Well Now My Pretty

"That's right. What of it?"

"I want to see her."

"She's out." Mrs. Mavdick thumped her floppy bosom and breathed cachou-scented breath into Lepski's face. "Besides, I don't like police here . . . gives my house a bad name."

"Look, sister, relax with the mouth," Lepski said in his cop voice. "You have us here. Where is she?"

The beady, black eyes became interested and cunning.

"Is she in trouble?"

"Could be. Where is she?"

"I don't know. I can't be expected . . ."

Lepski turned and beckoned to one of the police officers.

"We'll go up and see," he said.

"Oh, no, you don't. I don't have cops in my house." Mrs. Mavdick planted herself firmly in the doorway.

Lepski made it his business to know everyone who passed through the local courts. He had a photographic memory, and he remembered Mrs. Mavdick. He grinned evilly at her.

"Been doing any shoplifting recently, Ma?" he asked. "Let's see . . . it was last August, wasn't it? You got away with a $25 fine. Are you looking for more trouble?"

Mrs. Mavdick gasped, stepped back, then, pausing for a moment to gather her floppy dignity around her, she went into her room and slammed the door.

Lepski and the police officer climbed the stairs until they came to Lana Evans' apartment. The three bottles of milk and the three copies of the Paradise City Herald by the door made them exchange glances. Lepski knocked, tried the door, found it locked, then stepped back and drove his shoulder against one of the panels. The door wasn't built to withstand such treatment.

They found Lana Evans lying on the floor. She had been dead now for the past two days.

The black Persian cat was at the window. Seeing Lepski, it jumped down off the window sill and hurried towards the refrigerator,

* * *

An hour later, Lepski brought Terry Nicols into the Chief's office. The youth looked white and shocked, and after regarding him steadily for a moment or so, Terrell waved him to a chair.

"I won't keep you long, Terry," he said. "Sit down. Want a cigarette?"

Nicols shook his head.

"Miss Evans was your fiancée?"

"Yes."

"Were you planning to get married soon?"

"We hadn't the money to get married," Nicols said bitterly. "We were trying to save five hundred dollars to fit out a walk-up apartment. We didn't reckon we could save that amount under two years." He shrugged. "Well, it doesn't matter now."

Terrell lifted up a newspaper that concealed the money Lepski had found in Lana's drawer.

"This money was found in her room, Terry. Know anything about it?"

Nicols licked his lips, a sudden sick look in his eyes.

"You really mean you found all that money in her room?"

Terrell nodded.

"No . . . I know nothing about it. I don't understand." Quickly, Terrell explained his suspicions.

"I think she was got at, Terry. She wanted to marry you and she swallowed the bait. This money bought the way into the Casino's vault. She was in the position to give all the necessary information . . . and she got paid."

Nicols didn't say anything. His stricken face showed his feelings.

"Okay, let's assume that happened. We want to find the man who corrupted her . . . he not only corrupted her, but when he got the information he wanted, he murdered her. We want to find this man. Can you help us?"

"No . . . I know nothing about any man. Lana never told me."

"She never mentioned some man who had befriended her?"

"No."

"She never made an excuse not to see you? Some other date?"

"No. I was at night school every night. We met in the morning on the beach. In the afternoon, I was helping out, delivering for a grocery store. I don't know what she did with herself in the afternoons."

Terrell kept at it, asking question after question, but he didn't get any nearer to No. 5 as he was now calling him.

Finally, he took from his desk drawer the jar of Diana hand cream that Maisky had given Lana.

"Know anything about this, Terry? Did you give it to her?"

"No . . . what is it?"

"A hand cream . . . cost $20 a jar. Not the sort of thing, I imagine, Lana would have bought herself. I was wondering if you had given it to her as a special present."

"Neither of us would think of paying $20 for a hand cream," Nicols said, and he looked genuinely shocked.

When he had gone, Terrell put the jar into a plastic bag and called in Max Jacoby.

"Take this down to the Lab boys right away. I want everything they can tell me about it."

As Jacoby was leaving, Hess came bustling in.

"It's the truck all right. We picked up the two I.B.M. signs on a side road," he said, coming to rest at Terrell's desk. "The shot boy was Ernie Leadbeater, a student. At least, we now have something on No. 5. We have clear footprints, and the lab boys are working on them. We know he had a car parked at the murder spot. He drove the truck there, transferred the money to the other car, and it's my bet, as he was leaving, Leadbeater surprised him and got shot. We have casts of the car's tyres. They are pretty old, and the off-side one has lost its tread . . . enough to be able to identify it if ever we catch up with the car."