Read Online Streets of Death - Dell Shannon by Dell Shannon - Free Book Online
Authors: Dell Shannon
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light from
Conway.
The curtains parted. "Again, you want to ask
questions? Oh, you are different police."
Carey’s blonde was blonde only in the sense that
she wasn’t dark. Her thick hair was tawny russet to dark gold,
obviously as nature made it, and she wasn’t conventionally pretty;
she had high wide cheekbones, a face slanted to a slender chin, a
wide mouth, uptilted brows and grave dark eyes. She was only about
five-three, and had a neatly rounded figure in her yellow and white
uniform. She came farther into the room and all the men stood up
formally.
"Mrs. Fleming? Lieutenant Mendoza--Detective
Conway, Detective Galeano. Sit down, won’t you?" Mendoza
offered her a cigarette.
"Thank you, I do not smoke. You want to ask all
the questions again?"
"Well, you see, Lieutenant Carey has passed the
case on to my department." Mendoza was watching her.
"Robbery-Homicide."
Her eyes didn’t change expression; she looked down
at her folded hands and said, "You think Edwin is dead. So do
I." She had the faintest of accents; her speech betrayed her
more by its formal grammar. "I thought that from the first."
"We’ve heard all the--mmh--circumstances from
Carey," said Mendoza, emitting a long stream of smoke, "and
you must admit it all looks very odd, doesn’t it?"
"It is a mystery, yes," she said. "I
have thought and thought, and I cannot decide what has happened."
She was watching them too, looking from one to the other. "I am
sure he has killed himself, but I do not understand how."
"Mmh, yes, it seems rather an impossibility."
Mendoza’s tone was only faintly sardonic. "When he was
confined to a wheelchair, he couldn’t even get downstairs by
himself. And couldn’t, of course, drive--though you have a car."
"We were going to sell it. A young man down the
street wishes to buy it. It is too expensive to operate an auto now.
No, he could not have driven."
"You told Carey your husband had threatened
suicide?"
She said carefully, "He has been very--very
despondent about life, since the baby died." Her mouth twisted a
little. "He was fond of little K ä tzchen .
Before, he had been--a little optimistic, that perhaps in time the
doctors could make him walk again. But lately, it was as if--he said,
there was nothing, no reason to go on living, he was only a worry and
a burden to me, and it was not right."
"And how did you feel about it? The same way?"
asked Mendoza.
She looked surprised. "I? It was--a thing life
had brought to us. How should I feel? I was sorry."
"Mmh, yes," said Mendoza. "You work
long hours here? Walk to work and home again?"
"Yes. I am here mornings and evenings, six days
a week." She looked at him impassively and then said, not
raising her voice, "You do not believe me either. That other
policeman, that Carey, he asked questions over and over again, who
are our friends, do I have a special friend, perhaps a special man
friend, what did I do that day, where did I go, were there any
telephone calls--and the other girls here, Betty and Angela who work
with me, he asked them questions about me. It is almost a little
funny." But she was looking angry. "Do you all think I have
murdered my husband? That is very funny indeed, how could I do that?
Even if I were so wicked?"
"Did you?" asked Mendoza.
"Please do not be so foolish. I beg your
pardon," she said tiredly. "I know the police always have
to deal with criminals, wicked people, and perhaps you come to
suspect everyone is so. You have to find out, ask questions, to know.
But all I can do is tell you the truth. I do not know what has
happened to Edwin."
Mendoza had stubbed out his cigarette, now lit
another. "You came home that day, nearly two weeks ago--two
weeks ago tomorrow--at about five o’clock? You got oif here at two,
and went shopping, you said. It was raining very heavily that day."
Her eyes fell before his. "Yes," she said.
"Yes. I am--you forget--European, I am used to the rain."
For no reason Galeano’s heart missed a beat.
Conway.
The curtains parted. "Again, you want to ask
questions? Oh, you are different police."
Carey’s blonde was blonde only in the sense that
she wasn’t dark. Her thick hair was tawny russet to dark gold,
obviously as nature made it, and she wasn’t conventionally pretty;
she had high wide cheekbones, a face slanted to a slender chin, a
wide mouth, uptilted brows and grave dark eyes. She was only about
five-three, and had a neatly rounded figure in her yellow and white
uniform. She came farther into the room and all the men stood up
formally.
"Mrs. Fleming? Lieutenant Mendoza--Detective
Conway, Detective Galeano. Sit down, won’t you?" Mendoza
offered her a cigarette.
"Thank you, I do not smoke. You want to ask all
the questions again?"
"Well, you see, Lieutenant Carey has passed the
case on to my department." Mendoza was watching her.
"Robbery-Homicide."
Her eyes didn’t change expression; she looked down
at her folded hands and said, "You think Edwin is dead. So do
I." She had the faintest of accents; her speech betrayed her
more by its formal grammar. "I thought that from the first."
"We’ve heard all the--mmh--circumstances from
Carey," said Mendoza, emitting a long stream of smoke, "and
you must admit it all looks very odd, doesn’t it?"
"It is a mystery, yes," she said. "I
have thought and thought, and I cannot decide what has happened."
She was watching them too, looking from one to the other. "I am
sure he has killed himself, but I do not understand how."
"Mmh, yes, it seems rather an impossibility."
Mendoza’s tone was only faintly sardonic. "When he was
confined to a wheelchair, he couldn’t even get downstairs by
himself. And couldn’t, of course, drive--though you have a car."
"We were going to sell it. A young man down the
street wishes to buy it. It is too expensive to operate an auto now.
No, he could not have driven."
"You told Carey your husband had threatened
suicide?"
She said carefully, "He has been very--very
despondent about life, since the baby died." Her mouth twisted a
little. "He was fond of little K ä tzchen .
Before, he had been--a little optimistic, that perhaps in time the
doctors could make him walk again. But lately, it was as if--he said,
there was nothing, no reason to go on living, he was only a worry and
a burden to me, and it was not right."
"And how did you feel about it? The same way?"
asked Mendoza.
She looked surprised. "I? It was--a thing life
had brought to us. How should I feel? I was sorry."
"Mmh, yes," said Mendoza. "You work
long hours here? Walk to work and home again?"
"Yes. I am here mornings and evenings, six days
a week." She looked at him impassively and then said, not
raising her voice, "You do not believe me either. That other
policeman, that Carey, he asked questions over and over again, who
are our friends, do I have a special friend, perhaps a special man
friend, what did I do that day, where did I go, were there any
telephone calls--and the other girls here, Betty and Angela who work
with me, he asked them questions about me. It is almost a little
funny." But she was looking angry. "Do you all think I have
murdered my husband? That is very funny indeed, how could I do that?
Even if I were so wicked?"
"Did you?" asked Mendoza.
"Please do not be so foolish. I beg your
pardon," she said tiredly. "I know the police always have
to deal with criminals, wicked people, and perhaps you come to
suspect everyone is so. You have to find out, ask questions, to know.
But all I can do is tell you the truth. I do not know what has
happened to Edwin."
Mendoza had stubbed out his cigarette, now lit
another. "You came home that day, nearly two weeks ago--two
weeks ago tomorrow--at about five o’clock? You got oif here at two,
and went shopping, you said. It was raining very heavily that day."
Her eyes fell before his. "Yes," she said.
"Yes. I am--you forget--European, I am used to the rain."
For no reason Galeano’s heart missed a beat.
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