living indeed they took out of this: it could almost be called a luxurious apartment, with its wall-to-wall carpeting, furniture not from a bargain basement, everything the latest and best. And entirely impersonal. Mendoza deduced a decorator service from one of the better department stores, and nothing added to the decorators' choice. He did not feel somehow that, left to herself, Cara Kingman would choose to live with beige tweed carpet, champagne-colored curtains, eighteenth-century reproduction mahogany, and parchment lampshades.
'But how else could it have happened?' wondered Kingman. 'Ah, now I think, of course I see the fallacy-you men trained to reason acutely about such things, I daresay the notion of a thief never occurred to you, but I confess I should have accepted that solution at once, my` self. How else? I assure you, I find it inconceivable that anyone who knew the boy-'
'That's what we'll find out. I understand you saw Mr. Twelvetrees for the last time at about four o'clock on the afternoon of Friday the thirtieth?”
'Ah-that's correct,' said Kingman. 'I-we, my wife and I, had just finished conducting the-um-afternoon class for novitiates. We came out of the sanctuary-ah, that is what you would call the chapel, where our services are held-we have a very modest establishment here, you see, there is only a small robing room besides on the ground floor- together, on our way to the elevator, and met Brooke just leaving. He had been working on the Temple accounts in the robing room, which also serves us as an office.'
'I see. What conversation did you have with him?'
'Why, none-none at all, Lieutenant. It was quite casual. I believe I said something like, ‘Finished for the day, my boy?' and he replied that he was. He was-um-just going out as my wife and I entered the elevator.'
'If I had known,' she said, opening her eyes again, 'that it would be the last time I should see him-on this plane, of course! But my mind was still with our dear novitiates, and I daresay that prevented any presentiment I may have had.'
'My wife,' said Kingman, adjusting his glasses with a precise gesture, 'is a gifted psychic, you see.'
'But one cannot control these things, and I never pretend to do so. That is why I have given up such childish efforts as the seance. It is all so false, so forced, One must only accept, as it comes. Doubtless it was not intended that I should receive warning, or I should naturally have told Brooke to be on his guard against the forces of evil. Destiny…'
She lifted a hand, let it fall limply.
'As it was, you exchanged no words with him at all, Mrs. Kingman?'
'None-none. I was tired, I went straight into the elevator. But tell us, Lieutenant, what explanation can there be, if it was not a thief? As my husband says, no one who knew Brooke could have wished to harm him.'
'It is,' said Mendoza, who was rather enjoying himself, 'a little early in the investigation to make any guesses.'
'Ah, yes, one would want to be sure.' She sat up and widened her eyes fully on him. 'Now do tell me, Lieutenant Mendoza, what is your birth date?”
'Februa1y twenty-eighth.'
'Ah, Pisces-of course,' she murmured. 'I should have guessed it, I feel from you that nuance of understanding. You have great sympathy for people, great insight-but you must always guard against trusting your emotional judgment too much-don't you find that? All you Pisceans, so prone to being sadly misunderstood by those less acute of mind. And that fatal pride, so apt only to add to others' misunderstanding of you-a sad handicap-however, undoubtedly you find your native Piscean intuition for people most useful in your work.'
'My dear, we must not take up the lieutenant's time, when he is-um-occupied on this sad matter so near our hearts. If you would tell us, sir, what else we might do to help you-'
'I would like a list,' said Mendoza, 'of your members here.'
'Oh dear, oh dear,' said Kingman, removing his glasses and beginning to polish them vigorously, 'surely you cannot be thinking that any of these good people, our little flook- But it's not my place to question, of course. I can easily supply you with that, if you'll accompany me down to our office- No, no, my dear, you must not stir, all this has tired you, you must rest.'
'One must not give in,' she said bravely. 'Anything we can do to help you at any time-please do not hesitate to ask. But if you will forgive me now, I do feel quite exhausted-'
'My wife,' said Kingman as they stepped into the elevator, 'is a very sensitive woman-very sensitive. She is an Aquarian herself, of course.'
Mendoza let himself into his apartment at an early hour by his usual routine. Bast, the russet-brown Abyssinian, and her five-month-old daughter Nefertite who had taken after the Abyssinian side of the family and was also russet-colored with black trimmings, came to meet him with shrill welcome. He switched on all the lights and began to look about automatically to see what mischief the unpredictable El Senor had got into in his absence.
The magazine rack was still upright, but quite empty, and all the magazines were spread out on the floor with the morning paper neatly on top of them.
'Now how in the name of all devils does he do these things?' Mendoza wondered. He was beyond asking himself why. He looked further, y and located El Senor gazing coldly down at him from the top of the kitchen door. El Senor was also five months old, but twice the size of his sister; he had inherited his father's Siamese points in reverse, like the wrong side of a negative, and was nearly black all over except for blond eyebrows, paws, nose, and tail-tip. He had large almond-shaped green eyes. 'Senor Misterioso!' said Mendoza. “Do you grow hands when my back is turned?' He began to pick up the magazines.
El Senor leaped gracefully down the narrow mantel from the door, and abruptly became Senor Estupido; he lost his balance, blundered into the electric clock and knocked it flat, and began trying to climb the wall.
'I put up with you only for your mother's sake,' Mendoza told him. He plucked him off the mantel and let all the cats out, went to the kitchen and cut up fresh liver pending their return, and made coffee. He carried a cup with him into the bedroom; with his tie off and shirt half-buttoned he paused to study those snapshots in Twelvetrees' wallet again.
That girl. What was it that made her familiar?
Studio agency. Twelvetrees had ambitions toward a screen career. He had done work as an extra, he had met other such people. This girl, maybe. Have I seen her in a film? wondered Mendoza. But he never went to film theaters. He never watched TV.
He shook his head and went on undressing. He had a bath, and all the while that vague familiarity teased at his mind. He got into a robe and went back to the kitchen for more coffee. He let the cats in and fed them.
Damn it. She stood there on an anonymous beach, in a white bathing suit, shoulder-1ength dark hair tossed in the wind-features too indistinct to identify individually, but something indefinable in the stance, the frozen gesture…
He finished the coffee and washed the pot and cup.
It was like a hangnail, he thought, he couldn't leave it alone. He-Hangnail. Hands. Manicure.
