Extra Kill - Dell Shannon by Dell Shannon

Pisceans, so prone to being sadly
misunderstood by those less acute of mind. And that fatal pride, so
apt only to add to others' misunderstanding of you—a sad 
handicap—however, undoubtedly you find your native Piscean
intuition for people most useful in your work."
    "My dear, we must not take up the lieutenant's
time, when he is—um—occupied on this sad matter so near our
hearts. If you would tell us, sir, what else we might do to help
you—"
    "I would like a list," said Mendoza, "of
your members here."
    "Oh dear, oh dear," said Kingman, removing
his glasses and beginning to polish them vigorously, "surely you
cannot be thinking that any of these good people, our little flook—
But it's not my place to question, of course. I can easily supply you
with that, if you'll accompany me down to our office— No, no, my
dear, you must not stir, all this has tired you, you must rest."
    "One must not give in," she said bravely.
"Anything we can do to help you at any time—please do not
hesitate to ask. But if you will forgive me now, I do feel quite
exhausted—"
    "My wife," said
Kingman as they stepped into the elevator, "is a very sensitive
woman—very sensitive. She is an Aquarian herself, of course."
    * * *
    Mendoza let himself into his apartment at an early
hour by his usual routine. Bast, the russet-brown Abyssinian, and her
five-month-old daughter Nefertite who had taken after the Abyssinian
side of the family and was also russet-colored with black trimmings,
came to meet him with shrill welcome. He switched on all the lights
and began to look about automatically to see what mischief the
unpredictable El Señor had got into in his absence.
    The magazine rack was still upright, but quite empty,
and all the magazines were spread out on the floor with the morning
paper neatly on top of them.
    "Now how in the name of all devils does he do these things?" Mendoza wondered. He was beyond asking himself
why. He looked further, y and located El Senor gazing coldly down at
him from the top of the kitchen door. El Senor was also five months
old, but twice the size of his sister; he had inherited his father's
Siamese points in reverse, like the wrong side of a negative, and was
nearly black all over except for blond eyebrows, paws, nose, and
tail-tip. He had large almond-shaped green eyes. "Señor
Misterioso!" said Mendoza. “Do you grow hands when my back is
turned?" He began to pick up the magazines.
      El Señor leaped gracefully down the narrow
mantel from the door, and abruptly became Señor Estupido; he lost
his balance, blundered into the electric clock and knocked it flat,
and began trying to climb the wall.
    "I put up with you only for your mother's sake,"
Mendoza told him. He plucked him off the mantel and let all the cats
out, went to the kitchen and cut up fresh liver pending their return,
and made coffee. He carried a cup with him into the bedroom; with his
tie off and shirt half-buttoned he paused to study those snapshots in
Twelvetrees' wallet again.
    That girl. What was it that made her familiar?
    Studio agency. Twelvetrees had ambitions toward a
screen career. He had done work as an extra, he had met other such
people. This girl, maybe. Have I seen her in a film? wondered
Mendoza. But he never went to film theaters. He never watched TV.
    He shook his head and went on undressing. He had a
bath, and all the while that vague familiarity teased at his mind. He
got into a robe and went back to the kitchen for more coffee. He let
the cats in and fed them.
    Damn it. She stood there on an anonymous beach, in a
white bathing suit, shoulder-1ength dark hair tossed in the
wind-features too indistinct to identify individually, but something
indefinable in the stance, the frozen gesture . . .
    He finished the coffee and washed the pot and cup.
    It was like a hangnail, he thought, he couldn't leave
it alone. He—Hangnail. Hands. Manicure.
    " Por todos angeles negros
y demonios de Satamis! " he exclaimed
aloud. Of course,