“You didn’t say …”
“I want you to look at a man.” He still held her arm, but softly now, protectively. His gray eyes were warm with sympathy. “How do you feel? Do you think you can do it?”
She faced him, pulling her arm away. The blood had left her face, making her appear more Oriental than ever. “You mean a dead man, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Is it—you think it’s Bob Cooke, don’t you?”
“We think so.”
She closed her eyes a moment, swayed, and then recovered before he could steady her. Her eyes opened. “Is he—”
Reardon understood her instinctively. “He isn’t bad to look at.”
“All right.”
He led her into the anteroom. There was a warm rug on the floor and colorful prints on the cream-colored walls, but the sharp odor of formaldehyde destroyed the image. A door instantly opened; an attendant, warned by some inner signal, stood there.
“Lieutenant?”
“We’ll be right with you.”
The door closed behind the white-coated man; the girl looked after him with growing awareness and then abruptly looked around the room. She found a chair and stumbled to it, sinking into it, trembling.
“I think I’m going to faint or get sick,” she said in a little-girl voice.
“I’ll get you some water.” The room boasted a fountain, neatly pastel in color as if to compensate for its location, flanked by a container of paper cups. He filled one and brought it to her. “Drink this.”
She took the paper cup and brought it to her lips, and then retracted it without tasting it. For several moments she stared at the brightly carpeted floor, holding the water as if she didn’t know she had it. Finally she found the strength to question, speaking to the rug.
“You’re not 100 per cent sure, are you?”
“We’re pretty sure from your description. Can you do it?”
“What happened to him?”
“An automobile accident. Over on Indiana and Eighteenth. He was hit and killed. Instantly,” he added. Somehow that word “instantly” seemed to make people feel better, as if it held out the hope of painlessness. “Can you look at him?”
She placed the water to one side and came to her feet.
“Yes,” she said simply, and her eyes came up. “If we do it now and we do it quickly.”
He took her arm again, leading her to a set of swinging doors, opening them, guiding her through. They faced a corridor; he pushed through the first set of double doors to the right. There was an antiseptic whiteness to the tiled walls and floor, as if antisepsis could lessen in the slightest the effect of unabated horror to those unacquainted with the morgue. The glare of fluorescent lights added to the garishness; the odor of formaldehyde here was almost overwhelming, almost as if sprayed in the air to hide other, and more frightful, odors. The attendant rose hastily from a desk as they came through the door, tucking a fountain pen into his white jacket pocket.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“There was an Unknown from an automobile accident on Eighteenth and Indiana. Few hours ago.”
“Yes, sir. That would be D-4.”
The attendant glanced at the girl with the touch of sympathy he automatically reserved for those unfortunate enough to have to come here, but with a bit of curiosity as to her conduct and reaction, as well. He had seen thousands and could not help comparing. He moved to a solid wall of stainless steel drawers; they looked like the file cabinet of some giant. He found D-4 and drew it out, proud of the numbering system he had helped to devise, and prouder yet that the metal box rolled silently, with none of the tortured screeching of metal upon metal that seemed to set relatives’ nerves on edge. He drew back the unbleached sheet covering the form.
The girl forced herself to look down. She bit her lip in a daze.
Reardon touched her arm. “Well?”
“It’s—it’s Bob.”
The drawer was held open one extra second for her verification and then was slid shut on its expertly oiled runners. The attendant had no desire, nor cause, to be needlessly cruel. She stared after the drawer as if still unable to believe what she had just seen. Her eyes, wide and lovely, came up to Reardon’s face.
“What happened to him?”
“I told you.” But she hadn’t listened. How could she possibly have listened? None of those left living ever listened the first time, and often not the second. He made his voice unemotional, reportorial. “There was an automobile accident. Your friend stepped off a curb on a dark street wearing dark clothes, and the driver—a man named Ralph Crocker—didn’t see him. It was one of those things. Either your friend wasn’t looking, or his mind was on something else.” Like a date with you, he couldn’t help thinking.
He was leading her from the room as he spoke. The attendant suddenly appeared in front of them, holding them. His pen had popped into his hand as if by magic, as if he were an autograph seeker, “Lieutenant—” He tilted his head toward the stainless-steel wall behind him. “Is he identified?”
“Cooke. Robert. That’s with a final ‘E.’”
The attendant nodded, satisfied. Reardon took the girl’s arm and led her from the building. She came quietly, submissive, dazed, as if unaware that she was being led or directed. He walked her down the open arcade in the warm breeze of the night, pushing the door to the Hall open so she could enter, holding the rope high so she could go beneath. They rose in the elevator silently to the fourth floor and walked quietly down the corridor to his office. She moved as if sleepwalking. Reardon flicked on his office light for the third time that night, seated her in the chair beside his desk, and dropped wearily into his accustomed chair. There was a large manila envelope there with Wilkins’ name penciled in one corner. He pushed it aside to be considered in the morning—if ever—picked up his pencil, edged his pad closer, and looked at her sympathetically.
“Tell me about Bob Cooke.”
She looked about the small office numbly, accepting the nude calendar, the otherwise barren walls, the lovely view of the city from the window that somehow seemed out of place. There should be no beauty in a place like this, she seemed to silently say. Her eyes finally came back to Reardon. Behind them her tears were checked with effort.
“He’s dead.”
“Yes, he’s dead.” Reardon’s voice was even.
“I can’t believe it. He was the most alive person I ever knew.”
“He’s still dead. Tell me about him.”
For a moment she looked as if she were about to flare, but then she relaxed. She sighed, recognizing the necessity of official action at this point.
“There isn’t anything to tell. I can’t believe it. He’s dead. We had a date and he had to work later than I did. We both work on the S.S. Mandarin—it’s a passenger cruise ship between here and the Orient—”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“—although it carried cargo too, of course.” She might not have heard him. “He’s—I mean, he was—one of the deck officers. Actually, he reported to the purser’s office; he handled the paperwork for hold-luggage, and any of the cargo that was in the forward holds. He—” She seemed to realize she was wandering in her statement, and allowed her voice to die away.
“And you’re a stewardess on the same ship.”
He expected some surprise on her part at this unexpected foreknowledge of his, but instead he got a touch of indignation. It almost seemed for a moment that he had insulted her. At least, he thought, it took her mind from her tragedy, if only temporarily.
“I run the ship’s shop. We sell anything passengers might want on the trip—shaving equipment, post cards, film, and T-shirts, swimming things, sun lotion—” She seemed to realize she could go on forever and finished rather weakly. “—paperback books …” She fingered her purse as she added information. “We—that is the shop—are closed in port. It’s the law. So I’m free to leave the ship as soon as we dock, together with the passengers.
But Bob—” She shrugged. “Well, there are papers and documents to fill out, and that’s after the holds are clear of cargo, of course, so he couldn’t get away as soon …”
Her voice dropped and then came back, strengthened. She refused to succumb to her loss. Reardon listened quietly, the pencil unmoving in his fingers.
“We were supposed to meet for a drink at the bar on top of the Fairmont, and then we were going to the Little Tokyo for dinner—” Reardon’s eyebrows raised slightly; under completely different circumstances they might have seen each other there, and he and Jan would have had a conversation piece instead of a fight. “I knew Bob might be a few minutes late, because he often is. It’s hard to tell exactly when he’ll be free. But when he didn’t show up by nine o’clock I called the ship. They put a telephone line on board as soon as the ship docks. They told me he’d left at least an hour before. That’s when I got worried, because it isn’t—wasn’t—like Bob. So I guess I got panicky and started calling hospitals, and then I thought of the Missing Persons Bureau …”
She suddenly started to cry but before Reardon could think of anything comforting to say she forcibly brought herself under control.
“I don’t cry,” she said. She sounded almost angry that she didn’t.
“Neither do I,” Reardon said. “Sometimes I think it might be a loss.”
Her eyes looked at him. “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Jim Reardon. James Reardon. I’m a lieutenant of police.”
“What did you mean, downstairs, when you said to the man he was the Unknown you picked up?”
“When he was picked up he had no identification. No wallet.”
“You mean he was robbed?”
Reardon shook his head. “No. I just mean he had no identification. No wallet or cards. Nothing with his name on it.” He put the pencil he had been holding aside. “He had money on him in a money clip and a handkerchief and loose change and some keys, but nothing with his name.” A possibility occurred to him and he looked at her. “Did Bob Cooke live on the ship?”
“He did in San Francisco. And other ports, too, of course. Or sometimes—” She straightened in the chair a bit defiantly, daring him to make something out of it. “Sometimes when we were in port here he stayed with me at my place. My apartment. He had a small two-room house in Hawaii; it was where he was from. Sometimes I’d stay on the ship there, but sometimes I’d stay with him.”
Reardon felt an urge to ask if she had loved him and if so, how much. Jan came to mind, warm as she had been in bed that afternoon, smart as he knew she was smart, and—sadly—hurt as he knew she was hurt at the moment.
“How long are you in port here in San Francisco?”
“Four days.” The conversation on innocuous subjects seemed to have relaxed her; her hands didn’t move over her bag as much, as if seeking a solution to her problem in picking at the tiny pearl beads. “We do our main reprovisioning here, although we pick up fresh food in almost every port. We usually spend three days in Hawaii.” She considered, her mind fending off the thought of the death and her loss. “In the East it depends. Sometimes we make Hong Kong, sometimes not. Or Manila. We always make Japan, though. The cruises vary; they aren’t always the same.”
Reardon nodded and reluctantly brought the subject back to the dead man.
“Did Bob Cooke have any family?”
“No,” she said. “Or if he did he never mentioned them. We—we weren’t planning on marriage or anything like that.” Her defiance had returned. “We were just good friends.”
She sounded sincere. And before you start any sniggering inwardly, Jim, boy, he advised himself evenly, remember it’s the same deal you and Jan have. Or had, until the little argument tonight. He brought his mind back to business.
“Who was his immediate superior aboard the ship?”
“The chief purser. His name is Thompson. He’ll know what to do. About the body, that is …” She bit her lip again and tears formed in her eyes. She reached into her small bag for a handkerchief and wiped them away angrily, hardening her jaw. “He’ll know what to do …”
Reardon picked up his pencil and marked the name down. “Do you know the telephone number?”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember, but Information can give it to you.” She waited a moment in the silence. “Is there anything else?”
Reardon sighed. “I don’t believe so. Not now, at any rate.” He looked down at his notes. Among the squiggles and the little squares, neatly crosshatched, was the name S.S. Mandarin and the name Thompson, but that was all. He came to his feet. “I’ll drive you home. Will you be all right there alone tonight?”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Do you have any sleeping pills at home? Or tranquilizers?”
“No. I’ve never needed them.”
“How about liquor?”
“There’s plenty of that.”
“Then take enough to make you sleep. Let’s go. You live out past me a few blocks. I’ll take you there.”
She looked surprised. “How do you know?”
“It was on the Missing Person’s report. Also your name.” He moved to the door. “Is it Penny, or short for Penelope?”
“It’s Penny. Bob used to call me his Bad Penny, because he said he hoped I’ll always show up. Only tonight he was the one who didn’t.” She swallowed convulsively and looked around the office as if wondering what she was doing there. “What will they do to this man Rolf?”
“Rolf is his first name—or rather, Ralph. His last name is Crocker. What will they do to him? I don’t know. It depends on the judge. Why?”
“I don’t know,” she said expressionlessly. “I was just wondering. You know—” Her dark eyes came up to his face. “—I still can’t believe it. I feel as if some imposter was down there in that drawer, all made up to look like Bob. I don’t feel Bob is dead.” She looked slightly apologetic at her own statement. “I don’t feel anything.”
Reardon sighed. “Of course you don’t, not now,” he said quietly. “But you will,” and opened the door.
CHAPTER 6
Wednesday—9:10 A.M.
Lieutenant Reardon hung up his jacket, dropped into the chair behind his desk, and rubbed the back of his neck to relieve the pressure that began each day for him. He studied the pile of papers in his In-basket and disregarded them, reaching instead for the large manila envelope Wilkins had left for him the night before, opening it and sliding out the contents.
There were seven eight-by-ten photographs, glossy for easy reproduction; these he put aside for the time being. There was the standard Accident and Evidence Diagram, Form 12-3, showing a street intersection; across it Wilkins had hand-printed: Not Applicable. There was the standard Accident and Evidence Diagram Form 12-2, and on this Wilkins had neatly drawn the street, the location of the car and the body, all properly dimensioned in relationship to each other as well as to the telephone pole and the two street corners of Eighteenth and Nineteenth streets at each end of Indiana. Even the width of Indiana had been noted. The form requested information on Accident Facts, Statements, and Stopping Test; Wilkins had succinctly typed after each one, “See Attached Report.” Form 12-2 never had provided Sergeant Wilkins with enough space to do a proper job.
Reardon laid this form aside with the photos and turned to the main report, San Francisco Police Department Vehicle Accident Report. He could understand Wilkins’ complaint: it was a solid mass of tiny squares and rectangles asking thousands of questions. With a sigh Reardon slumped in his chair, prepared to suffer through it.
The time of the accident was noted, as well as the location and references to Form 12-2. The name of the driver was given and all the facts as Reardon already knew them. The Buick, he was not surprised to find, was a 1940 model; a real old-timer. It was in the Police Garage in the basement of the Hall of Justice, delivered there by Sergeant Lundahl. The questions of estimated speed at impact, distance traveled after impact, prima-facie
speed, were handled in Wilkins’ usual fashion; “See Attached Report. Reardon turned the sheet over. The type of road and the surface condition were checked, but that was about all, despite the fact that the back of the report provided space for the answers to at least two hundred questions. Reardon smiled faintly, picturing Wilkins facing this form ten times a day, and turned to the highly advertised report. As usual, Wilkins had started with the thing he considered most important: the victim:
The victim was a Caucasian male with no personal identification. No conclusion should be drawn from this as all labels in his clothing were intact, which together with his fingerprints and an extremely discernible scar on his upper lip will make him easily identified. Medical Examiner will furnish full data on body tomorrow. (9/16)
Victim was dressed in dark gray sports jacket, dark blue trousers, blue button-down shirt with dark blue necktie, black shoes, black socks. Clothing labels: jacket from Tuan Kyung in Hong Kong, trousers no I.D. or cleaner’s label; shirt and tie from Walker’s Men’s Store, S.F., shoes Florsheim with stamp from Cadwallers in Honolulu. No I.D. on other articles.
Attached contents of pockets in separate list.
Clothing suggests victim recent traveler or worked on one of the ships and was off duty. Lack of wallet suggests it was left on board, as would location of the accident only a few blocks from the Central Basin docks.
Victim was struck by a 1940 Buick sedan, color black, license Cal. X40J36. Driver information on Vehicle Accident Report. No previous arrests. Automobile suffered no visible damage (see photographs) but further report will be submitted after technical squad examines car tomorrow. (9/16)
In the opinion of this officer it would be extremely difficult with a driver with normal vision in the light available at the accident site (see lumin measurements on Form 12-2 taken at site as well as twenty-foot intervals along Indiana) to have seen the victim, dressed as he was in dark clothing, at a distance of more than twenty feet. The skid marks are consistent with sudden application of brakes approximately eighteen feet from point of impact for a car of that weight traveling at a speed of twenty-to-twenty-two miles per hour. This is under the speed restriction for this street.
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