She sat in the same chair her daughter had slouched in yesterday, but easily upright, graceful: everything about her was finished to a high gloss, from the lacquered flaxen coiffure to the fragile patent leather sandals with their stilt heels. Ten feet away, she looked an attractive thirty-five; any closer, no. All artificial: the smallest gesture, the tinkling laugh, the expression, the whole woman a planned thing into which God knew what minute calculations had gone. He didn't know much about such things, but he could guess at all the desperate, tedious, grim effort put forth-over the years more and more-on the front: the important thing. The massage, the cosmetics, the diets, the plastic surgery, the money spent and the time used, so much time that she'd had none left over for anything else at all, and so everything else about her had shriveled and died, and she was an empty shell posturing and talking there. All to preserve the illusion that was no illusion, closer than across a room. Any nearer, you saw the lines and the hollows, the little scars at the temples and in front of the ears, the depth of the skillful cosmetic mask, the little loose fold of skin at the throat, and the veins standing up on the backs of the narrow hands with their long enameled nails, their flashing rings, and the expensively capped front teeth, and the faint blistering round the eyelids from strain because she ought to wear glasses.
Those carefully made-up brown eyes widened on him. 'Heavens, Sergeant, you can't think I had anything to do with-? No, no, I see you must ask everyone, mustn't you? Well, now, let me see-I believe it must have been that Thursday, the twenty-ninth it would be. Yes. Brooke dropped by and asked me to go to dinner with him, but I had an engagement already… I never could bring myself to believe it was so, what dear Martin thought-Brooke would never-I've been quite upset about it, but then all of us who knew him-and now to have this terrible thing happen! I've hardly taken it in yet, but I'll try to help you however I can-'
'Yes, thank you.' This house, Hackett thought-something haunted about this house, with that great tree brooding over it, the rooms like caves until you turned on a light. But this wasn't the ghost who haunted it: the ghost was the other one… She had let him in-looking like hell again, today in an old-womanish gray cotton dress, ugly clumping shoes, her sullen face naked without cosmetics in the daylight from the door. Yet that clear pale skin-looking at her there, he suddenly saw that her eyes were beautiful, her good hazel-brown eyes clear as brook water, framed in heavy lashes. It was an oddly disturbing discovery, and almost immediately he'd made another which disturbed him even more.
And that wasn't his kind of thing, either-the intuitive understanding of emotional secrets. He was a cop, not a psychologist; his business, and one he was pretty good at, was collecting facts and fitting them together to make a picture. Mendoza was the one with the crystal ball….
It was the way she did it, the tone of her flat voice-turning to call up the stairs, 'Mother!' All of a sudden he knew about this Angel Carstairs… You'd think she could do something, Mr. Horwitz said. I'm twenty-six years old and,… But she was doing something: the same thing she'd been doing, probably, most of her life. She was punishing Mona-for being her mother, for being what she was. And so anything Mona was or did or said, she had to go the opposite way-just to annoy. It was the negative approach, and also a trap she'd got caught in; because now for such a long while this had been the one reason for Angel Carstairs' existence, she couldn't stop and turn another way and go out to find life away from Mona. Maybe she understood that, maybe she didn't; either way she lived in a little hell she'd made herself, because every way she tormented Mona (reminding her with every mocking Mother of their ages, making herself the graceless ugly duckling in mute rebellion against the creed that beauty was the sole importance), she was tormenting herself too.
Yesterday he'd felt sorry for her; today, she made him mad. At the deliberate waste, the senseless negation.
And at the same time, facing this empty shell of a woman, he understood it.
He didn't want to stay in this house any longer than necessary, but he had questions to ask; he went on asking them. Mendoza had guessed right on one thing: it had been Mona Ferne who introduced Twelvetrees to the Kingmans and their Temple. She had met him through a small theatrical group-very careful to emphasize, not amateurs, but studio extras, bit players, that sort-'These brave young people, so ambitious and hard-working! I was one myself at one time, you know, and I realize how much it means, any little encouragement and support.'
Now and then they put on shows, in a community theater they could rent cheap, near Exposition Park; it was at one of those she'd met Twelvetrees. He'd been a new member of the group then; this was four years ago, he'd have been here only a few months. 'I saw at once he had talent-oh, he needed training and experience, but the essential thing was there. The work this splendid little group was doing was excellent for him, though the poor boy was impatient at the lack of recognition.'
Did she (he didn't expect much on this one) remember any comments Twelvetrees had made about the Temple or the Kingmans, after his first visit there? Well, nothing specific; he had, of course, been tremendously impressed, as anyone would be. Such a spiritual atmosphere, and dear Martin so impressive in his robes.
'Yes. Do you happen to know whether Twelvetrees owned a revolver?'
'A revolver-heavens, I don't think so, did you find one, I mean in his apartment? Oh, I mustn't ask questions, of course, I'm so sorry! I don't think I ever saw him with-But there,' she said with a coquettish little moue, 'I'm telling a lie. I did. But I don't think it was his. It was when he was in a play they were doing, oh, all of a year ago it must have been-and he only had it on the stage, of course, it would have been a prop.' She angled her new cigarette in its jeweled holder at him, in expectation; perversely he bent over his notebook, pretending not to notice, and let her light it herself.
'And if you don't mind, just for the record, Miss Ferne-were you at home on that Friday and Saturday night?-the thirtieth and thirty-first, that was.'
She didn't answer immediately, and then she said, 'Oooh, I will begin to think you suspect me! Was that when he was-? Do you know, I mean? I thought-the papers said-but you police are so clever, I expect you have ways of finding out things.' And by now Hackett was unwillingly fascinated, at the apparent extent of the woman's faith in her private illusion. A pretty sixteen-year-old innocent on her first date might get by with such provocative glances and giggles, such arch wriggling girlishness; from this woman it should have been absurd, and instead was somehow horrible. 'Wel1, let me see. Of course I know you have to ask, it doesn't mean you think I- As if I'd any reason, my dear Brooke-but I mustn't make a parade of feeling, one has to bear these things… Let me see. That was a week ago last Friday and Saturday? Oh, of course, on the Friday night I went to see Miss Kent. Janet Kent-do you want the address? She's an old servant actually, she was Angel's nurse, such a reliable woman, but she was quite old then and now she can't work anymore, and hasn't much to live on, poor thing. She's very proud, she won't take money, but I do give her clothes and things like that, you know, and-not to sound as if I'm praising myself or anything-I do go in as often as I can, if it's just for a minute or two, to cheer her up a little, you see. It's rather tedious sometimes-old people can be such bores, can't they?-but I try to do what I can.'
'Yes. What time did you get there and when did you leave?'
'Well, it felt like eternity, I couldn't get away from her that night, she wanted to talk-she gets lonely, poor thing-and she does so love to play cards, I had to sit down and play with her. I couldn't tell you exactly when I got there, but I think it must have been about seven-thirty, because I left right after dinner here-and when I did get away, I felt so exhausted-such a bore-I thought it must be midnight, but it was only a quarter of eleven. I came straight home
… And the next night, of course, I was at the Temple for the service, as I am every Saturday night.'
'Thank you,' said Hackett, and stood up.
'Is that all you want to ask me? I do hope I've been of some help, though I don't see how I could tell you anything important.'
'One more thing,' said Hackett, and made himself smile at her, sound sympathetic, 'I hope you don't mind a personal question, Miss Ferne, but-well, you'd been out with Mr. Twelvetrees socially quite a bit, and-er-well, was there anything like a formal engagement, or-er-?' He thought he'd done that quite well, the insensitive cop trying to be delicate.
'Ah,' she said, clasping one hand to her cheek, lowering her eyes. 'I-I shouldn't like to feel that such a private matter would go into your records, to be pawed over by anyone-' An appealing glance. He produced a very obviously admiring smile and murmured something about off-the-record. 'I-1 can't say what might… But there were difficulties, you see? Dear Brooke was so proud, and of course I do have more money than he did. And there was a little difference in our ages, nothing to matter, but he-I'm sure you understand. But mostly, it was-Angel. I'm afraid the poor girl was quite foolishly in love with him-oh, quite understandable, of course, but utterly hopeless, naturally. Brooke never- She never said anything to show she was jealous, or-but I knew, and so did Brooke, of
