man--about
Mendoza's own height, Five-ten----but broader and stockier. He was
about sixty, and well preserved: he'd kept his hair and not taken on
much weight. He had a roundish face, regular features, the inevitable
important-executive horn rims. His voice was an unfortunately
high-pitched tenor, with the hint of a British accent. More probably
New York and/or Harvard, thought Mendoza.
And Marlowe, prepared to condescend to a police
officer, had expected one out of a 1930 detective story, had expected
possibly the accent and low-class grammar, the deference to a rich
man.
Harrington's Italian silk had shaken him. Mendoza sat
down, smiling at him. Marlowe was wearing a dark blue suit of
excellent and conservative cut, and a plain navy tie. Mendoza glanced
at his shoes and said affably, "Do you visit England very often,
Mr. Marlowe?"
"I--why-- Usually once a year or so," said
Marlowe, taken aback. "How--"
Mendoza smiled. "The very British tailoring.
Savile Row? Personally I like Harrington quite well, if you keep an
eye on him." Marlowe would probably know how Harrington charged.
"Just a few questions, Mr. Marlowe. You know Mrs. Nestor. You
went to see her on Friday evening, I understand"
" Oh, it's about that," said Marlowe. "Yes,
I did. I've always felt rather sorry for Andrea--I knew her father,
poor man. She's always--" He hunched his shoulders. "She's
one of those people, nothing ever turns out right for her. Perhaps
it's partly her own fault--I shouldn't say so, but she's a rather
stupid woman. That husband of hers, poor fellow, had all the drive
and the brain."
"I believe you lent him the money for the
chiropractic course?"
" Yes, so I did. I saw he was--in earnest about
it, you see, and I had every confidence that he'd repay me. Which he
did. That's a tragedy there. Such a wanton thing. I most certainly
hope you'll find out who was responsible."
Marlowe bent to proffer a silver bowl of loose
cigarettes.
"Thanks so much, I'll have one of my own,"
said Mendoza. "When you were at Mrs. Nestor's apartment on
Friday evening you met one of my men there--Sergeant Hackett."
"Yes, that's right," said Marlowe, leaning
back.
"Seemed a very pleasant fellow. He wanted to ask
Andrea about a few things. That's a tragedy indeed, poor Frank
getting killed that way. Just when he was doing so well. Probably one
of these juveniles, or--"
"I understand that you left before the sergeant?
Mrs. Nestor said--"
"Why, yes. Why?"
"I'd like to hear all the details," said
Mendoza.
"Well, I'm afraid I don't quite see the point .
. ." Marlowe looked puzzled.
"Sergeant Hackett had a most unfortunate
accident later on that night," said Mendoza. "We're trying,
just for the record, to trace his movements, see where he'd been and
why he might have driven up to--the site of the accident, you see.
Did he say anything at that time about where--” And that was very
unlikely, but you never knew.
"Oh," said Marlowe. "Oh, I see. That's
too bad, he seemed a very nice fellow. I hope he's not badly
injured?"
"The hospital isn't very hopeful," said
Mendoza. They had kept any hint out of the papers that it hadn't been
an accident. Another accident wasn't very interesting news, and
there'd been only a brief article about it on page eight of the
Times. It was salutary that X should go on thinking that his faked
accident had been accepted at face value.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," said Marlowe
politely. "Well, let me think back. I'm afraid I can't help you
much. I only stayed, after he came, because I thought Andrea
might--er--feel the need of a little moral support. He asked her a
few questions about Frank, his usual routine and so on, and--"`He
stopped, and then went on, "And I saw he was, ah, perfectly
polite and so on--"
"Not likely to bully the poor girl, in other
words," suggested Mendoza, smiling.
"Oh well, we ordinary citizens so seldom come in
contact with the police! You'll have to forgive me, that was in my
mind, the reason I stayed."
Mendoza's own height, Five-ten----but broader and stockier. He was
about sixty, and well preserved: he'd kept his hair and not taken on
much weight. He had a roundish face, regular features, the inevitable
important-executive horn rims. His voice was an unfortunately
high-pitched tenor, with the hint of a British accent. More probably
New York and/or Harvard, thought Mendoza.
And Marlowe, prepared to condescend to a police
officer, had expected one out of a 1930 detective story, had expected
possibly the accent and low-class grammar, the deference to a rich
man.
Harrington's Italian silk had shaken him. Mendoza sat
down, smiling at him. Marlowe was wearing a dark blue suit of
excellent and conservative cut, and a plain navy tie. Mendoza glanced
at his shoes and said affably, "Do you visit England very often,
Mr. Marlowe?"
"I--why-- Usually once a year or so," said
Marlowe, taken aback. "How--"
Mendoza smiled. "The very British tailoring.
Savile Row? Personally I like Harrington quite well, if you keep an
eye on him." Marlowe would probably know how Harrington charged.
"Just a few questions, Mr. Marlowe. You know Mrs. Nestor. You
went to see her on Friday evening, I understand"
" Oh, it's about that," said Marlowe. "Yes,
I did. I've always felt rather sorry for Andrea--I knew her father,
poor man. She's always--" He hunched his shoulders. "She's
one of those people, nothing ever turns out right for her. Perhaps
it's partly her own fault--I shouldn't say so, but she's a rather
stupid woman. That husband of hers, poor fellow, had all the drive
and the brain."
"I believe you lent him the money for the
chiropractic course?"
" Yes, so I did. I saw he was--in earnest about
it, you see, and I had every confidence that he'd repay me. Which he
did. That's a tragedy there. Such a wanton thing. I most certainly
hope you'll find out who was responsible."
Marlowe bent to proffer a silver bowl of loose
cigarettes.
"Thanks so much, I'll have one of my own,"
said Mendoza. "When you were at Mrs. Nestor's apartment on
Friday evening you met one of my men there--Sergeant Hackett."
"Yes, that's right," said Marlowe, leaning
back.
"Seemed a very pleasant fellow. He wanted to ask
Andrea about a few things. That's a tragedy indeed, poor Frank
getting killed that way. Just when he was doing so well. Probably one
of these juveniles, or--"
"I understand that you left before the sergeant?
Mrs. Nestor said--"
"Why, yes. Why?"
"I'd like to hear all the details," said
Mendoza.
"Well, I'm afraid I don't quite see the point .
. ." Marlowe looked puzzled.
"Sergeant Hackett had a most unfortunate
accident later on that night," said Mendoza. "We're trying,
just for the record, to trace his movements, see where he'd been and
why he might have driven up to--the site of the accident, you see.
Did he say anything at that time about where--” And that was very
unlikely, but you never knew.
"Oh," said Marlowe. "Oh, I see. That's
too bad, he seemed a very nice fellow. I hope he's not badly
injured?"
"The hospital isn't very hopeful," said
Mendoza. They had kept any hint out of the papers that it hadn't been
an accident. Another accident wasn't very interesting news, and
there'd been only a brief article about it on page eight of the
Times. It was salutary that X should go on thinking that his faked
accident had been accepted at face value.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," said Marlowe
politely. "Well, let me think back. I'm afraid I can't help you
much. I only stayed, after he came, because I thought Andrea
might--er--feel the need of a little moral support. He asked her a
few questions about Frank, his usual routine and so on, and--"`He
stopped, and then went on, "And I saw he was, ah, perfectly
polite and so on--"
"Not likely to bully the poor girl, in other
words," suggested Mendoza, smiling.
"Oh well, we ordinary citizens so seldom come in
contact with the police! You'll have to forgive me, that was in my
mind, the reason I stayed."
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