Date for Murder by Louis Trimble Page B

cackled again lewdly. “Couldn’t rightly say. Have to ask her.”
    “The Chief ducked his head. “Let’s go back to the house. I want to see the Queen.”
    Mark stifled a yawn. “I’m getting sleepy—and hungry.”
    The Chief looked at his watch. “Nearly twelve. Could do with some food myself. We’ll see the Queen and the maid and go grab a bite. By that time we should have some dope, and the guy handling the prints should be here.” He sighed gustily. “I suppose the county prosecutor’ll be on our necks along with them newspapermen before we get through.”
    They found the Queen engrossed in a lettuce and tomato salad and a stubbie of beer in the kitchen. The Chief pulled a chair across from her and sat down. Mark ranged on the other side of him.
    “Well,” she said testily, “I suppose you’re happpy, Tom Rourke.” She waved the fork at him. “Let me warn you, if you cause any trouble for those children, I’ll—”
    “Now, Queen,” he said, “take it easy. I’m here to solve a murder. All I want is a few answers, huh?”
    “Have some beer,” she said. She called out, “Catrina, bring two bottles of beer, will you, please?”
    Catrina appeared after a brief moment, set down two glasses and two full stubbies. She gave Mark a worried little smile. He grinned back at her. She was a cute redhead, he thought. Only built a little too chunky. Her hair was red and shingled so the ends hung over her ears and curled forward to little points. Her face was full and round, her lips pouting a little in a warm, hinting manner. Her breasts were full and high, straining against the light print dress she wore.
    “I want to talk to you in a minute, Catrina,” the Chief said.
    “About the—murder?” Her voice was high-pitched, almost squeaky.
    “Yeah,” he grinned. “Your old man thinks maybe you had a reason, huh?”
    “Oh!” She saw him smiling and showed her teeth tremulously. “He’s nasty-minded!” she said indignantly, and turned away. Mark watched her hips sway as she walked. He sighed when she went through the door into the pantry.
    “All right,” the Queen said when the Chief had drained a half glassful of beer. “What is it?”
    “What time you go to bed, Queen?”
    “Four o’clock,” she said. “Same as the others.”
    “You went right to sleep?”
    “I did. I was up from six the morning before. This job is no joke since the Major left.” She alternately served herself with salad and watched the Chief.
    “What time did you wake up?”
    “I didn’t—you woke me with your caterwauling around. It was about nine.”
    “You didn’t hear anything in between four and nine?” “I was asleep.” Her eyes were on her salad.
    Mark leaned forward. “Nothing sort of half waked you, did it? I mean anything that you might recall as a dream?”
    “Nothing.” She compressed her lips positively. “Not a thing. I said I was tired out.”
    The Chief sighed. “What about them dates, Queen? You always put dates in Link’s room, huh?”
    “I put dates in every room,” she said. “It was an idea of the Major’s. And a very nice gesture, too. He always has a lot of packages of his dates on hand for the guests.”
    “When did you put dates in Link’s room last?”
    “Yesterday afternoon. He ate a package a day at least.”
    “And the others?”
    “Usually they’ll eat a package maybe in a week. Sometimes they don’t touch them.”
    “And when did you put dates in Link’s room again?”
    “That was the last time. Her mouth was full of salad.
    “Have you been in his room since yesterday afternoon?”
    “With these policemen running around in there? I should say not. And listen, Tom Rourke,” she said explosively, “I don’t expect to find everything torn up by your shenanigans, either!”
    “Somebody beat me to that,” he said. “How could anyone get more dates without asking you?”
    “Walk in the pantry and help themselves,” she said. “There’s a whole shelf