" Asi, " said Mendoza to himself. The straightforward suicide. The silly girl in love. The lover spurning her, and a deliberate overdose. Where had she got it? And kaput. Just more paperwork.
For the first time he looked at the old-fashioned pulled-down bed where the body lay. He went over to look at the body, and it was the body of the girl who had traveled with them on the flight from Chicago. Juliette Martin. She was unmistakable. The neat cap of dark hair, the tip-tilted nose, the wide mobile mouth. It was Juliette Martin, the girl from France.
And the identification said, Ruth Hoffman.
Why?
TWO
"WELL, OF COURSE it's the same girl, the girl on the plane," said Alison. The strip fluorescent lighting turned her fiery red hair nearly gold where she looked down unflinchingly at the white face in the cold tray in the morgue. "She was really lovely, a beautiful girl. But what a queer thing, Luis."
"You're sure. So was I." He steered her out to the corridor. They sat down on the bench along the wall and he lit cigarettes for both of them. "So tell me everything you remember about her. You're the one who talked to her. I was half asleep."
"We were both dead tired. She seemed like a very nice girl." Alison sounded troubled.
"Echoing Mr. Daggett," said Mendoza. "Yes, those Daggetts and the Garvey woman- And you know something carina, it's fate-destiny or g something. If I hadn't gone out on it to recognize her-well, I don't know that I caught all she said to you. Tell me what you remember."
Alison said dubiously, "Well, it wasn't much. All pretty casual. I was so sleepy, and I got the impression she was a little shy, not a chatty type-a nice girl, educated-well, a lady, I think"- Alison drew on the cigarette and looked at it thoughtfully-"well, that she said as much as she did because she was a little excited, a little nervous. She wasn't the type to come out with private affairs to a stranger-and she said that, that she was nervous. It was the first time she had ever flown. And she was going to visit her grandfather-"
"No name mentioned?"
"No. The grandfather had disowned her mother because she wanted to marry a foreigner. The mother had gone to France for some postgraduate study-and she said her mother had written to him when she was born, Juliette, I mean, but never heard from him. But when her parents were killed in an accident of some sort she had written to tell him, and they'd corresponded, and now he was sorry about how he'd treated her mother, and wanted to meet her. And she worked in an office somewhere. She had three weeks' vacation coming that she hadn't taken because they'd been busy-"
"No mention of what kind of office?"
"No. And she was engaged to a man named Paul. At first he didn't want her to come here, but she said there was the family feeling. Her grandfather, the only family she had-except for two uncles."
"Who might," said Mendoza, "have been either her mother's or her father's brothers."? Mil rayos! "
"Wel1, I suppose," said Alison. "And her boss was at Mr. Trenchard, Treuchard, Tenchard, something like that. I don't remember exactly."
"Helpful," said Mendoza. "It's a damn queer setup altogether. Somebody went to a little trouble."
"But why?" asked Alison. "She seemed an ordinary sort of girl. Prettier than average, but ordinary."
"Why indeed. Do you remember anything else?"
Alison considered. "I was so sleepy- I remember asking her if she lived in Paris and I think she mentioned a street name, a rue de something. But it was about then that I dozed off. I think you were already asleep."
"A handful of nothing," said Mendoza. "And the three helpful, innocent witnesses to back up the straightforward suicide-and those letters-?Dios! Ordinary is the word, so very damned plausible. But I can't see exactly where to go on it except-mmh-yes, those Daggetts and Garvey, but-"
"Well, I hope you can find out what's behind it, but what a very funny thing, Luis."
"I could think of other words for it," said Mendoza in a dissatisfied voice. "Take care on the freeway home, carina."
He had left the lab men going over the tired old furnished apartment. Now he drove back to headquarters, collected Higgins and Palliser into his office and told them about it. They were intrigued but doubtful.
"That's a damn queer setup if you're right," said Higgins. "But could you be absolutely certain it is the same girl?"
"Yes, yes," said Mendoza irritably, "and so was Alison."
"But that apartment manager, the other woman, telling the tale all straight-faced- She was supposed to have been here at least a month."
"That's right, and what's to say any different except that it's the same girl who was on the plane with us last Saturday. Juliette Martin. And they say that everybody's got a double, it's just my word and Alison's that it is the same girl, damn it."
"You're absolutely sure?" asked Higgins.
"Don't dither at me, George. Yes, I'm sure. Not going senile yet."
"Well, if we lean on those witnesses, they may come apart."
"And maybe not." Mendoza brushed his mustache back and forth in habitual irritated gesture. "Somehow I think they're-background. Just there for effect."
"I don't get you," said Palliser blankly.
"I'm not sure I know what I mean myself, John."
But there were a few obvious things to do. He went down to Communications and dispatched a cable to the Surete in Paris, requesting any information on Juliette Martin, French citizen, probably resident in Paris, probably on a plane from Paris to New York last Thursday or Friday, and appended a description. He sent a request to the U.S. Customs in New York asking for any record of her arrival. Did they take down the numbers of passports? He hadn't any idea. He seemed to recall that when they landed in England the Customs officers had simply glanced at the joint passport and waved them on.
They drove back to the ancient apartment house in Higgins' Pontiac. The lab men were just packing up to leave and it was getting on for three o'clock.
"Why the full treatment on a suicide, Lieutenant?" asked Duke. "And what a hell of a place to die. Damn pretty girl, too."
Horder said with unaccustomed violence, "And so damn silly, by those letters. Stupid. No real reason to kill herself, over the silly love affair, but they will do it."
"I trust you got those close-up shots," said Mendoza.
"Yep," said Duke. "Doubt if we'll make any latents except maybe hers. Place looks neat enough on the surface but probably hasn't had a good cleaning in months. So it's all yours."
They went out. Higgins picked up the old worn billfold from the bureau top. "I thought you said a Social Security card. Not exactly," he said, flipping it open.
"No, but a lot of people carry them," said Mendoza. He looked at it again in the plastic slot of the billfold. The original Social Security card was a rather flimsy small piece of cardboard, easily misplaced or defaced. He had seen these replicas advertised in a good many mail-order catalogs: the numbers and name stamped onto a thin sheet of tal. There was SOCIAL SCURITY at the top, an eagle with wings spread, name and number below. The nine-digit number was anonymous, the name Ruth Hoffman only slightly less so.
Higgins, echoing the thought, said, "How many Ruth Hoffmans in the whole country?"
"No guesses," said Mendoza, "and I suppose the computers in Washington would trace down the number in time, if we're allowed to ask-which is debatable. The IRS can harass the citizens as much as they please, but nobody else is supposed to invade the citizens' rights."
They looked through the shabby old furnished apartment. The lab men had left a handbag on the bureau, the only handbag there, a big bone-colored plastic bag. There wasn't much in it. Two keys on a ring, one to the door here, one to the mailbox in the lobby. A couple of tissues, a soiled powder puff, a half-used lipstick. There was a shabby suitcase, unlocked and empty, and a meager wardrobe of clothes in the tiny closet, none new and no labels in any of them. There were four pairs of shoes, the labels of three of them indecipherable. The newest pair bore a logo from a local chain, Kinney's. All the clothes were size fourteen. In the kitchen cupboards was a modest stock of food-cereal, canned soups, canned vegetables, instant coffee. In the little refrigerator was a half-empty quart bottle of milk, an unopened package of hamburger, a quarter-pound of margarine, a loaf of bread. There were no dirty dishes.