Where There's Smoke полностью

Mrs. Fletcher put two spoonfuls of sugar in her cup, and then added a dollop of milk to the mix. There was the creaking sound of footsteps in the apartment directly above. Pipes clanged somewhere next door.

“Is Natalie in trouble?” she asked.

“I don’t know. May I ask you some questions?”

“That’s why you’re here,” Mrs. Fletcher said, with the characteristic directness of intelligence seasoned with age. There’s a no-nonsense air about smart old people. They’ve lived too long and seen too much, and they rarely bother with the niceties of polite conversation. They haven’t got time for it.

“First I’d like to know if you’ve ever seen your daugh­ter wearing a jade pendant.”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Because a jade pendant was found at the scene of the murder.”

“And if I tell you my daughter does own such a pen­dant, will that implicate her in the murder?”

“Shall I be honest with you?”

“Why should I expect otherwise?”

“Mrs. Fletcher, if the pendant is your daughter’s, I’d want to know how it got there. She may have a reason­able explanation.”

“And if she hasn’t?”

“First things first. Is it your daughter’s?”

“Do you have the pendant with you?”

“No.”

“Then how can I possibly identify it?”

“Does your daughter own a jade pendant mounted in a silver frame?”

“Yes.”

“Is the face of it carved with a likeness of Cleopatra?”

“Yes.”

“And is the back of the frame engraved with the name ‘Natalie Fletcher,’ and the date ‘69 B.C.’?”

“I have never seen the back of the pendant.”

“Does the pendant I’ve just described to you sound like the one your daughter owns?”

“It does. But until I see the pendant, I can’t say for sure it’s hers.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, this isn’t a court of law, and I’m not try­ing to pin anything on your daughter. But a man’s been killed...”

“Do you think my daughter killed him?”

“Not unless she can be described as big and husky.”

“Natalie? You’re joking.”

“How tall is she, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Five-six. But she’s very slender. In fact, she’s almost slight. I keep telling her she looks emaciated.”

“Does she drive an automobile?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of an automobile?”

“A Buick station wagon.”

“Would any of her friends drive a Volkswagen bus?”

“I don’t know any of her friends. What’s more, I don’t care to know any of them. They’re probably to blame for ... Well, never mind.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, when did you last see your daughter?”

“What’s today?” she asked.

“Technically, it’s Tuesday morning already.”

“Does that always confuse you, too?”

“Yes. To me, it’s still Monday night.”

“Let me think,” she said. She sipped at her coffee. “I saw her Saturday. Yes. For a moment I wasn’t sure whether it was Friday or Saturday. But it was Saturday. Yes. I remember clearly now. She had just come from the doctor’s.”

“Dr. Hirsch, would that be?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised. “How did you know that?”

“Is Dr. Hirsch a psychiatrist?”

“No. He’s an internist.”

“Was your daughter sick?”

“No, it was just a checkup.”

“And you met her afterwards.”

“Yes. We had lunch together.”

“Was she wearing the pendant at the time?”

“She always wears the pendant. You see, she...”

“Yes, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I don’t know whether or not I can trust you, Mr. Smoke.”

“Please do,” I said.

Mrs. Fletcher sighed, put down her coffee cup, and then said, “My daughter thinks she’s Cleopatra.”

“I already know that.”

“I assumed you did. When you asked if Dr. Hirsch was a psychiatrist...” Mrs. Fletcher sighed. “Natalie wears the pendant all the time, says it was a gift from...” She shook her head. “I can barely talk about it,” she said. “I find it all quite sad.”

“When did this start?” I asked. “The Cleopatra belief.”

“Shortly after Harry died. My son. He died of a heart attack six months ago. Natalie said he couldn’t be dead, people don’t die, they just pass over into another life. Then she started saying he’d really died in the year 47 B.C., and then she said he was Ptolemy the Twelfth and she was Cleopatra and ... and then she disappeared, I didn’t know where she was living, I didn’t know whether she was sick or ...”

“When was this?”

“Harry died in March. March the fifth. Natalie left here in April sometime. I didn’t know where she was until fi­nally she called in June and told me she’d taken the apart­ment on Oberlin Crescent.”

“You hadn’t heard from her in all that time?”

“Not a word,” Mrs. Fletcher’s eyes turned suddenly angry. “I blame her friends. They’re the ones who filled her head with evil ideas. Long before Harry died.”

“Evil?”

“Yes. Spiritualism, witchcraft, the supernatural. Evil” she said flatly.

“Mrs. Fletcher, do you know where I can find your daughter now?”

“Have you tried her apartment?”

“Yes.”

“She wasn’t there, I suppose. I shouldn’t be surprised. She runs around half the night to those masses of hers.”

“Masses? What kind of masses?”