“How about a James Reardon martini? Will you join me?”
Her voice was faint, but matter-of-fact. “We don’t have vermouth.”
“Even better. A properly dry martini for a change.” He reached for the bottle of gin and then almost dropped it, jumping a foot as he was painfully stabbed in the back and shoulder ten times all at once. “Yow! Damn! What in the hell—!”
He swung about violently. The all-black cat that had jumped to his shoulder from the fireplace mantel leaped easily and lightly to the floor and then came up and rubbed an arched back affectionately against his trouser leg just to prove he held no malice for Reardon having proven so unstable a steppingstone to the carpet. Reardon rubbed the painful spots on his shoulder and as much of his damaged back as he could reach. He looked down at the cat. The wide green eyes looked back calmly; the cat purred and rubbed his leg once more.
Penny walked into the room, buttoning the cuff of a blouse. It had a ruffled front and was buttoned to the throat, but it did nothing to disguise her beautiful bust; if anything it somehow seemed to emphasize it. She looked down and smiled for the second time, this time a happier smile.
“I see you’ve met Smokey.”
“I’ll say I met him!” Reardon rubbed his shoulder and then stopped like a good little soldier.
“Did he jump on you?” She bent over the cat, her voice stern. “Smokey, bad cat! Bad cat!” Smokey rolled over on his back, begging to be scratched; Penny straightened up, smiling helplessly. “He only jumps on people he likes. Would you like some Merthiolate on those scratches?”
“No; I’ll bleed bravely.” Reardon grinned. “If he does that to friends, what’s his treatment for enemies?”
“Rough,” Penny said simply. She studied him curiously. “Don’t you like cats?”
“I like them fine when they don’t attack me. Police school taught us how to defend ourselves against everything except jumping cats.” He smiled and returned to the card table. He poured gin over ice in two manhattan glasses and handed one to the girl. He looked down at the cat who stared back with unabashed affection. “Smokey, eh? You look darker than that. Where did you get that name?”
Penny answered for the cat, explaining. “Smokey belongs to the neighbor upstairs. With my job on the boat, and gone 90 per cent of the time—” She shrugged in explanation and sat on the arm of the couch, sipping her drink. “But when I’m home, this is where Smokey spends most of his time. His name? When he was born he looked just like Smokey the Bear. Or at least that’s what I’m told by my neighbor.”
“Well, she ought to change his name to Leo, now,” Reardon suggested. He walked over and dropped into an easy chair, setting his drink down on a small end table. “Come here, Smokey.”
The cat looked at Penny a moment as if requesting permission, and then jumped gracefully and obediently into his lap, stretching its body against Reardon’s chest, reaching up with one paw as if to stroke the lieutenant’s face, watching his eyes for his reaction. Reardon grinned. “Hey, these things are practically human. Are you sure this one isn’t a female?”
Penny smiled again. “Positive. There are ways to tell, you know.”
“I imagined.” He looked down at the cat. “He has beautiful eyes.”
They were. They stared up at Reardon somberly, promising undying love under all conditions and circumstances; green pools of adoration, offering sacrifice or even obedience—the greatest of all sacrifices. For some reason Reardon suddenly frowned.
“His eyes make me think of something.”
The girl looked at him as somberly as the cat, but promising nothing. “Or somebody.”
“I can’t imagine who.”
“Your girl.”
“No.” Reardon looked at her straightforwardly. “Jan’s eyes are hazel.”
“And mine are brown.”
“Deep brown, almost black. They are indeed.”
There was a moment’s silence and then Penny smiled faintly. “So it has to be someone other than your Jan or me. Or you, because yours are gray. Who?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged the thought away, somehow irritated that the light tone of their discourse was being breached by some inner problem he could not analyze. He decided not to waste time on it. “Smokey, my friend, I’m afraid you’re going to have to find another bed.” He lifted the cat gently, setting him on the floor, and came to his feet, glancing at his watch. “Would you like to go?”
“Whenever you say.” She put aside her unfinished drink.
“Drink up.”
“It’s not important that I finish. I’m really not that much of a drinker.” She saw his eyes go to the crowded card table. “Oh. That was Bob. He didn’t drink much, either, but he liked to have liquor on hand, in case anyone dropped in. And it’s so cheap on the boats.” She took in her breath, staring at the carpet, her face a mask, and then looked up with a sigh. “What a terrible waste of a person!”
Reardon merely nodded. He couldn’t think of anything else to do or say, but the policeman in him heard her words and automatically tried to fit them into the pattern. Could Bob Cooke have taken one drink too many before leaving the ship that night? A few quick ones to celebrate being in port with all assignments completed and a wonderful date in store? And supposing he did? Then, even less reason for putting the technical gang off the Buick until tomorrow and getting Merkel to ask for a continuance. And making Crocker rent a car, because if he couldn’t afford taxis he wasn’t going to find renting cars very cheap. The poor schnook looked like he could use every nickel. Who rode 1940 Buicks unless they couldn’t afford something more modern, or unless they were so loaded they did it for kicks? And the ones who were loaded and did it for kicks certainly didn’t live at the Martinique Apartments, unless they also had a thing for roaches. He sighed, amazed at his own confusion. So next time don’t get involved in the problems of Traffic, he thought. Sometimes they can be more deadly than Homicide. The thought made him smile.
“Let’s go, Penny. I think I’m getting hungry.”
“All right,” she said obediently.
She led the way to the hall, locking her door behind her with a key, and walked down the steep steps at Reardon’s side, not quite avoiding the offer of his hand on her arm, but not requesting it either. Quite a girl, he thought approvingly, and smiled down at her. She answered his smile with a sudden seriousness.
“You could have picked me up after lunch to go the Municipal Court,” she said, looking at him. “Or I could have taken a cab. I’m afraid I’m not going to be very good company at lunch.” She was very nearly his height, he realized; Jan had been right. But then, Jan had to bend her neck to look up at him.
“You’re fine. And you’ll continue to be fine.”
She paused. “If you say so.”
“I say so.” He held the car door open for her, closed it behind her once she was seated, and walked around the back, climbing in at his side and fitting the key into the ignition. It suddenly occurred to him that it had been a long time since he had shown Jan the courtesy of opening a car door. And don’t try to defend yourself with the weak excuse that Penny had recently suffered a loss, he told himself sternly. Gallantry is gallantry, and Jan has earned it if anyone ever has.
“What?” Penny asked, looking at him.
“I must have been talking to myself,” he said, a bit red-faced, and twisted the key in the ignition.
Wednesday—12:55 P.M.
Freddy’s was crowded as usual, but as usual Timmy Boyle—and nobody in the world looked less like a maître d’ than Timmy Boyle—lifted the velvet rope with a hand like a ham hock à la Freddy’s and led Reardon and his companion to an excellent table along the railing. He attempted to appear diffident but there was obviously something on his mind, and it was bothering him. He clutched the menus in his huge hands as if they were life jackets and the restaurant was sinking into the waters of Beach Street. The look with which he favored Penny neatly combined nervousness with an admir
ation impossible to conceal.
“Hi, Lieutenant. Say—”
“Hello, Timmy. Two very dry martinis, standing up. Bombay gin, lemon peel twist.”
“Just one,” Penny said, opening her menu. “I’ve had my ration of alcohol for today.”
Reardon studied her a moment and then nodded. “Just one, Timmy. Dry.”
“Sure, Lieutenant. But—”
Reardon conceded graciously. “But what?”
Timmy swallowed, searching for words. “A friend of yours—”
He tilted his head backward with the subtlety of an elephant avoiding a falling tree or a swarm of mice. My Lord! Reardon thought; if you hadn’t been able to duck left hooks any better when you were in the ring, no wonder your face looks like it does. Like ham hock à la Freddy’s, for example. He took pity on Timmy and rescued him.
“Who is it? Jan?”
Timmy was relieved that Reardon had guessed. “Yeah, Lieutenant.”
“Good,” Reardon said with satisfaction and looked at Penny with apology. “Would you pardon me for a minute?”
“Of course.”
He came to his feet, moving across the crowded restaurant floor. Jan watched him approach with expressionless eyes. Her small knuckles whitened as she gripped the stem of her martini glass more tightly, but other than this she did not betray her feelings at all. Reardon smiled down at her as if nothing had happened between them.
“Hello, Jan.”
“Hello, Lieutenant. Fancy meeting you here.” Her eyes came down; she glanced across the room to Reardon’s table companion. “I must say, you certainly work fast. Just like. New Year’s Eve—out with the old, in with the new. All in a matter of minutes.” She looked again; despite herself a slight frown crossed her face. Curiosity showed in her voice. “Isn’t that the girl we were watching on the ship?”
“It is. May I sit down?”
“No.” Jan’s hazel eyes studied his face impersonally. “What did you do to meet her? Subpoena the entire crew?”
“Not quite.” He started to pull a chair back from the table, but her hand abandoned the martini in favor of instantly pushing palm outward in negation. Her slightly lumpy little chin began to tremble faintly and then hardened with resolve.
“Pardon me if I sound inhospitable, Lieutenant, but it’s only because I happen to feel that way at the moment. I have this thing, a phobia about crowds. I’d rather sit alone right now, if you don’t mind. Besides, won’t you look a little ridiculous dashing from one table to another between courses? So if you don’t mind—”
“I happen to mind.” He sat down, leaning forward, speaking seriously. “Jan, yesterday you said something jokingly about my having competition when you were watching Penny—” He tipped his head toward his table, but barely. Timmy Boyle could have taken a lesson from it. “—that’s her—through the binoculars. What did he look like?”
Jan considered him with false sweetness.
“Jealous, already?” She shook her head chidingly. “My, my, Lieutenant! You should have more faith in your charm. It’s quite effective, you know. I speak, you realize, from considerable experience.”
Reardon paid no attention to her sardonic mood.
“Just answer me. Was he a good-looking guy about my size and weight? Maybe a little taller? In his late twenties? With dark hair and a thick, dark mustache?”
“Why? Tell me, Lieutenant, are you afraid he’ll follow you here and cause a scene?” She shook her close-cropped head in an effort to appear disdainful. “I doubt it. That whole scene-in-a-public-place is out of date. Look at me, for example. Do you notice how calmly I’m taking the whole thing?”
“Damn it, Jan! I’m serious!” His voice was low, but none the less tense. For several moments Jan stared at him as if judging his motives; then her long experience with Jim Reardon both as a man and as a police officer made her answer with equal seriousness.
“He was wearing an officer’s cap, peaked,” she said, “so I couldn’t see his hair, but the rest was right. And he had a thick mustache. Why?”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“Nothing. They looked like they were holding hands a few moments, and then he went back inside. He was wearing a uniform, a standard officer’s uniform, blue, with brass buttons. I can’t think of anything particular, or anything else. Why?”
“Because,” Reardon said flatly, “right at this moment, while we’re all having lunch in a nice air-conditioned place like Freddy’s, he’s also in an air-conditioned place: a stainless-steel box in the morgue down at the Hall of Justice.” He made no attempt to hide or even disguise the brutality of his statement. Even his voice was unnecessarily harsh. “And after lunch I’m taking Penny down to the Municipal Court to see if she recognizes the man who killed him.”
Jan’s face whitened. She dropped all pretense of indifference or any lightness. “How terrible!”
“Yes. Especially for the girl, for Penny.” Reardon paused a moment before continuing; when he did his voice had lost its roughness, his eyes were steady on hers. “His name was Bob Cooke, the one who was killed, and, well—they had something going for themselves. Like we have.” He contemplated her evenly. “Or should I say, ‘Like we had’?”
“Have,” she said, and her hand went out to his on the table, covering it. “Have, Jimmy.”
“Good,” Reardon said quietly. He slid his hand from beneath hers, took her hand in his and turned it over, feeling warm at just touching her, admiring her stubby, talented fingers, the evenly trimmed and unpainted fingernails. He squeezed her hand gently. “And as for that assignment last night—”
“I know about that,” Jan said, and gave him her gamin grin. “You thought getting out of the meeting on any excuse would get you back to the Little Tokyo sooner. Sergeant Dondero made quite an impassioned plea for you a while ago.”
“He did, did he?”
“He did, indeed. I tried to call you but you’d already left for lunch. We’ve eaten here so often I thought you might come here, but when I saw you walk in with another woman—and a beautiful one at that—” She shrugged lightly, apologetically, but her voice was quite serious. “I’m sorry. I’m the jealous type. Do you mind?”
“I’d mind if you weren’t.” He gave her hand a final squeeze and then freed it a bit reluctantly, coming to his feet. He reached over, lifting her partially emptied martini. “Come over and eat with us and meet her. I have a feeling your type conversation is more what she needs right now than mine. With a policeman it’s difficult not to get back on the same subject, and this isn’t the time or the place for any more of it.”
“Of course,” Jan said sympathetically. She picked up her purse and obediently followed him across the room. From his vantage point at the velvet barrier to the large room, Timmy Boyle smiled in pleased fashion. Both the red-haired lieutenant and his small but cute girl friend were long-time favorites of his, and under that battered exterior, Timmy was quite a romantic.
Penny watched the other girl as Reardon carefully set the martini down and pulled a chair back for Jan. He waited until she was seated, sat down himself, and turned to Penny.
“Penny—Miss Wilkinson—this is—”
“I know. Jan.”
Jan looked surprised. “How did you know that?”
Penny smiled. “Because Lieutenant Reardon said that his girl, Jan, had hazel-colored eyes.”
“He did, did he?” Jan’s tone attempted to assume indignation, but she was obviously pleased. She picked up her glass, smiling affectionately at Reardon. “And just how did you happen to get onto the subject of the color of my eyes?”
“I was looking at a cat,” Reardon began and then laughed aloud. The expression on Jan’s face was wary, wondering what was coming next. “You see how easy it is for the innocent to get into trouble just by telling the truth?” He reached for the martini which had been delivered during his absence. “What I mean is—”
“You’d better let me tell the story,
Lieutenant,” Penny said. It was evident she was trying to maintain a light approach to matters, to keep her mind from Bob Cooke. She turned to Jan. “I have a cat named Smokey who belongs to a neighbor but who practically lives with me when I’m home, and Lieutenant Reardon met Smokey today and was admiring him. He said Smokey’s eyes reminded him of something, and I suggested it might be his girl friend, and he said—”
“I said my girl Jan has hazel eyes,” Reardon said. “Satisfied?”
“Completely.”
Timmy Boyle had come to stand behind them, waiting for a break in their conversation to distribute the menus. When it came he handed one folder to each and stood back politely. Jan opened hers, idly scanned it a moment, and then looked up.
“Incidentally,” she said curiously, “if it wasn’t me, who did the cat’s eyes make you think of?”
Reardon’s smile faded abruptly.
“That’s something that still bothers me,” he said shortly. “That’s something I’d still like to know.” And he picked up his drink almost angrily and finished it.
CHAPTER 8
Wednesday—1:55 P.M.
Lieutenant Reardon punched the button on the first-floor elevator bank at the Hall of Justice, well aware that both uniformed and nonuniformed grades he knew were passing in the mottled marbled lobby at the time, and that they, as well as the public who also used the building intensively, were giving the girl with him a complete once-over, obviously with approval. They should pay as much attention to the pictures and descriptions of the Wanteds on the bulletin boards, he thought sourly, and hit the button again. The elevator, apparently startled at this extra attention from people who normally enjoyed being away from their desks, quickly slid a door open for him. He gratefully escaped into the interior, leading the girl ahead of him, when a large hand suddenly appeared from the outside, holding the door. A moment later its owner, Sergeant Dondero, entered, pressed the button to close the door, and turned to face them. Reardon sighed hopelessly; Dondero had a wicked grin on his face that the lieutenant recognized, and he appeared in a happy mood, always a dangerous sign.
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