“Crocker?”
“The driver of the car that killed your friend.”
“Bob never mentioned his name, I’m sure of that. And I’ve never heard of him. But if you want me to come down—”
“I’ll pick you up. We’ll have lunch at Freddy’s and then come back here. All right?”
“I suppose it’s all right.” She still sounded half-dazed.
“Fine,” Reardon said heartily. “Then I’ll see you about twelve-fifteen to twelve-thirty.” He tried to think of a proper way to end the conversation. “Take it easy.”
Even as he hung up he recognized it was a pretty sad phrase, but it had been the best he could come up with.
Chapter 7
Wednesday — 12:10 P.M.
Penny Wilkinson lived in a first-floor apartment on Gough near Greenwich; to Reardon the gaily painted three-story house looked far less sinister than it had at midnight the night before when he sat in his car and waited until she had mounted the fifteen steps, used her key, and firmly closed the door behind her. Then, as he drove off, the black gaunt height of the building seemed almost threatening. Now, in the bright noon sunshine, it looked quite Victorian and rococo, but both safe and homey.
He parked the Charger, angling the wheels to hold the car against the incline, and walked up the steps to the front door. The ornate door held an old-fashioned knocker, but Reardon correctly assumed it was purely ornamental, and rang the bell next to the Wilkinson name. From the railinged porch the hill dropped down toward the walls of Fort Mason like the first drop on a roller coaster. He rang the bell again, enjoying the refreshing breeze from the bay; the buzzer sounded and he pushed his way into the cool dimness of a high-ceilinged hallway leading to a long flight of steps. To one side a door stood open with Penny standing beside it. She was wearing a floor-length house coat, quilted, buttoned to the throat.
“Come in, Lieutenant. I’ll just be a minute.”
Reardon followed her into the apartment, shutting the door behind him. “You sound a lot better than you did a while ago.”
She shrugged. “I suppose you have to learn to live with things, with facts. There isn’t much you can do about it.” For the first time since he had met her he saw her smile. It was faint, and more brave than humorous, but it was a smile. “And, too, I had a strong drink since I spoke to you this morning. I don’t usually drink during the day, but I needed it.” She moved toward her bedroom. “The liquor’s in the living room on a card table. Help yourself. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Thanks, I will.”
He watched her straight back disappear down a hallway; her long hair gleamed dimly in the shadows. He turned and walked through the dining room to the living room which faced the street, pleased with the light decor, the bright Hawaiian prints on the wall intermixed with Japanese sketches, the general look of lived-in comfort of the room. The card table was apparently never used for anything except a bar; an ice bucket, glasses, and bottles covered it fairly completely. He raised his voice.
“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.