RANSVESTIA

"I'm s-so sorry," she murmured huskily, her grief as genuine as any Hamilton had ever seen. He was becoming a little irritated, however, at the lack of solid information he was getting.

"Can you name the person in the photograph?" he said, a note of urgency in his voice.

She nodded. "Yvonne Douglas," she whispered. She appeared about to say more when they both heard the sound of a key in the front door lock. Before Hamilton could press further, she was on her feet and had rushed to the front door to meet another woman, short and dark- haired, who was depositing a suitcase and clothes rack in the hallway.

Hamilton followed as closely as he could, close enough to hear, "Yvonne is dead, murdered." The small, dark woman, her hair short and close-cropped, stood open-mouthed and staring. The older woman looked back at Hamilton. "This is Sergeant Hamilton," her voice was more animated and sounded quite husky. "He is investigating the murder."

The smaller, younger woman had recovered quickly. "Aren't you supposed to work with a partner as part of police procedure, Sergeant?"

Hamilton smiled as glacially as he could. “Not being able to con- tact this house earlier today, I came over only on the off-chance while my partner is checking out another matter." The time for nicety was over. “Would you be so good as to give me your name, ma'am?”

The woman snorted. "I am Mrs. Jenny Lucas," she said. deliberately. "I live here."

Hamilton had brought the photo from the living room table with him. "Would you identify this person for me, if you are able?" he said.

Mrs. Lucas sniffed and took the photo. "Yes," she said with im- perceptible feeling, "that's Yvonne Douglas." She looked at Hamilton, her eyes narrowing suddenly. "Of course, that wasn't her real name."

"Do you happen to know the real name of this person?" Hamilton's tone was quite formal.

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