“Well... what do you want?” she said.
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“So talk,” she said.
“May I come there?”
“How do I know you’re really a detective?”
“Mrs. Fletcher,” I said, “I’ll identify myself before you let me into the apartment. Or I’ll stand in the hallway, if you prefer, and we can talk through the door.”
“What did you say your name was?” she asked.
“Detective-Lieutenant Benjamin Smoke.”
“What’s that number again?”
“Fieldstone 8-0765.”
“What precinct is that?”
“The Twelfth.”
“I’ll call you back,” she said, and hung up.
In this city’s telephone directories, an emergency number is listed for calls to the police, but the numbers of the individual precincts are listed as well. I was gambling now that Violet Fletcher, at 2:17 a.m., wasn’t going to search through a phone book to verify the number I’d just given her. The phone rang not a minute later. I lifted the receiver from its hook and immediately clamped thumb and forefinger over my nose.
“Twelfth Precinct,” I said, “Sergeant Knowles.”
“Is there a Lieutenant Smoke there?” she asked.
“Yeah, lady, shall I ring?”
“Please,” she said.
“Moment,” I said, and released my nose, and let her wait a respectable forty seconds. Then, in my own voice, I said, “Twelfth Squad, Lieutenant Smoke.”
“Yes,” she said, “this is Violet Fletcher.”
“Thank you for calling back, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“You said someone’s been killed.”
“Yes. A man named Peter Greer.”
“Does this have anything to do with my daughter?”
“Why? Does the man’s name mean anything to you?”
“No. You haven’t answered my question.”
“It might,” I said. “That’s why I want to talk to you.”
“When did you want to come here?”
“Immediately, if I may.”
Mrs. Fletcher sighed. “I’ll be expecting you,” she said, and hung up.
Seventeen
I rang the doorbell and waited. The peephole flap swung back.
“Yes?” a woman’s voice said.
“Lieutenant Smoke,” I said, and held my shield close to the peephole.
She studied it for what seemed an inordinately long time. Then she said, “All right,” and unlocked the door, and slid off the night chain. The door opened wide. She looked me over, and said, “Come in,” and stepped back a pace. I went into the apartment, and she locked the door again, but she did not put on the night chain, presumably because she was in the presence of a policeman.
“I’ve made some coffee,” she said. “Would you care for a cup?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said.
She was a woman in her middle seventies. It was now two forty-five in the morning, and my phone call had undoubtedly awakened her, but she was attired as though for church, wearing a simple blue dress and low-heeled pumps, a string of pearls at her throat, her hair neatly coiffed, her face made up. She offered me a seat in the modestly furnished living room, and then went out to the kitchen. When she returned, she was carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, two spoons, a sugar bowl, and a creamer on it.
“I don’t know how you take it,” she said. “Please help yourself.”
“I like it black,” I said, and picked up one of the cups.
Mrs. Fletcher put two spoonfuls of sugar in her cup, and then added a dollop of milk to the mix. There was the creaking sound of footsteps in the apartment directly above. Pipes clanged somewhere next door.
“Is Natalie in trouble?” she asked.
“I don’t know. May I ask you some questions?”
“That’s why you’re here,” Mrs. Fletcher said, with the characteristic directness of intelligence seasoned with age. There’s a no-nonsense air about smart old people. They’ve lived too long and seen too much, and they rarely bother with the niceties of polite conversation. They haven’t got time for it.
“First I’d like to know if you’ve ever seen your daughter wearing a jade pendant.”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Because a jade pendant was found at the scene of the murder.”
“And if I tell you my daughter does own such a pendant, will that implicate her in the murder?”
“Shall I be honest with you?”
“Why should I expect otherwise?”
“Mrs. Fletcher, if the pendant is your daughter’s, I’d want to know how it got there. She may have a reasonable explanation.”
“And if she hasn’t?”
“First things first. Is it your daughter’s?”
“Do you have the pendant with you?”
“No.”
“Then how can I possibly identify it?”
“Does your daughter own a jade pendant mounted in a silver frame?”
“Yes.”
“Is the face of it carved with a likeness of Cleopatra?”
“Yes.”
“And is the back of the frame engraved with the name ‘Natalie Fletcher,’ and the date ‘69 B.C.’?”
“I have never seen the back of the pendant.”
“Does the pendant I’ve just described to you sound like the one your daughter owns?”
“It does. But until I see the pendant, I can’t say for sure it’s hers.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, this isn’t a court of law, and I’m not trying to pin anything on your daughter. But a man’s been killed...”
“Do you think my daughter killed him?”
“Not unless she can be described as big and husky.”
“Natalie? You’re joking.”
“How tall is she, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Five-six. But she’s very slender. In fact, she’s almost slight. I keep telling her she looks emaciated.”
“Does she drive an automobile?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of an automobile?”
“A Buick station wagon.”
“Would any of her friends drive a Volkswagen bus?”
“I don’t know any of her friends. What’s more, I don’t care to know any of them. They’re probably to blame for ... Well, never mind.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, when did you last see your daughter?”
“What’s today?” she asked.
“Technically, it’s Tuesday morning already.”
“Does that always confuse you, too?”
“Yes. To me, it’s still Monday night.”
“Let me think,” she said. She sipped at her coffee. “I saw her Saturday. Yes. For a moment I wasn’t sure whether it was Friday or Saturday. But it was Saturday. Yes. I remember clearly now. She had just come from the doctor’s.”
“Dr. Hirsch, would that be?”
“Yes,” she said, surprised. “How did you know that?”
“Is Dr. Hirsch a psychiatrist?”
“No. He’s an internist.”
“Was your daughter sick?”
“No, it was just a checkup.”
“And you met her afterwards.”
“Yes. We had lunch together.”
“Was she wearing the pendant at the time?”
“She always wears the pendant. You see, she...”
“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I don’t know whether or not I can trust you, Mr. Smoke.”
“Please do,” I said.
Mrs. Fletcher sighed, put down her coffee cup, and then said, “My daughter thinks she’s Cleopatra.”
“I already know that.”
“I assumed you did. When you asked if Dr. Hirsch was a psychiatrist...” Mrs. Fletcher sighed. “Natalie wears the pendant all the time, says it was a gift from...” She shook her head. “I can barely talk about it,” she said. “I find it all quite sad.”