“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?”