thing. You take me, I
wouldn't notice about the kitchen floor needing waxing or the mirrors
needing to be washed, it's only me and my personal things that have
to be just so—and he was like that, by his clothes and packing ....
What do you do with soiled laundry?"
"I've got a drawer for it. Easiest thing.
Logical thing. Probably he did too."
"No. Not here. Not enough drawers, with all the
stuff he had." Mendoza gestured at the one bureau. "And not
logical, but slipshod, that is. You ought to get married, be taken
care of properly."
"Give advice, never take it," said Hackett.
"But that's just it, I don't need a wife for
that, which is the only reason to acquire one in the long view. I'm
much more particular at looking after myself than most women, and I
can afford to hire the housekeeping done. Caray, dirty clothes in a
drawer, I'm surprised at you." He looked in all the drawers;
Marx and Horder had left them liberally covered with gray powder, and
a number of nice prints had showed up: with very little doubt they
would prove to belong to the dead man, or Mrs. Bragg. All the drawers
were empty except for sheets of clean newspaper. "I take it,"
he said to Woods, "that Mrs. Bragg hadn't got round to cleaning
in here between my visit and yours, and that you hadn't let her in
since?"
“ This is all very interesting," said Woods,
sitting down on the bed and looking more like an earnest postgraduate
than ever. "You've got Twelvetrees down pat, Lieutenant, by what
I've got on him. The Kingmans and a couple of other people—members
of that, er, sect—they all say he was a sharp dresser and finicky
about himself. One woman said to me, and it kind of stuck in my mind
as an apt description, you know—this Miss Webster it was, the only
one I've talked to who didn't like him—she said he was like a big
black tomcat preening himself .... And that's right as far as I know,
about Mrs. Bragg. I told her on Wednesday afternoon not to touch
anything here. But it didn't seem important enough to put a seal on
the door. Matter of fact, of course, there wasn't anything here
really useful to me, I just wanted to keep it open a day or so, maybe
have a closer look. But it's her property and she's got a key, I
couldn't say whether she's been in or not."
"Yes. A paper bag she might have taken
away—we'1l ask. But I don't think an ordinary laundry bag."
"What does it matter?"
Mendoza stood in the middle of the room, hands in
pockets, and stared vaguely at the maroon flowers in the rug. "Well,"
he said, "well—it might just be—yes, I can see it
happening—that somebody wanted to carry away something—and for
some reason wanted something to carry it in. Like that. Because it
was, say, a lot of little somethings awkward to carry unwrapped—or
revealing somehow—or because the somebody didn't have any pockets
to carry it in. Or a handbag big enough. And there was the bag ready
to hand .... A big black tomcat, you said, Woods? Tomcat that way as
well as this?"
"Oh, well, I wouldn't say definitely. Myself, I
think he'd have liked people to think so, and that's about the extent
of it. You've seen his picture?" Woods hauled out the photograph
again and handed it to Hackett. It had been blown up from a
not-very-good snapshot and was a little fuzzy, but the subject had
distinctive enough features that that didn't matter. On the back were
noted his vital statistics. Brooke Twelvetrees, if that was his real
name, had been just a little too handsome, with fair skin, blue eyes,
wavy black hair, a strongly cleft chin, a consciously winning smile
showing even white teeth: five-nine, a hundred and sixty, age
estimated as thirty-two or thereabouts. "Quite the ladies' man,
in that sense only, I'd say."
Mendoza looked over Hackett's shoulder and laughed.
"Oh, yes, I see. The arm-patter and door-holder—not
necessarily the bed-jumper. These collar ads, usually not much else
to them but front. And the same goes, of course, for the female of
the
wouldn't notice about the kitchen floor needing waxing or the mirrors
needing to be washed, it's only me and my personal things that have
to be just so—and he was like that, by his clothes and packing ....
What do you do with soiled laundry?"
"I've got a drawer for it. Easiest thing.
Logical thing. Probably he did too."
"No. Not here. Not enough drawers, with all the
stuff he had." Mendoza gestured at the one bureau. "And not
logical, but slipshod, that is. You ought to get married, be taken
care of properly."
"Give advice, never take it," said Hackett.
"But that's just it, I don't need a wife for
that, which is the only reason to acquire one in the long view. I'm
much more particular at looking after myself than most women, and I
can afford to hire the housekeeping done. Caray, dirty clothes in a
drawer, I'm surprised at you." He looked in all the drawers;
Marx and Horder had left them liberally covered with gray powder, and
a number of nice prints had showed up: with very little doubt they
would prove to belong to the dead man, or Mrs. Bragg. All the drawers
were empty except for sheets of clean newspaper. "I take it,"
he said to Woods, "that Mrs. Bragg hadn't got round to cleaning
in here between my visit and yours, and that you hadn't let her in
since?"
“ This is all very interesting," said Woods,
sitting down on the bed and looking more like an earnest postgraduate
than ever. "You've got Twelvetrees down pat, Lieutenant, by what
I've got on him. The Kingmans and a couple of other people—members
of that, er, sect—they all say he was a sharp dresser and finicky
about himself. One woman said to me, and it kind of stuck in my mind
as an apt description, you know—this Miss Webster it was, the only
one I've talked to who didn't like him—she said he was like a big
black tomcat preening himself .... And that's right as far as I know,
about Mrs. Bragg. I told her on Wednesday afternoon not to touch
anything here. But it didn't seem important enough to put a seal on
the door. Matter of fact, of course, there wasn't anything here
really useful to me, I just wanted to keep it open a day or so, maybe
have a closer look. But it's her property and she's got a key, I
couldn't say whether she's been in or not."
"Yes. A paper bag she might have taken
away—we'1l ask. But I don't think an ordinary laundry bag."
"What does it matter?"
Mendoza stood in the middle of the room, hands in
pockets, and stared vaguely at the maroon flowers in the rug. "Well,"
he said, "well—it might just be—yes, I can see it
happening—that somebody wanted to carry away something—and for
some reason wanted something to carry it in. Like that. Because it
was, say, a lot of little somethings awkward to carry unwrapped—or
revealing somehow—or because the somebody didn't have any pockets
to carry it in. Or a handbag big enough. And there was the bag ready
to hand .... A big black tomcat, you said, Woods? Tomcat that way as
well as this?"
"Oh, well, I wouldn't say definitely. Myself, I
think he'd have liked people to think so, and that's about the extent
of it. You've seen his picture?" Woods hauled out the photograph
again and handed it to Hackett. It had been blown up from a
not-very-good snapshot and was a little fuzzy, but the subject had
distinctive enough features that that didn't matter. On the back were
noted his vital statistics. Brooke Twelvetrees, if that was his real
name, had been just a little too handsome, with fair skin, blue eyes,
wavy black hair, a strongly cleft chin, a consciously winning smile
showing even white teeth: five-nine, a hundred and sixty, age
estimated as thirty-two or thereabouts. "Quite the ladies' man,
in that sense only, I'd say."
Mendoza looked over Hackett's shoulder and laughed.
"Oh, yes, I see. The arm-patter and door-holder—not
necessarily the bed-jumper. These collar ads, usually not much else
to them but front. And the same goes, of course, for the female of
the
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