Newspapers and milk... Or was it either one? Or both? Will you forget it! he commanded himself sternly. All you’ll do is spoil the evening for the others. He smiled. Maybe you’re thinking of having alexanders instead of martinis — is it possible? It was not; his smile faded. Milk, milk, milk! Why don’t you tie your tie and get down to the Little Tokyo before Mr. Sessue Noguchi runs out of gin and vermouth, Buddha forbid! He grinned and flipped the necktie over itself, feeding it back through the formed loop, drawing it tight.
Newspapers and milk... It sounded like a song title, the kind you heard at the hungry i. Newspapers and milk, satins and silk, and a one-way ticket to the psychiatric ward at San Francisco General. He started to grin again and then stopped short, frowning. Newspapers and milk? In hallways, waiting delivery! And when they were running down the corridor at Crocker’s apartment building, there were bottles in front of some of the doors, but his bottle was on the table, together with breakfast cereal. So what?
He dropped on the bed, frowning fiercely at the floor. What was he trying to tell himself? What was the connection? There had to be one, because his subconscious was generally a pretty good subconscious as such things went, not given to annoying him for no reason at all. There had to be a tie-up. What was it?
“Jimmy?” It was Jan, calling from the living room.
“Be there in a second.” He tried to review his thoughts, to marshal them into some sort of order, and then sat up straight. The pieces of the puzzle began to click into place, each one moving over to make room for the next; color began to emerge, and form, until the whole pattern lay revealed at last. Of course!
“Jim!”
“One minute, honey.”
He went over it in his mind for a second time, cleaning up small details, answering arguments he could hear from Captain Tower, not to mention the assistant chief. When he had it clear to the last dotted “i” he came to his feet, looked at himself thoughtfully for several seconds, and then walked into the other room, pulling his tie tight about his neck, wiggling it into a comfortable position. Jan looked at him sardonically and reached down, pulling her shoes into position for slipping into.
“And you complain about how long it takes me to dress!” She shook her head. “I thought you were washing and ironing your shirts, the time you took. I was going to offer to help, but I’m an architect, not a useful person.” She came to her feet. “Shall we be on our way? I’m slightly starved.”
Reardon considered her quietly.
“I’m afraid there’s going to be a slight change in plans.” His voice was without expression.
Jan studied his face a moment and decided not to argue. Instead, she dropped back into her chair, pulling her feet from her shoes, wriggling her toes. Penny had also started to rise; she sank back as well. Dondero stared at the lieutenant and then nodded in certain conviction.
“The subconscious has spoken!” He bowed, hands spread wide, and then straightened up, reaching for the Mason jar. He eyed its emptiness dolefully and put it back. “All right, Swami. Let’s get the seance over and go out to eat.”
“Fair enough.” Reardon went into the kitchen and came back with a full bottle of gin. “No vermouth, no ice. No time.”
“No martinis,” Dondero said equably. “No fish, no rice—”
He poured himself a drink and offered the bottle to the girls; they both refused. He placed the bottle on the floor and leaned back, prepared for another lecture from Lieutenant Reardon. The red-haired detective was standing at the low bookcase against one wall, leaning on it, putting his thoughts in order. The others waited patiently, with Dondero sipping straight gin with sudden appreciation for the potentialities of vermouthless martinis. At last Reardon looked up.
“Don — do you remember Crocker’s apartment this morning?”
Dondero nodded deeply and slowly, sipping his drink.
“Do you remember the milk we found on the kitchen table?”
“I found.” Dondero wanted things straight for the record.
“Do you remember milk bottles in the hall in front of some apartments? But not in front of his?”
“I don’t remember, but I’ll take your word for it.” He looked at the lieutenant. “Why?”
“Now,” Reardon said, not answering the other’s question, but fixing his eyes, “if Crocker took a powder as a result of my — or Merkel’s — asking for a continuance of his case, you’d think he’d take it right then. Or within the time it took him to realize the potential danger he was in. Wouldn’t you?”
Dondero considered it. He nodded. “Yes, I suppose so. Why?”
“Would you expect him to wait until the following day to figure out he’d better be on his way, because obviously we were looking for something to hang him with?”
“I suppose not. I know I wouldn’t.”
“And neither would I. Yet that’s exactly what he did. That milk shows he was there that morning, and that seems silly under the circumstances. And another thing — and an important one. He also waited until this morning to make his try for the Buick, yet he must have known it was far less dangerous trying for the car at night, when there isn’t a full complement of people in the Hall. Actually, at night quite often, when the night attendant steps out, the garage is completely unattended. Yet he waited until this morning to make his play.”
The girls were watching Reardon with curious frowns on their faces. Dondero summed it up for everyone.
“What are you trying to say? That the guy was a nut?”
“He was far from a nut. I’m just saying he didn’t leave because we asked for a continuance. That was my first thought, but I was wrong. No; he was all prepared to turn up in court tomorrow, convinced that nobody was after him. He fully expected to be released routinely, take his precious Buick, and be on his merry way.”
“So why didn’t he?”
“Because something made him change his mind.”
“But, what?”
Reardon turned to Penny.
“It was your telephone call to him, wasn’t it? It had to be, because you were there when Don and I were discussing it. You were the only one who knew what we had found and knew we were going there to take him in. You and Smokey, and I trust him. There’s no point in denying it, because a call from your number to his can be traced easily enough, knowing the time it was made.”
It wasn’t the truth, but Reardon was fairly sure that Penny Wilkinson wouldn’t know that fact. All color had disappeared from her face; her strong hands were locked on her empty martini glass so tightly they might have crushed the fragile glass. Dondero removed his arm from her shoulder, but only so he could turn and watch her better. One look at her face and whatever denial he had been preparing in her defense died on his lips. Jan sat in shocked silence, unbelieving.
“Actually, you had more than your share of luck,” Reardon said seriously, “because you made more than your share of mistakes.” His voice was quiet, noncommittal. He seemed to be trying to accustom both Dondero and Jan to the idea of the girl’s guilt. “You called him ‘Rolf’ when we were talking after we left the morgue the night before last. You said, ‘What will they do to this man Rolf?’ I thought you made a mistake in his name, except when we find his passport the name on it — the last name — is Rolf. Coincidence? Maybe. But I’ll bet when we take a look at your passport we’ll find a visa in it for Brazil, dated the same time that Rolf’s was.”
She was watching him, half hypnotized. Reardon went on calmly.
“And if you’ve hidden your passport, or figure to destroy it when you get the chance, forget it. Your ownership can be established through the State Department, and the visa is easy enough to verify through the Brazilian consulate. Application, photographs, signature — the works.” He paused, looking Penny in the eye without expression. “Do you want to tell us about it?”