Extra Kill - Dell Shannon (23 page)

"I remember noticing," said the woman, "it
was exactly a quarter past by my watch as we drove into that—that
court. Oh, please don't hesitate to use that ashtray, Lieutenant,
that's what it's for. Really, for the time of night and the
traffic—so nerve-wracking—we made excellent time. You see,
Martin, how very clever they are to find all this out."

"My dear, you needn't say I told you so.”

"But I never would. I do believe in destiny, so
it's no use. Do you know, Lieutenant, we'll have been married
thirty-one years on the twentieth of this month, and never any
serious disagreement between us. I put it down chiefly to the fact
that we do always remember to be polite to each other, although it is
true that Martin is a very even-tempered man."

Mendoza grasped grimly at the tail of his last
remark. "There was a quarrel, and you hit Trask—with the butt
of a pistol which—"

"Now wait just a minute, please, sir," said
Kingman. He leaned forward with a kind of desperate earnestness. "I
don't know exactly how we're going to prove it to you, because
naturally there were no witnesses present. And I must say I do
understand how you came to pick on us, though how you found out we
were there that night I don't know. But I do assure you that you
have—um—leaped to a wrong conclusion when you accuse me of
killing that—that most unpleasant young man. I hope to God I can
convince you, sir, that we hadn't any hand in the murder. Never had
such a shock in my life as when you turned up and told us—" He
whisked out a handkerchief and polished his bald head.

“
Now suppose I just tell you the whole business
straight, so to speak, and if I miss out anything you want to know,
you ask, because I don't know all the ins and outs of
the—um—circumstances of the murder. You've got it right up to
that night, sir. Trask . . . Perhaps I had better explain that that
time in Philadelphia he was being held for trial, on a very nasty low
charge too, at the same time I was, and that's how he knew me, and
knew to send back for that newspaper report. And it wasn't only the
money that made the situation awkward and annoying—it was having
him around. Any day we'd both have preferred to pay over the money as
straight extortion, and never seen him between, but you see, he
wanted an open job, as an excuse for not working. I didn't like it, I
never liked it, but what could I do? And besides keeping an eye on
him, you know, I had what you might call a handle, too. You'll never
know how both of us hoped he would make the grade and get into the
profession—though he'd nothing to offer but looks, as an old
trouper myself I knew that, but still, Hollywood . . . If he only
had, perhaps he'd have gone to looking on us as very small stuff, you
see, and left us alone—"

"And also you could then turn the tables and
threaten him with his past," said Mendoza. “If he acquired a
public reputation to be put in danger."

"Good God, no," said Kingman, genuinely
shocked. "God forbid that we should stoop so low as that. I tell
you, we'd have gone on our knees to give thanks if he'd just left us
alone! Well, you're not interested in all this background, I'd
better—ah—cut the cackle as our English friends say, and come to
that Friday. You said a minute ago that he'd had some plan go wrong,
well, I couldn't tell you what that was, but I did deduce that for
myself, from his manner. Now it's quite true, what I told you, that
we exchanged only a few words as I met him leaving. But—um—what
actually passed was not exactly casual. He—"

"Demanded that you raise the ante."

"Well, no," said Kingman. "Actually,
no. He was simply in a vicious temper. He put on a good front, you
know—that charming boyish manner—but only with people who
mattered, people he thought could do him some good. He never troubled
with us. But that day he—er—lashed out at me, at the
Temple—sneeringly, you know—more viciously than he'd ever done
before. However, it wasn't until just before the—the ceremony that
night that I became seriously disturbed. I must explain that I—oh
dear, and possibly I should have mentioned it to you when you
searched this afternoon, I do apologize—I have a small wall safe
built into the robing room downstairs, where the—um—receipts are
kept. Now, Trask did not have the combination of this safe, and I can
only assume that he must have visited the apartment when we were out,
perhaps several times, and hunted until he found the notation in my
address book. I should have carried it on me—I have such a bad
memory for figures—it was careless—"

"Now you mustn't blame yourself, dear, it might
have happened to anyone.”

"I do not very often have occasion to go to the
safe, that is to take out cash, over a weekend. Naturally, after the
service on Saturday night I put the collection into the safe, but I
seldom look at what's there or count it. But as it happened, I did
have occasion to do so on that Friday night—Cara was going shopping
the next morning, and I went to get out some money for her, just
before the service. There is no collection for that Friday night
service, you see. And I knew there should have been twenty-three
hundred dollars in one of the velvet collection bags. You know,"—he
took off his glasses, began to polish them slowly with his
handkerchief—"on thinking it over since, I can see that he
took a gamble on that. In the ordinary way, on Saturday evening I
should have simply dropped the collection into that bag and locked it
away again—a bag isn't like an envelope, I wouldn't see that it was
nearly empty beforehand. He had left some one-dollar bills and a lot
of silver, enough to look to the casual glance as if the bag hadn't
been touched. You see? If all had gone as he planned, the deficit
wouldn't have been discovered, probably, until some time on
Monday—when I'd be going to the bank to deposit the month's
receipts. But I discovered it then, at seven-thirty that Friday
night."

"Yes, I've grasped that," said Mendoza in a
bored tone. "So you went out after the service to ask him how
come."

"Now I'll tell you," said Kingman, "I
may be a fool this way and that way, Lieutenant, but I was not fool
enough to think that Trask would walk oif with a month's receipts
like that if he intended to carry on in the current situation. The
moment I made that discovery, I knew he was clearing out for some
reason. And I was thankful—I tell you!—and if it had been merely
the twenty-three hundred, I'd have said good riddance, cheap at the
price."

"Which was what I said, dear, though I did
follow the thought in your mind. He really had no scruples at all."

"But, well, just put yourself in my position, if
you can, Lieutenant. Knowing Trask, I thought it very likely indeed
that he would not be satisfied with that amount, but would attempt to
withdraw more from the bank on Monday morning—before I had
discovered what he'd already done, you see. I don't know why he
should have stolen that cash on Friday when—if he did intend to
withdraw more—he couldn't very well have planned his—his flight
until Monday. When I came to reason it out, it occurred to me that
possibly someone was in a position to blackmail him, and he had to
have that cash on Friday. That he meant to abandon his—ah—racket
here, in the face of that blackmail, and stole the cash to satisfy
his enemy over the weekend, trusting to luck that I shouldn't
discover it—and then on the Monday meant to take what he could from
the bank, you see. However, there it was, and the reason I was
anxious to contact him was to inform him in no uncertain terms that I
knew of the theft, and would take steps immediately to warn the bank
not to allow him to make any withdrawals. That I didn't want—well,
naturally not—but it wasn't only the money—I couldn't very well
prosecute him for it, could I? Everything coming out in the open
then. I tried at once to telephone him, but got no answer—of course
it was early. I tried again after the service, with the same result.
“ So—"

"So you drove out. Very well. And when you got
there, you found him packing—"

"It was quite mysterious," said the woman
plaintively, "and I hated it—I felt there was something queer
about it then. There was no one there at all, Lieutenant. I do hope,"
her voice quivered a little, "you will believe the truth, I do
see as Martin says it's only our word. But it is the truth. The front
door to his apartment was unlocked, after we'd knocked and knocked
Martin tried it and the door opened. We knew he was there because
there was a light—not in the living room, but the bedroom—you
could see it from that silly little front porch. So we went in, and
no one was there at all. Yes, you're quite right, he had been
packing—there were two suitcases all packed and locked, and another
on the bed half full of things—and things standing on the bureau,
all i untidy, he'd never have left it like that; he was almost too
finicky for a man, you know. And the light on. The kitchen light too.
We couldn't see that until we'd gone in, of course. And
no
one
there."

"That's gospel truth, gentlemen," said
Kingman earnestly. "I can't lie to you that I'm a religious man,
but I swear by—by everything that's dear to me, that's the gospel
truth."

Mendoza had been leaning back in a bored way,
smoking, impassive; Boyce sitting stolid and foursquare, just
waiting; Hackett listening and looking intently. Their noncornmittal
silence worried Kingman, who had grown progressively more ruddy and
earnest. Now suddenly Mendoza sat up and fixed him with a frowning
stare.

"The kitchen light was on?" he said. "Was
that trap open?"

"God, no," said Kingman with a shudder.
"And if I didn't have the cold grues about that, when I read in
the paper how he'd been—disposed of! It occurred to me then that,
my God, whoever it was might have—must have—been down there with
him—when we walked in."

Now he lost all of his ruddiness, and mopped his bald
head. "He—they—whoever it was, would have had warning—we
knocked and waited, you know. If—if there was a way to close that
trap from below . . . well, you take me. Must have been down there in
the dark—with him—waiting for us to leave. God. No, of course we
didn't dream, at the time . . . There were all his things, you could
see he was getting ready to clear out, and—I don't know—it looked
queer, but as if he might have just run out to get something, you
know—some errand. I—"

"Did you go into the kitchen? . . . Where was
the table?"

"I remember that, dear. It was an impossible
kitchen—but of course a man wouldn't care—far too small, and
there was only one little place for a table, at the very end—but it
wasn't there. It was pushed right up against the stove, a very
awkward position."

"Did you see a trowel?" asked Mendoza
softly. Hackett turned and looked at him. Nothing about the trowel
had been released to the press. They both stared at him. "A
trowel?" said Kingman; and then he lost what remained of his
color. "Oh, my God, is that what he was—what they used—?
No—no, I don't remember anything like that. We—well, you know, we
didn't know quite what to do. It looked as if he'd be back any
minute, and we waited around a little." He mopped his brow. "You
have so much imagination, Martin—not that I wasn't a little upset
about it too, when we knew. But it's all over now, dear, we must
simply try to tell them how it was—the facts."

"How long did you wait?"

"Oh, it was quite some time before we decided
that he wasn't—and of course then we did think it even odder, that
he should just walk out like that—and then we thought of looking to
see whether his car was there. And it was. In the carport. And there
was another one too, that is I don't know if it had anything to do
with all this, but you see, I opened the back door and looked out—I
don't know why, it was the silly sort of thing you do when you're
looking for someone. And there was a car there. There's quite a wide
alley behind that building, you know, and an empty lot behind
that—and this car was just standing in the alley. There wasn't
anyone in it, its lights weren't on or anything. I thought at the
time it might be someone visiting the next apartment, maybe there
hadn't been parking space in front when— Well, and then Martin
said—"

"Now I'll tell you," said Kingman, "I
didn't especially want to see him. I was thankful he was clearing
out, I simply wanted to make it clear to him that it was—um—quits
between us. And I'll be honest and say too that it seemed a good
opportunity to have a look around for that photostat—not that that
would exactly take away his hold, because I daresay he could have
replaced it, and of course the mere information—that is, anyone
could have checked up, once they knew where to check, so to speak.
Nevertheless, we should feel much safer—you get me .... I hadn't
tried to do anything in that line, no sir, not up to then. I won't
say I hadn't thought about it, but it didn't seem that it'd be much
use—for all I knew he had a safety deposit box or something—"

"So he did," said Mendoza. "In a
manner of speaking. I know where it was-"

"So do I, now," said Kingman unexpectedly.
"I make no apology for saying that we had a look round. And we
didn't have to look far. It was right there on the bed. I expect you
found it with his things, later on. One of those quilted plastic
laundry bags-green-and he'd just emptied it out on the bed, it looked
like, to get at what was in the bottom. I don't want to-ah-sound as
if I'm trying to do your job for you, Lieutenant, but it occurs to me
that perhaps when you first saw the place, things weren't just the
way they were then, and it may be you'll be interested. First of all,
there was a big brown manila envelope lying there with that photostat
in it—the newspaper report about us, you know—and of course I
took that. But I think there'd been something else in that bag—I
took it that's where the envelope had been, you see, there it was
among all his dirty clothes, as if he'd just dumped out
everything—because there was another manila envelope, empty, and
he—or someone—had burned something in a big glass ashtray on the
bureau. Something fairly bulky, like-well, maybe another photostat.
There was quite a little pile of ashes."