“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)