Mona Ferne was elegantly slim in honey-beige and dark brown today. Evidently she'd been about to leave the house: her alligator bag, gloves, a chic little brown felt hat with a veil waited on the arm of the couch. He paid academic tribute to the finished article, while guessing far more accurately than Hackett how much time and effort had gone into it. The gleaming perfect flaxen coiffure, the figure, the face-a very expert piece of work, all of it; and from fifteen feet away, before he heard her speak or saw her move, he knew it was all just about as emotionally affective as a combustion engine… The girl. Could be pretty. Alison would say, and be right, built to wear clothes-the height and the figure. Not one of the types he admired himself.
'Darling,' said the woman, 'I'm only saying-' And she saw them then in the doorway, and for the fraction of a second her eyes held an expression which surprised Mendoza very much indeed.
Vaya, que demonic,? he said to himself.
And the girl turned to follow her glance, and looked startled-looked confused, and took a step back to bring up against the white brick hearth, and leaned there.
'Why, it's the nice police sergeant back again-do tell me, Sergeant Hackett, have you found whoever it was did this awful thing? Is there something else I can do for you now?-I'm only too anxious-' But her eyes were busy on Mendoza, recognizing him as worthier quarry. She came forward gracefully.
Mendoza glanced at Hackett, who was looking at the girl. Incredulities came at him from two directions, he thought. That girl. And-
'You may indeed help us, if you will, Miss Ferne-it is Miss Ferne, I take it?' He knew instinctively just the sort of thing this one would like, would respond to: essentially it was the small-town Main Street mind-a veneer of sophistication very thin; and he smoothed his moustache thoughtfully in the approved man-about-town manner, gave her a faintly sardonic smile nicely blended of veiled admiration and cynicism. 'Lieutenant Mendoza, madam. I apologize for intruding at such an early hour.'
'But not at all, Lieutenant! Anything I can do, of course-' She gushed at him a little, and he let his eyelids drop and put more cynicism in his expression, to conform to type. He knew exactly the kind of girl she had been, all giggles, curls, and inconsequence; the tiresome kind, not a thought beyond the conventionalities; and the kind too who wouldn't grow out of it to any extent. 'Do sit down.'
'Thanks very much. You can oblige me first of all by telling me something I'd very much like to know. Who owns this coat here?' He nodded at it, getting out a cigarette. It was the first thing he'd noticed in the room. It was flung carelessly over the back of the couch, a woman's long wool coat, full-cut and voluminous: it was creamy beige and its sleeves had wide dark brown velvet cuffs. Before the woman could answer the girl spoke. 'It's not mine,' she said. 'I never saw it before. I found it in my-I thought she-it's not mine!'
'Darling, I don't understand you lately. How absurd, you're not forgetful so young, are you?-of course it's your coat, Angel, I've seen you in it a dozen times. One of the few halfway smart things you have. But why should you be interested, Lieutenant?' She wasn't much concerned with the coat or the girl; she sank into a chair, carefully arranging the display just right, and preened herself under his gaze.
'That's your coat, Miss Carstairs? Well, well.' He went over and picked it up. It was a costume coat, with a narrow rolled shawl collar, no buttons: its only decoration the dark velvet cuffs and a dark panel of velvet down each side of its front. 'That's very interesting,' and he divided a smile between them.
'I never saw it before! I-I-I- What's it got to do with you?'
Hackett came into the room, stood looking at the coat as Mendoza turned it in his hands, examining it. 'We're asking the questions here, Miss Carstairs,' he said harshly.
'Oh, now I don't see any reason to be mysterious about it,' said Mendoza gently. The coat bore a label inside the collar with the name Jay-X, Fine Fashions. Not a name he was familiar with, but any department store buyer could supply information, and he had an idea what the information would be. Hardly a brand name you'd find at Magnin's or Saks': third-rate-quality wool, inferior cut. About thirty-nine-fifty retail, he judged. 'We have reliable evidence that a woman wearing a very similar coat to this one is intimately concerned in the murder of Mr. Twelvetrees. Naturally I'm interested in knowing”-he cocked his head at them-'whether it was, in fact, this coat.'
'In the murder!” exclaimed Mona Ferne. She sat bolt upright, graceful, horrified. 'What are you saying? That Angel-? But that's ridiculous! Why, I expect there are hundreds of coats like that-'
'Oh, I don't know,' said Mendoza. He sat down, with the coat over his lap, in the chair nearest hers, where he could direct leers as broad as he could manage with more effect; he noticed that she'd automatically chosen a seat which put her back to the light. 'It's not a fashionable line this year, is it, the very full cut, and the velvet-more of a spring coat, too, by the weight.'
'I think she got it last spring,' said Mona Ferne vaguely. 'I can see you're one to watch, Lieutenant Mendoza!'-and she actually giggled at him, looking up under her lashes coyly. 'You know too much about feminine styles to sound quite respectable!'
Caray, but with this one you could lay it on with a trowel, he thought. With a trowel. Appropriate… What was this, what the hell was this? Motives. He remembered saying to Alison, sometimes you have to find out about the people first. 'You're flattering me, lady,' he said, and let a little more interested admiration show in his eyes. She giggled again and smoothed her hair, to show off long garnet-colored nails.
'I never-' said the girl Angel. She came to the middle of the room, looking from him to Hackett; she twisted her hands together, tight and nervous. 'You mean-whoever killed him had-? I don't underst-I never saw that coat before in my life! It's not-it's not-it's not-'
'Do control yourself, Angel, you sound quite hysterical, dear. I'm sure the lieutenant doesn't mean he thinks an innocent young girl like you had anything to do with such a horrible thing.' It was a vague murmur: most of her attention was on Mendoza, a new man to gauge, to angle for, to play to.
The girl Angel stared at her; suddenly she raised her clenched fists to her mouth. 'No,' she said against them. 'No, I didn't-why would I-I didn't-him! I never-'
'No one's accused you of anything, Miss Carstairs,' said Hackett in a colorless tone. 'We'd just like to ask a few questions, if you don't mind. Do you have a car of your own and what make is it?'
She nodded mutely at him; she whispered, 'The s-same as-hers-it's a '58 two-d-door Cad- I don't like it m-much, I don't-I don't drive much, she made me- Listen to me, please listen, I know by the way you look you think-but why, why, why? No reason-him-He wasn't anything-and I tell you I never saw-'
'Do you mind telling us where you were on the evening of Friday the thirtieth?'
'I-was-here,' she said dully. She was looking at her mother again, not Hackett. 'All that evening. Like every night. Like always and forever and eternity. I was here-and nobody else was.'
'Really, Sergeant,' said Mona Ferne, absent and sweet, 'you can't think Angel-' And now her eyes were busy gauging Mendoza's suit, the Sulka tie, the custom-made shoes. Gauging his prestige value as something in pants to be seen with. He read them (fascinated, curious, passionately interested in this woman, now) as he would read a page of print. Money, they said-more than presentable, if not exactly handsome-charming-knows the score.
'The maid-?' said Hackett.
'She isn't here-at night,' said the girl. 'Nobody-I went to bed, I think, about-about midnight-I-” But that was absently said too; she was still looking at her mother. 'The coat,' and that came out in a whisper. “Somebody with a coat like that-? D'you mean-the one did it, k-killed-'
Slowly she turned back to Hackett. Could be and was, different things: she looked plain, dowdy, in a shapeless gray dress, flat brown shoes; hair pinned back carelessly to fall lank and lifeless, and no make-up. 'Please,' she said, 'how can you think-you do think so, I see you do, but I don't understand! I didn't-he was nothing! The coat. The-I never saw it before, why d'you think it's here, because I f-found it there in my wardrobe- just a while ago, I thought- It's a hideous coat, I'd never have-I brought it down to ask- It's not mine!
'When did you buy it, Miss Carstairs, how long have you had it?” asked Hackett woodenly. I
'Oh, my God,' she muttered. 'No. I don't-not-oh, my God!'
And she moved from her rigid stance; her eyes went blank and she ran, as a child or an animal ran from inexplicable wrath. They heard her on the stairs, stumbling.
'So clumsy, poor child,” murmured Mona Ferne, and crossed her legs the opposite way, with nice attention to arranging the skirt at just the proper place to show off the ankle and not the ugly swell of the calf with its blue-mottled veins.
Mendoza nodded at Hackett to go after the girl. And he knew: now he knew: and it was a psychic
