Killer's Choice

Kling stepped into the apartment and then understood the Chinese robe. Apparently, Boone was fascinated with things Oriental. The room was furnished in what seemed to be authentic Chinese. There were rare old pieces of teak furniture, and heavy pieces of jade sculpture. The drapes on the window were a Chinese print. A rice-paper screen was opened behind an old Chinese writing desk. Chinese pictures were on the wall. Kling fully expected the smell of chow mein from the kitchen.

Noticing his scrutiny, Boone said, 'I was stationed in China during the war. Ever there?'

'No,' Kling said.

'Fell in love with the place. The most wonderful people in the world. You ought to go sometime.'

'It's a little different now, I imagine,' Kling said.

'The Reds, you mean? Terrible. But that'll pass. Everything changes sooner or later. Do you want to see that letter?'

'That's why I came.'

'I'll get it. You don't mind if I dress while you read it, do you? I've got to get to the studio.'

'Not at all,' Kling said.

'Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Like a drink?'

'No, thank you.'

'Cigarettes there on the coffee table. That brass cigarette box is from Hong Kong,' Boone said as he left the room.

'Thanks,' Kling said. He sat, lifted the lid from the box, took out a cigarette and lighted it. The cigarette tasted peculiar. Either it was very stale, or it too had come from Hong Kong. He squashed it out and lighted one of his own. In a few moments, Boone came back. He had taken off the robe and was wearing trousers and a white shirt, the white shirt hanging out of the trousers, unbuttoned.

'Here's the letter,' he said. 'You read it. I'll be back in a few minutes.' Buttoning the shirt, he left the room again.

The envelope was a pale blue rectangle. Annie Boone had addressed it in deep blue ink. She had addressed it to 'Mr Ted Boone' at 585 Tarlton Place. The middle digit in the address was wrong. If Annie had ever known the correct address, she had apparently forgotten it. The Post Office Department had pencilled its scrawls across the face of the envelope. The last scrawl advised 'Try 565 Tarlton'. Apparently, 565 had been tried and the letter had finally been delivered.

Kling lifted the flap and pulled out the letter.

Annie Boone wrote in a small clear hand. The letter was neat and unstained and showed no signs of having been written hurriedly. It was dated Friday, 7 June, three days before she'd been murdered. Today was 14 June. Annie Boone had been dead four days. Roger Havilland had been killed last night. The letter read:

Ted dear:

I know how you feel about Monica, and I know what you're trying to do, and I suppose I should harbour ill will, but something has come up and I would like very much to talk to you about it. You are, after all, perhaps the one person I could always talk to.

I received a letter yesterday, Ted, and it's frightened me, and I want to know whether or not I should go to the police. I tried to reach you by telephone both at home and at the studio, but they told me you were away in Connecticut and would not be back until Monday. This will be waiting for you when you return, and I hope you'll call me at once, either at home or at the liquor store. The number at the store is CAmbridge 7-6200. Please call.

My best, ANNIE

Kling read the letter once, and then read it again. He was reading it a third time when Boone came back into the room. Boone had put on a tie and a sports jacket, and he seemed distinctly ail-American in the all-Chinese room.

'Have you tried these cigarettes?' Boone asked, taking one from the brass box. 'They're British.'

'I tried them,' Kling said. 'About this letter, Mr Boone.'

Boone lighted the cigarette and then glanced at his watch. 'I have a few minutes yet,' he said. 'What do you make of it?'

'May I ask you a few questions?'

'Certainly.'

'First, why "Ted dear" instead of the usual salutation? This implies more affection than I was led to believe existed.'

'Not affection,' Boone said. 'Affectation. She used that reverse salutation with everyone, believe me.' He shrugged. 'Just a part of Annie, that's all. Means nothing.'

'What does this mean?' Kling asked. '"I know how you feel about Monica, and I know what you're trying to do…"'

'Oh. Nothing.'

'Well, explain what you mean by nothing.'

'She knows I love my daughter and I… I was… uh…'

'Yes?'

'Just that I love her, that's all.'

'What does "I know what you're trying to do" mean?'

'I think she was referring to my trying to see Monica more often,' Boone said.

'Is that why she feels she should "harbour ill will"?' Kling asked.

'Hmh? Is that what she said?'

'Read the letter,' Kling said, extending it.

'No, I believe you.' Boone shrugged. 'I don't know what she means by that.'

'No inkling, huh?'

'Nope.'

'Um-huh. How about this letter she says she received. Know any thing about it?'

'Not a thing.'

'When did you leave for Connecticut?'

'Friday morning. The 7th.'

'What time?'

'I left here at about eight.'

'Why?'

'A client. Some portrait work.'

'And you planned to work over the week-end, is that right?'

'Yes.'

'When did you plan on returning?'

'I planned to be back at the studio on Monday morning.'

'Were you?'

'No.'

'When did you get back?'

'I got into the city at about eleven Monday night.'

'The night Annie was killed.'

'Yes.'

'Did you call your office?'

'At 11 p.m.?'

'I suppose not. Were there any messages for you at the switchboard here?'

'Yes. Annie had called.'

'Did you call her back?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'I figured whatever it was could wait until morning. I was awfully tired, Mr Kling.'

'But you didn't try to reach her the next morning.'

'I'd seen the papers by then. I knew she was dead.'

'Okay. I'll take this letter with me, if you don't mind. It may help us.'

'Go right ahead,' Boone said. He looked at Kling levelly. 'You still think I had something to do with this?'

'Let's say there are certain contradictions present, Mr Boone.'

'What time was Annie killed?' Boone asked.

'Coroner says about ten-thirty,' Kling said.

'Then I'm out of it.'

'Why? Because you say you didn't get back to the city until eleven?'

'No. Because I was in a diner from ten to ten-thirty. The owner was interested in photography. We had a long chat.'

'Which diner?'

'It's called The Hub. It's forty miles from the city. I couldn't have killed her. Check it. The man'll remember me. I gave him my card.'

'Forty miles from the city?' Kling asked.

'Forty miles. On Route 38. Check it.'

'I will,' Kling said. He rose and walked to the door. At the door, he turned. 'Mr Boone?' he said.

'Yes?'

'In the meantime, don't go to Connecticut this week-end.'

The law offices of Jefferson Dobberly were straight out of Great Expectations. They were small and musty, and they received rays of slanted sunlight upon which dust motes floated. Enormous legal tomes lined the reception room, lined the corridor leading to Dobberly's private office, and lined three walls of the private office itself.

Jefferson Dobberly sat before the windows which lined the fourth wall. Sunlight slanted in behind his balding head. Dust motes danced on the sunlight and on his pate. Books were piled on his desk, and they formed a fortress between him and Kling. Kling sat and watched him. He was a tall thin man with watery blue eyes. His mouth was wrinkled and he moved it perpetually, as if he wanted to spit and couldn't find a place to do it. He had cut himself shaving that morning. The gash ran sidewards on his cheek from his left sideburn. The sideburns were practically all that remained of the hair on his head, and even they were white as though they were weakening before their final surrender. Jefferson Dobberly was fifty-three years old. He looked like seventy.