Penny looked at him curiously. “You think he ran Bob down on purpose, don’t you? Why would he do a thing like that?”
Dondero interrupted. “Because if he didn’t, then Lieutenant James Reardon has no business messing about with the case at all.”
Reardon shook his head impatiently. “I don’t know what I think. I just know I hate automobile accidents and useless deaths.” He patted her arm. “Anyway, you go into that court and sit down and wait. Nobody will stop you; it’s free territory. And afterward come up to my office and tell me what you think. Do you remember my office? On the fourth floor?”
“I’ll take her into the courtroom and bring her back,” Dondero said, and took her arm protectively. His former facetiousness was gone. “A girl could get lost wandering around this place.”
For a moment Reardon looked as if he were going to object, but apparently the look on Dondero’s face changed his mind. He nodded.
“All right, Don. I’ll see you later, Penny.”
The elevator door closed behind the two; he rode alone to the fourth floor and turned in the direction of his office with a smile. That Dondero! Though it was pretty hard to blame a man for being smitten with Penny Wilkinson, even on first meeting. Still, it was doubtful that anyone would make much headway with the girl so soon after the death of her boy friend. On the other hand, the sooner she let herself become interested in someone else, undoubtedly the better. And Dondero could be quite a lad when he felt like it. He pushed through the door to his office smiling to himself. Why not quit the Ann Landers bit, Reardon? he asked himself; both Penny and Don are adults.
He hung up his jacket and dropped into his chair, looking at his In-basket, just as the telephone rang. He realized the reprieve from the stack of papers waiting for him was only a temporary one, but still better than nothing. He reached out, picking up the phone.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to speak with a Lieutenant James Reardon.” It was a deep voice, pleasant sounding, but still with a tone suggesting the speaker was accustomed to a degree of authority.
“This is Lieutenant Reardon. What can I do for you?”
“Oh. Well, my name is Harry Thompson, and I’m the chief purser on the S.S. Mandarin. I’ve just read in the papers—”
“Mr. Thompson. I was going to call you.” When, as, and if I’d remembered, Reardon thought with a shake of his head and went back to listening.
“Oh. Well, anyway, I read the article in the paper today. It’s a goddamned shame. Bob was a good man. One of the few I had working for me who could find his ass with both hands. Usually, as soon as I get someone halfway decent, the exec. on this bucket drags him out of my department by both feet and hands him over to any damned deck officer who wants him.”
“Yes. Well—”
“Anyway,” Thompson continued, almost without pause, “that’s water over the dam. About the body — I spoke to the company brass here, after I saw the newspaper. Bob always talked about being buried at sea — he had no family, I guess — and the brass have no objection. He was a good kid; I hate to think of him going over the rail.”
Reardon stared at the instrument in his hand in surprise.
“I’m rather amazed. I should have thought that most cruise passengers wouldn’t exactly relish anything as gruesome as a burial at sea during a pleasure trip.”
Thompson snorted.
“Then you would have thought wrong. You just don’t know cruise trips and the kind of passengers they draw, Lieutenant. Ghouls, the lot. The average age of the passengers on one of our Oriental cruises must be between seventy-five and a hundred and six. Hell, you’ve got to be older than God to be able to afford ’em. And the huge majority hate anyone younger than them, and nothing will give them a bigger kick than seeing a young man of twenty-eight, in the prime of life, take the deep six. Most of them wouldn’t even mind if he was alive when he went. The company could sell tickets, I’ll bet, like for Bingo, or horse races, or daily mileage. They’re a bunch of ghouls, I tell you!”
“Yes,” Reardon said shortly. “About the body—”
“I was coming to that. Whenever you feel you can release the body, you can send it down to the ship. Or we can arrange to pick it up if you want. We can bring it down in the laundry wagon.”
“I’ll have it sent down,” Reardon said. “We’re a little better equipped than laundry wagons. But do you have facilities for a dead body on board? I mean—?”
“You mean, a morgue?” Thompson’s deep voice sounded as if Reardon had asked him if they carried an anchor. “Of course we do. When you carry passengers the age of ours, Lieutenant, there’s damn few trips when one of them doesn’t drop dead. Usually from overeating or trying to drink the ship dry — which is tough to do — or from trying to make it with one of the stewardesses like he was a mere sixty or something. Anyway, we have to keep them on ice until we get home and turn them over to the authorities for release, to make sure they weren’t poisoned by their cribbage partners; and also not to deprive their relatives the extreme pleasure of burying them, themselves.”
Despite his knowledge of the work he had before him, the garrulous purser amused Reardon. He grinned at the telephone. “You make your cruises sound like a fun-deal all around.”
“Oh they are,” Thompson assured him. “Especially for the purser’s office.” He hesitated a moment, considering. “Or they would be, that is, if we didn’t carry people. However, it’s the only job I know, so I guess I’m stuck with it until they put me over the rail.” He sighed deeply. “Anyway, I didn’t call you to do a selling job for our cruises. When do you think Bob Cooke’s body can be released?”
“Probably right now,” Reardon said, thinking a moment. “They don’t intend to do an autopsy, and our medical examiner is just as happy to get rid of extra bodies as soon as he can. In this town we have enough fresh ones to take their place.”
“Sounds like the S.S. Mandarin,” Thompson said, with the satisfaction that comes from shared misery. “Well, send him down any time you want. If I’m not here, tell whoever delivers him to ask for the assistant purser. Somebody’s always on call. I’ll set it up with the staff here, and also with the doctor, if I can find him. The icebox is his.”
“Good enough,” Reardon said and made a note on his pad. “Where are you docked?”
“Pier 26.”
Reardon noted it and put aside his pencil. “Right. If it isn’t today we’ll make it tomorrow morning. I understand there’s no rush. I’m told you’re in port for four days.”
“That’s right. We sail Saturday.” Thompson’s voice turned bitter; Reardon had the cold feeling he had opened a Pandora’s box of complaints. “Four lousy days in port and every bastard and his mother heads over the side for fun and games — but the purser’s office?” He made a rude noise with his lips. “Service with a smile twenty-four lousy hours a day, plus twelve more at night.”
“Right,” Reardon said hastily, and was about to find some excuse to hang up when a further thought came to him. “Mr. Thompson, do you mind answering a few questions about Bob Cooke while I’ve got you on the phone?”
“With pleasure,” Thompson said and sounded as if he meant it. “I’m on the ship, and while I’m on the line, it’s tied up, so no sorry son-of-a-bitch can use it to give me grief. Because nobody calls the purser of a ship unless he wants to give the purser grief. I mention this vital fact in case you’re interested, although why in the name of Christ you should be, only his Father knows.”