Penny answered his second ring and gave him a brief smile that — while it couldn’t have been called exceptionally gay — really wasn’t too bad under the circumstances.
“Don’s in the kitchen,” she said, leading him into the apartment and closing the door behind him. “That’s where I eat.”
“Where else?” Reardon asked, surprised.
She smiled again. “Let me have your jacket. It’s muggy. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or something more substantial, like breakfast?”
“To tell you the truth,” Reardon said with a grin, “I’m starving. I’ll take you up on that.” He slipped out of his jacket. Wilkins’ report almost fell out, but he stuffed it back in place and handed the jacket over. Penny hung it neatly on a hanger in the closet and led the way to the kitchen. Dondero was just gulping the last of his coffee.
“I’m ready.”
“I’m not,” Reardon said and pulled a chair to the table. He smiled at the sergeant. “I’m going to have something to eat.”
“Oh. Fine,” Dondero said vaguely.
Penny stood at the stove. “Eggs with bacon or ham? Or both?”
“Bacon, please. And some toast and coffee.” Reardon leaned back in the hard, wooden chair, smiling genially at nothing in the world, but nothing out of it either. “It’s a lovely, beautiful day,” he said to no one in particular.
“For ducks, maybe,” Dondero said and shook his head. “This happiness routine — what came over you since I called you?”
“I tried to tell you before — I got hungry. That always drives away the demons. No room for two problems at the same time in my tiny brain.” He reached over and picked up a piece of buttered toast from the edge of Dondero’s plate. “May I? You seem to be finished. If not I’ll pay you back in a minute.”
“I’m done. Go ahead.”
“Thank you,” Reardon said politely and began munching.
“And what do we do this morning? Once you get through stuffing yourself, that is.”
“A good question,” Reardon conceded graciously. “I thought we might go down to the ship and look at pictures. With any luck in selecting the proper hour, we might manage to stay for lunch.”
“You’re going to get fat, eating all the time,” Dondero warned.
“You mean, then nobody’ll love me?” He raised the piece of toast to his mouth and then paused; apparently from nowhere a black ball of fur had projected itself into his lap and was curiously stretching its twitching nose in the direction of the toast. Reardon pulled his hand back from the curious sniffing. “Smokey will still love me, won’t you, boy? Skinny or fat?” He pulled his hand even farther away. “I just got through bumming this toast myself. Go bum your own.”
Smokey had no intention of bumming his own from anyone else, but he was willing to forego the whole issue of toast just to be with his friend; besides, toast was something to be sniffed at, not to be eaten. He stretched himself out on Reardon’s chest as he had the day before, reaching up with one paw to touch the face above him, his large liquid eyes fixed solemnly on the gray eyes staring into his.
“Smokey, my friend,” Reardon said, speaking through toast, “you are a beautiful cat.” He glanced across to Dondero. “Don, take a look at this cat.”
“I’m looking,” Dondero said. Despite his attempt to sound unimpressed, a touch of jealousy could be heard in his voice. Reardon looked at him quizzically a moment and brought his eyes back to Smokey’s serious face.
“What eyes!” He suddenly frowned. “Damn! They still make me think of something...” He closed his own eyes a moment in concentration and then opened them suddenly, sitting erect. The brusque movement was not to Smokey’s liking; he considered it ill mannered in a friend. He leaped to the floor and stalked off, highly insulted. Dondero took one look at his superior’s face and knew that whatever had been hidden in Reardon’s mind had worked itself loose and come to the surface.
“What is it, Jim?”
“Don! In the closet, my jacket! It’s got Wilkins’ report in it; bring it in, will you?” Dondero came to his feet swiftly, moving to the hallway. Reardon raised his voice, calling after him. “Bring the jacket too.” He got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Penny. Forget the eggs. We won’t have time.”
She looked at him, surprised. “But the bacon’s almost—”
“I’m really sorry, but I won’t have time to eat.”
Dondero came in with the jacket; Reardon laid the report on the table while he pulled on his jacket. He slipped the rubber band from the report and leafed through the photographs until he had the one showing the end of the tape being held to the edge of the skid marks. He put it down and found the one with a general view of the street. What he was looking for was faint, but it was there, and he was sure under the magic of modern laboratory techniques it could be made sufficiently plain to convince a jury, let alone Captain Tower. Dondero was staring at him.
“What’s the matter, Jim? What is it?”
Reardon looked at him with quiet triumph.
“So I’m crazy, am I? Do you remember when I told you I knew something but I didn’t know what it was I knew? Well, I do now. My friend Smokey’s eyes brought it all back. I finally remembered. Oil slicks!”
“Oil slicks? What’s the cat’s eyes got to do with oil slicks?”
“They shine a certain way in light. That Buick is a fine car for its age, but it has a leaky transmission seal. Leave it in one place for fifteen minutes and it leaves a nice puddle underneath. I saw one when I first pulled into Indiana night before last, just after I crossed Eighteenth Street into the block where it happened; I remember I swerved to miss it, automatically. I saw one again in this picture showing the skid marks being measured; and I saw one a third time in the garage when I was looking the car over. Morrison even mentioned it. I just didn’t connect them in my stupid brain until right now!”
Penny had turned the fire off on the stove and had joined them at the table. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s complicated, but the man who killed Bob Cooke is going to pay for it.” He turned back to Dondero. “Remember that fifteen minutes Crocker rigged at the restaurant? Well, he wasn’t driving around blindly; he was parked on Indiana, where that first oil slick was. His lights were out and he was waiting for Bob Cooke. He knew Cooke would come down that street!”
“But how did he know it? How could he know it?” Dondero still wasn’t too happy with the theory. “And how could he know the man would step off the curb? He’d have had a pretty lousy alibi if he had to chase Cooke up onto the sidewalk to get him. Well?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Reardon said grimly. “That’ll be the first question we ask Mr. Crocker when we see him. Which we are going to do right now.”
“But I thought we were going to the ship to look at pictures?”
Reardon shook his head decisively. “Not now. Maybe later. Maybe this afternoon. But that oil slick should be enough by itself to put Mr. Crocker in the box.” He thought a moment. “I’ll call Thompson and set it up for after lunch. I have a feeling that Captain Tower may want more than an oil slick for my two days of vacation.” He smiled grimly, turned the report over to the telephone number he had marked down the previous day, and looked at Penny. “Where’s the phone?”
“Right back of you.” She still didn’t seem to fully understand what he had been saying or talking about. She dried her hands nervously on her apron and wiped her hair back from her forehead with the back of one hand. “Do you mean that man killed Bob? Purposely?”
“That’s what I mean, Penny.” She looked so forlorn that he put a hand out and touched her arm. Dondero moved to her side. “Yes,” Reardon went on softly, “he killed Bob Cooke on purpose, and now I’m sure I can prove it.”