ransvestia

routine of requesting further information, if she could remember any little thing, and to call Sergeant Hamilton personally.

"Well," he said at last, trying to enthuse his silent partner. "This case is looking up. Two leads to go on."

Ellis scowled. "You know how I feel about queers, Sergeant. We'll likely have to dig deep into the sewer to solve this one." His rage was genuine and fiery. "And it won't be worth it. We should just let degenerates like that kill themselves off. The world would be better off."

Hamilton shrugged. "Ah, Mike, it's very unlikely to be a homosexual murder with the way this corpse was dressed. He'd pass anywhere, you know, and probably has." He paused. "Well, you check up on the cab companies for the drop here and look up P. Vane in as many places as you can. I'll be up to Fremont to check on the Lucases."

*******

The Lucas residence on Fremont Way was quite an old house, set well back off the quiet, treed residential boulevard. The house itself was well concealed by high, dark-leaved karaganis which lined the driveway and the front of the house itself. A red Corvette was parked in the gravel driveway when Hamilton arrived at the side door. He touched the hood. It was still hot. Confidently, he turned to the door and was about to ring when it was opened for him.

A woman, middle-aged but well and expensively dressed, her blonde-streaked hair still bound by a navy blue and white, polka dot headscarf, stood with black kid gloves in hand. She raised a precise, pencilled eyebrow as she spoke in a low voice. "You want to see someone?"

Hamilton smiled as disarmingly as he could for a misty mid-week, morning. "Beautiful car," he began. "Mrs. Lucas?"

The woman shook her head, tiny blue-stone earrings swaying at her neck and calling attention to her blue mascara and black-lined, blue eyes. A fragrance of perfume reached Hamilton's unappreciative nose. She had removed her head scarf and was obviously coming in

32