Ричард Деминг - The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

“Thank you, but my wife will be expecting me.” Then, beginning to realize that the hospitable ex-schoolteacher tossed out dinner invitations to anyone who happened to be nearby, he forestalled her possible later disappointment by saying, “The man who relieves me will already have eaten.”

“Oh?” she said, mildly surprised by this gratuitous information. “Well, you’re still welcome to watch TV in here, if you wish.”

“I guess I could do that,” the young policeman said, going over to peer at the set. “There’s a ball game on channel four.”

“Would you like some more milk? Or a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you,” he said politely. Then, after a pause, he asked tentatively, “Do you happen to have any coffee?”

“Oh, of course. I never think of coffee, because I never drink it. I’ll make some.”

She made a pot of coffee, replenished the plate of cookies, and left Harry Dewey to his own devices as she prepared dinner. She fixed stuffed pork chops, wrapped some potatoes in foil for baking, and made a salad. She put the first two items in the oven and the third in the refrigerator. At four-thirty she turned on the oven, set the timer to go off in an hour, then went into her bedroom for an hour’s nap.

When the bell ringing in the kitchen awakened her at five-thirty, she found the patrolman still seated before the television and the cookie plate nearly empty. In the kitchen she checked the chops and potatoes, found both done, and turned the oven down to 150 to keep them warm. For a vegetable she started heating frozen peas in a pot.

At a quarter of six she was ready to serve dinner, but the policewoman had not yet showed up. She had about decided she wasn’t coming until after dinner, and had resigned herself to dining alone, when the door chimes sounded. She looked out from the kitchen door as Officer Dewey peered through the spy-hole, then opened the door into the hall.

“Hi,” a pleasantly husky voice said from beyond Josephine’s range of vision. “I’m Gladys Phelps.”

“Harry Dewey,” the young man said. “Come on in.”

A tall strawberry blonde with a slender figure entered. She carried a small overnight bag in her left hand, and had a shoulder bag slung from her right shoulder. She wore a blue police uniform with a knee-length skirt, sensible low-heeled black shoes, and had a blue overseas-type hat perched at an angle on her head, Josephine guessed her to be somewhere in her mid-twenties.

“This is Miss Henry, Gladys,” Dewey said. “Officer Phelps, Miss Henry.”

The policewoman smiled acknowledgment. Josephine said, “I’m glad you could make it in time for dinner. You haven’t had dinner, have you?”

Shaking her head, the strawberry blonde said in her pleasantly husky voice, “No.”

Harry Dewey said, “I go off duty in fifteen minutes, Gladys, but another guard will be stationed out in the hall all night. There’s also one out back, checking everyone who enters by the back entrance.”

The policewoman nodded understanding.

“I’d better get out in the hall to wait for my relief. Thanks for the refreshments, Miss Henry.”

“You’re quite welcome, young man.”

Picking up his visored cap, the patrolman went out. Eyeing the newcomer’s left hand and spotting no rings, Josephine said, “It’s Miss Phelps, not Mrs. Phelps, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Or Gladys, if you like.”

“All right, Gladys,” Josephine said, smiling. “I have only one bedroom, but the sofa makes up into a quite comfortable double bed. There’s a dressing room off the bedroom where you can leave your overnight bag.” She gestured in the direction of the central hall.

“Thanks,” the policewoman said, carrying the bag down the hallway and disappearing into the dressing room.

The door chimes sounded. The policewoman immediately reappeared in the central hall doorway.

Josephine said, “That must be my little dog. He’s due back from the doggie beauty parlor about now.”

She went over to peer through the viewing hole. It was the same messenger who had picked up the dog, now wearing a suit of mannish cut in place of the orange coveralls. She had Coco Joe cradled in her arms. The Pomeranian was growling in the direction of the bench alongside the door, presumably at Officer Dewey.

Opening the door, Josephine took the little dog from the messenger’s arms. His coat was shiny clean, he was freshly trimmed, and a little purple bow had been pinned to the top of his head with a hairpin.

“Hi, you fierce beast,” Josephine said. “Was he good?”

“Just darling. See you next week, Miss Henry.”

“All right, dear. Good night.”

Closing the door, she set Coco Joe on the floor. Instantly the dog whipped across the room, snarling and snapping at the policewoman’s ankles. A defensive kick sent him rolling head-over-heels, squealing, toward Josephine, who scooped him up in her arms.

Apparently the kick had hurt only his dignity, because he immediately began to struggle to get out of her grip, snarling and growling at the policewoman all the time.

“What’s the matter with you, you silly little dog?” Josephine scolded him, slapping lightly at his muzzle. “Stop it now! She’s a friend.”

When the dog finally quieted to the point of merely emitting low-toned growls, Josephine said apologetically, “I’m sorry. I don’t know wha t’s gotten into him. I’d better lock him in the bedroom until he quiets down.”

The policewoman stepped out of the way to allow her to carry the dog down the hallway to the bedroom. As she closed the bedroom door behind her, Josephine started to say, “You bad little—” then suddenly cut it off and stood stock still.

Coco Joe never made a mistake about the sex of visitors to the apartment. The masculine attire, masculine figure and masculine hairdo of the Canine Beauty Care Center messenger had not fooled him for an instant. He had known she was female anyway.

Just as the policewoman’s garb had not fooled him. He had known the intruder was male.

Josephine’s skin turned cold. The person who claimed to be Gladys Phelps was about five-feet-six or seven, probably weighed around 135 pounds, had blue eyes and a rather boyish face.

But hadn’t the voice been feminine? Not markedly, she answered herself, just not obviously masculine. And the supposed Gladys Phelps had said very few words, now that she thought of it, had so far been almost monosyllabic in fact—perhaps because it was a strain to assume that husky, almost feminine voice.

But what about the strawberry blonde hair?

The answer to that was simple. Every department store in town sold women’s wigs. You could get a quite natural-looking one for as little as twenty-five dollars.

But that would involve advance planning on James Clayton’s part. How could he possibly have guessed that a policewoman would be heading for her apartment in time to go buy a wig before intercepting her? And how did he know her name?

Setting Coco Joe on the bed, she went over to gaze out the window at the street four stories below while she sought answers to those two questions.

They came disturbingly quickly. He had seen the front-page photograph, six months before, of Josephine and her policewoman bodyguard seated in the apartment. The police, like criminals, tended to follow a certain modus operandi. James Clayton could be reasonably certain they would assign another policewoman guard to Josephine if they suspected he was the killer of Mrs. Sommerfield. Perhaps the list of potential victims had not been left behind on that poor woman’s dresser by accident after all. Perhaps it had been deliberately planted in order to make sure another policewoman guard was assigned to Josephine.