Unlike detectives, who figure out their own work schedules, patrolmen work within the carefully calculated confines of the eight-hour-tour system. They start with five consecutive tours from 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M., and then they relax for fifty-six hours. When they return to work, they do another five tours from midnight to 8:00 A.M., after which another fifty-six-hour swing commences. The next five tours are from 4:00 P.M. to midnight. Comes the fifty-six-hour break once more, and then the cycle starts from the top again.
The tour system doesn’t respect Saturdays, Sundays, or holidays. If a cop’s tour works out that way, he may get Christmas off. If not, he walks his beat. Or he arranges a switch with a Jewish cop who wants Rosh Hashanah off. It’s something like working in an aircraft factory during wartime. The only difference is that cops find it a little more difficult to get life insurance.
Bert Kling started work that Monday morning at 7:45 A.M., the beginning of the tour cycle. He was relieved on post at 3:40 P.M. He went back to the house, changed to street clothes in the locker room down the hall from the detective squadroom, and then went out into the late-afternoon sunshine.
Ordinarily, Kling would have walked the beat a little more in his street clothes. Kling carried a little black loose-leaf pad in his back pocket, and into that pad he jotted down information from wanted circulars and from the bulls in the precinct. He knew, for example, that there was a shooting gallery at 3112 North 11th. He knew that a suspected pusher was driving a powder-blue 1953 Cadillac with the license plate RX 42-10. He knew that a chain department store in the midtown area had been held up the night before, and he knew who was suspected of the crime. And he knew that a few good collars would put him closer to detective/3rd grade, which, of course, he wanted to become.
So he ordinarily walked the precinct territory when he was off duty, a few hours each day, watching, snooping, unhampered by the shrieking blue of his uniform, constantly amazed by the number of people who didn’t recognize him in street clothes.
Today he had something else to do, and so he ignored his extracurricular activities. Instead, he boarded a train and headed uptown to Riverhead.
He didn’t have much trouble finding Club Tempo. He simply stopped into one of the clubs he’d known as a kid, asked where Tempo was, and was given directions.
Tempo covered the entire basement level of a three-story brick house off Peterson Avenue on Klausner Street. You walked up a concrete driveway toward a two-car garage at the back of the house, made an abrupt left turn, and found yourself face to face with the back of the house, the entrance doorway to the club, and a painted sign pierced with an elongated quarter note on a long black shaft.
The sign read:
Kling tried the knob. The door was locked. From somewhere inside the club, he heard the lyric, sonnet-like words to “Sh-Boom” blasting from a record player. He raised his fist and knocked. He kept knocking, realizing abruptly that all the sh-booming was drowning out his fist. He waited until the record had exhausted its serene, madrigal-like melody and then knocked again.
“Yeah?” a voice called. It was a young voice, male.
“Open up,” Kling said.
“Who is it?”
He heard footsteps approaching the door and then a voice close by on the other side of the door. “Who is it?”
He didn’t want to identify himself as a cop. If he were going to start asking questions, he didn’t want a bunch of kids automatically on the defensive.
“Bert Kling,” he said.
“Yeah?” the voice answered. “Who’s Bert Kling?”
“I want to hire the club,” Kling answered.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“What for?”
“If you’ll open the door, we can talk about it.”
“Hey, Tommy,” the voice yelled, “some guy wants to hire the club.”
Kling heard a mumbled answer, and then the door lock clicked, and the door opened wide on a thin, blond boy of eighteen.
“Come on in,” the boy said. He was holding a stack of records in his right hand, clutched tight against his chest. He wore a green sweater and dungaree pants. A white dress shirt, collar unbuttoned, showed above the V-neck of the sweater. “My name’s Hud. That’s short for Hudson. Hudson Patt. Double t. Come on in.”
Kling stepped down into the basement room. Hud watched him.
“You’re kind of old, ain’t you?” Hud asked at last.
“I’m practically decrepit,” Kling replied. He looked around. Whoever had decorated the room had done a good job with it. The pipes in the ceiling had been covered with plasterboard, which had been painted white. The walls were knotty pine to a man’s waist, plasterboard above that. Phonograph records, shellacked and then tacked to the white walls and ceiling, gave the impression of curious two-dimensional balloons that had drifted free of their vendor’s strings. There were easy chairs and a long sofa scattered about the room. A record player painted white and then covered with black notes and a G clef and a musical staff stood alongside a wide arch through which a second room was visible. There was no one but Hud and Kling in either of the two rooms. Whoever Tommy was, he seemed to have vanished into thin air.
“Like it?” Hud asked, smiling.
“It’s pretty,” Kling said.
“We done it all ourselves. Bought all those records on the ceiling and walls for two cents each. They’re real bombs—stuff the guy wanted to get rid of. We tried playing one of them. All we got was scratches. Sounded like London during an air raid.”
“Which you no doubt remember clearly,” Kling said.
“Huh?” Hud asked.
“Do you belong to this club?” Kling asked back.
“Sure. Only members are allowed down during the day. In fact, nonmembers ain’t allowed down except on Friday and Sunday nights. We have socials then.” He stared at Kling. His eyes were wide and blue. “Dancing, you know?”
“Yes, I know,” Kling said.
“A little beer sometimes, too. Healthy. This is healthy recreation.” Hud grinned. “Healthy recreation is what strong, red-blooded American teenagers need, am I right?”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s what Dr. Mortesson says.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Mortesson. Writes a column in one of the papers. Every day. Healthy recreation.” Hud continued grinning. “So what do you want to hire the club for?” he asked.
“I belong to a group of war veterans,” Kling said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. We’re…uh…having a sort of get together, meet the wives, girlfriends, like that, you know.”
“Oh, sure,” Hud said.
“So we need a place.”
“Why don’t you try the American Legion Hall?”
“Too big.”
“Oh.”
“I figured one of these cellar clubs. This is an unusually nice one.”
“Yeah,” Hud said. “Done it all ourselves.” He walked over to the record player, seemed ready to put the records down, then turned, changing his mind. “Listen, for what night is this?”
“A Saturday,” Kling said.
“That’s good—because we have our socials on Friday and Sunday.”
“Yes, I know,” Kling said.
“How much you want to pay?”
“That depends. You’re sure the landlord here won’t mind our bringing girls down? Not that anything funny would be going on or anything, you understand. Half the fellows are married.”
“Oh, certainly,” Hud said, suddenly drawn into the fraternity of the adult. “I understand completely. I never once thought otherwise.”
“But there will be girls.”
“That’s perfectly all right.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure. We have girls here all the time. Our club is coed.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s a fact,” Hud said. “We got twelve girls belong to the club.”
“Girls from the neighborhood?” Kling asked.
“Mostly. From around, you know. Here and there. None of them come from too far.”
“Anybody I might know?” Kling asked.
Hud estimated Kling’s age in one hasty glance. “I doubt it, mister,” he said, the glowing bond of fraternal adulthood shattered.
“I used to live in this neighborhood,” Kling lied. “Took out a lot of girls around here. Wouldn’t be surprised if some of the girls in your club aren’t their younger sisters.”
“Well, that’s a possibility,” Hud conceded.
“What are some of their names?”
“Why do you want to know, pal?” a voice from the archway said. Kling whirled abruptly. A tall boy walked through the arch and into the room, zipping up the fly on his jeans. He was excellently built, with wide shoulders bulging the seams of his T-shirt, tapering down to a slender waist. His hair was chestnut brown, and his eyes were a deeper chocolate brown. He was extremely handsome, and he walked with arrogant knowledge of his good looks.
“Tommy?” Kling said.
“That’s my name,” Tommy said. “I didn’t get yours.”
“Bert Kling.”
“Glad to know you,” Tommy said. He watched Kling carefully.
“Tommy’s president of Club Tempo,” Hud put in. “He gave me the okay to hire the place to you. Provided the price was right.”
“I was in the john,” Tommy said. “Heard everything you said. Why’re you so interested in our chicks?”
“I’m not interested,” Kling answered. “Just curious.”
“Your curiosity, pal, should concern itself only with hiring the club. Am I right, Hud?”
“Sure,” Hud answered.
“What can you pay, pal?”
“How often did Jeannie Paige come down here, pal?” Kling said. He watched Tommy’s face. The face did not change expression at all. A record slid from the stack Hud was holding, clattering to the floor.
“Who’s Jeannie Paige?” Tommy said.
“A girl who was killed last Thursday night.”
“Never heard of her,” Tommy said.
“Think,” Kling told him.
“I am thinking.” Tommy paused. “You a cop?”
“What difference does it make?”
“This is a clean club,” Tommy said. “We never had any trouble with the cops, and we don’t want none. We ain’t even had any trouble with the landlord, and he’s a louse from way back.”
“Nobody’s looking for trouble,” Kling said. “I asked you how often Jeannie Paige came down here.”
“Never,” Tommy said. “Ain’t that right, Hud?”
Hud, reaching for the pieces of the broken record, looked up. “Yeah, that’s right, Tommy.”
“Suppose I am a cop?” Kling said.
“Cops have badges.”
Kling reached into his back pocket, opened his wallet, and showed the tin.
Tommy glanced at the shield. “Cop or no cop, this is still a clean club.”
“Nobody said it was dirty. Stop bulging your weight-lifter muscles and answer my questions straight. When was Jeannie Paige down here last?”
Tommy hesitated for a long time. “Nobody here had anything to do with killing her,” he said at last.
“Then she did come down?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Every now and then.”
“How often?”
“Whenever there was socials. Sometimes during the week, too. We let her in ‘cause one of the girls…” Tommy stopped.
“Go ahead, finish it.”
“One of the girls knows her. Otherwise we wouldn’t’ve let her in except on social nights. That’s all I was gonna say.”
“Yeah,” Hud said, placing the broken record pieces on the player cabinet. “I think this girl was gonna put her up for membership.”
“Was she here last Thursday night?” Kling asked.
“No,” Tommy answered quickly.
“Try it again.”
“No, she wasn’t here. Thursday night is Work Night. Six kids from the club get the duty each week—different kids, you understand. Three guys and three girls. The guys do the heavy work, and the girls do the curtains, the glasses, things like that. No outsiders are allowed on Work Night. In fact, no members except the kids who are working are allowed. That’s how I know Jeannie Paige wasn’t here.”
“Were you here?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said.
“Who else was here?”
“What difference does it make? Jeannie wasn’t here.”
“What about her girlfriend? The one she knows?”
“Yeah, she was here.”
“What’s her name?”
Tommy paused. When he answered, it had nothing whatsoever to do with Kling’s question. “This Jeannie kid, like you got to understand her. She never even danced with nobody down here. A real zombie. Pretty as sin, but an iceberg. Ten below, I’m not kidding.”
“Why’d she come down then?”
“Ask me an easy one. Listen, even when she did come down, she never stayed long. She’d just sit on the sidelines and watch. There wasn’t a guy in this club wouldn’ta liked to dump her in the hay, but what a terrifying creep she was.” Tommy paused. “Ain’t that right, Hud?”
Hud nodded. “That’s right. Dead and all, I got to say it. She was a regular icicle. A real spook. After a while, none of the guys even bothered askin’ her to dance. We just let her sit.”
“She was in another world,” Tommy said. “I thought for a while she was a dope addict or something. I mean it. You know, you read about them in the papers all the time.” He shrugged. “But it wasn’t that. She was just a Martian, that’s all.” He shook his head disconsolately. “Such a piece, too.”
“A terrifying creep,” Hud said, shaking his head.
“What’s her girlfriend’s name?” Kling asked again.
A glance of muted understanding passed between Tommy and Hud. Kling didn’t miss it, but he bided his time.
“You get a pretty girl like Jeannie was,” Tommy said, “and you figure. Here’s something. Pal, did you ever see her? I mean, they don’t make them like that any—”
“What’s her girlfriend’s name?” Kling repeated, a little louder this time.
“She’s an older girl,” Tommy said, his voice very low.
“How old?”
“Twenty,” Tommy said.
“That almost makes her middle-aged like me,” Kling said.
“Yeah,” Hud agreed seriously.
“What’s her age got to do with it?”
“Well…” Tommy hesitated.
“For Christ’s sake, what is it?” Kling exploded.
“She’s been around,” Tommy said.
“So?”
“So…so we don’t want any trouble down here. This is a clean club. No, really, I’m not snowing you. So…so if once in a while we fool around with Claire—”
“Claire what?” Kling snapped.
“Claire…” Tommy stopped.
“Look,” Kling said tightly, “let’s just cut this short, okay? A seventeen-year-old kid had her head smashed in, and I don’t feel like playing around! Now, what the hell is this girl’s name? And say it damn fast!”
“Claire Townsend.” Tommy wet his lips. “Look, if our mothers found out we were…well, you know…fooling around with Claire down here, well. Look, can’t we leave her out of this? What’s to gain? Is there anything wrong with a little fun?”
“Nothing,” Kling said. “Do you find murder funny? Do you find it comical, you terrifying creep?”
“No, but—”
“Where does she live?”
“Claire?”
“Yes.”
“Right on Peterson. What’s the address, Hud?”
“728, I think,” Hud said.
“Yeah, that sounds about right. But look, Officer, leave us out of it, will you?”
“How many of you do I have to protect?” Kling said dryly.
“Well…only Hud and me, actually,” Tommy said.
“The Bobbsey Twins.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” Kling started for the door. “Stay away from big girls,” he said. “Go lift some weights.”
“You’ll leave us out of it?” Tommy called.
“I may be back,” Kling said, and then he left them standing by the record player.
In Riverhead—and throughout the city, for that matter, but especially in Riverhead—the cave dwellers have thrown up a myriad number of dwellings, which they call middle-class apartment houses. These buildings are usually constructed of yellow brick, and they are carefully set on the street so that no wash is seen hanging on the lines, except when an inconsiderate city transit authority constructs an elevated structure that cuts through backyards.
The fronts of the buildings are usually hung with a different kind of wash. Here is where the women gather. They sit on bridge chairs and stools, and they knit, and they sun themselves, and they talk, and their talk is the dirty wash of the apartment building. In three minutes flat, a reputation can be ruined by these Mesdames Defarge. The ax drops with remarkable abruptness, whetted by a friendly discussion of last-night’s mah-jongg game. The head, with equally remarkable suddenness, rolls into the basket, and the discussion idles on to topics like, “Should birth control be practiced in the Virgin Isles?”
Autumn was a bold seductress on that late Monday afternoon, September 18. The women lingered in front of the buildings, knowing their hungry men would soon be home for dinner, but lingering nonetheless, savoring the tantalizing bite of the air. When the tall, blond man stopped in front of 728 Peterson, paused to check the address over the arched doorway, and then stepped into the foyer, speculation ran rife among the women knitters. After a brief period of consultation, one of the women— a girl named Birdie—was chosen to sidle unobtrusively into the foyer and, if the opportunity were ripe, perhaps casually follow the good-looking stranger upstairs.
Birdie, so carefully unobtrusive was she, missed her golden opportunity. By the time she had wormed her way into the inner foyer, Kling was nowhere in sight.
He had checked the name Townsend in the long row of brass-plated mailboxes, pushed the bell button, and then leaned on the inner door until an answering buzz released its lock mechanism. He had then climbed to the fourth floor, found Apartment 47, and pushed another button.
He was now waiting.
He pushed the button again.
The door opened suddenly. He had heard no approaching footsteps, and the sudden opening of the door surprised him. Unconsciously, he looked first to the girl’s feet. She was barefoot.
“I was raised in the Ozarks,” she said, following his glance. “We own a vacuum cleaner, a carpet sweeper, a broiler, a set of encyclopedias, and subscriptions to most of the magazines. Whatever you’re selling, we’ve probably got it, and we’re not interested in putting you through college.”
Kling smiled. “I’m selling an automatic apple corer,” he said.
“We don’t eat apples,” the girl replied.
“This one mulches the seeds and converts them to fiber. The corer comes complete with an instruction booklet telling you how to weave fiber mats.”
The girl raised a speculative eyebrow.
“It comes in six colors,” Kling went on. “Toast Brown, Melba Peach, Tart Red—”
“Are you on the level?” the girl asked, puzzled now.
“Proofreader Blue,” Kling continued, “Bilious Green and Midnight Dawn.” He paused. “Are you interested?”
“Hell no,” she said, somewhat shocked.
“My name is Bert Kling,” he said seriously. “I’m a cop.”
“Now you sound like the opening to a television show.”
“May I come in?”
“Am I in trouble?” the girl asked. “Did I leave that damn shebang in front of a fire hydrant?”
“No.”
And then, as an afterthought, “Where’s your badge?”
Kling showed her his shield.
“You’re supposed to ask,” the girl said. “Even the man from the gas company. Everybody’s supposed to carry identification like that.”
“Yes, I know.”
“So come in,” she said. “I’m Claire Townsend.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“The boys at Club Tempo sent me here.”
Claire stared at Kling levelly. She was a tall girl. Even barefoot, she reached to Kling’s shoulders. In high heels, she would give the average American male trouble. Her hair was black. Not brunette, not brownette, but black, a total black, the black of a starless, moonless night. Her eyes were a deep brown, arched with black brows. Her nose was straight, and her cheeks were high, and there wasn’t a trace of makeup on her face, not a tint of lipstick on her wide mouth. She wore a white blouse and black toreador pants, which tapered down to her naked ankles and feet. Her toenails were painted a bright red.
She kept staring at him. At last, she said, “Why’d they send you here?”
“They said you knew Jeannie Paige.”
“Oh.” The girl seemed ready to blush. She shook her head slightly, as if to clear it of an erroneous first impression, and then said, “Come in.”
Kling followed her into the apartment. It was furnished with good middle-class taste.
“Sit down,” she said.
“Thank you.” He sat in a low easy chair. It was difficult to sit erect, but he managed it. Claire went to the coffee table, shoved the lid off a cigarette box, took one of the cigarettes for herself, and then asked, “Smoke?”
“No, thanks.”
“Your name was Kling, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a detective?”
“No. A patrolman.”
“Oh.” Claire lighted the cigarette, shook out the match, and then studied Kling. “What’s your connection with Jeannie?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Claire grinned. “I asked first.”
“I know her sister. I’m doing a favor.”
“Uh-huh.” Claire nodded, digesting this. She puffed on the cigarette, folded her arms across her breasts, and then said, “Well, go ahead. Ask the questions. You’re the cop.”
“Why don’t you sit down?”
“I’ve been sitting all day.”
“You work?”
“I’m a college girl,” Claire said. “I’m studying to be a social worker.”
“Why that?”
“Why not?”
Kling smiled. “This time, I asked first.”
“I want to get to people before you do,” she said.
“That sounds reasonable,” Kling said. “Why do you belong to Club Tempo?”
Her eyes grew suddenly wary. He could almost see a sudden film pass over the pupils, masking them. She turned her head and blew out a ball of smoke. “Why shouldn’t I?” she asked.
“I can see where our conversation is going to run around in the why/why not rut,” Kling said.
“Which is a damn sight better than the why/because rut, don’t you think?” There was an edge to her voice now.
He wondered what had suddenly changed her earlier friendliness. He weighed her reaction for a moment and then decided to plunge onward.
“The boys there are a little young for you, aren’t they?”
“You’re getting a little personal, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Kling said, “I am.”
“Our acquaintance is a little short for personal exchanges,” Claire said icily.
“Hud can’t be more than eighteen—”
“Listen—”
“And what’s Tommy? Nineteen? They haven’t got an ounce of brains between them. Why do you belong to Tempo?”
Claire squashed out her cigarette. “Maybe you’d better leave, Mr. Kling,” she said.
“I just got here,” he answered.
She turned. “Let’s set the record straight. So far as I know, I’m not obliged to answer any questions you ask about my personal affairs, unless I’m under suspicion for some foul crime. To bring the matter down to a fine technical point, I don’t have to answer any questions a patrolman asks me, unless he is operating in an official capacity, which you admitted you were not. I liked Jeannie Paige, and I’m willing to cooperate. But if you’re going to get snotty, this is still my home, and my home is my castle, and you can get the hell out.”
“Okay,” Kling said, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Miss Townsend.”
“Okay,” Claire said.
A silence clung to the atmosphere. Claire looked at Kling. Kling looked back at her.
“I’m sorry, too,” Claire said finally. “I shouldn’t be so goddamn touchy.”
“No, you were perfectly right. It’s none of my business what you—”
“Still, I shouldn’t have—”
“No, really, it’s—”
Claire burst out laughing, and Kling joined her. She sat, still chuckling, and said, “Would you like a drink, Mr. Kling?”
Kling looked at his watch. “No, thanks,” he said.
“Too early for you?”
“Well—”
“It’s never too early for cognac,” she said.
“I’ve never tasted cognac,” he admitted.
“You haven’t?” Her eyebrows shot up onto her forehead. “Ah, monsieur, you are meesing one of ze great treats of life. A little, oui? Non?”
“A little,” he said.
She crossed to a bar with green leatherette doors, opened them, and drew out a bottle with a warm, amber liquid showing within.
“Cognac,” she announced grandly, “the king of brandies. You can drink it as a highball, cocktail, punch—or in coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and milk.”
“Milk?” Kling asked, astonished.
“Milk, yes indeed. But the best way to enjoy cognac is to sip it—neat.”
“You sound like an expert,” Kling said.
Again, quite suddenly, the veil passed over her eyes. “Someone taught me to drink it,” she said flatly, and then she poured some of the liquid into two medium-sized, tulip-shaped glasses. When she turned to face Kling again, the mask had dropped from her eyes. “Note that the glass is only half filled,” she said. “That’s so you can twirl it without spilling any of the drink.” She handed the glass to Kling. “The twirling motion mixes the cognac vapors with the air in the glass, bringing out the bouquet. Roll the glass in your palms, Mr. Kling. That warms the cognac and also brings out the aroma.”
“Do you smell this stuff or drink it?” Kling wanted to know. He rolled the glass between his big hands.
“Both,” Claire said. “That’s what makes it a good experience. Taste it. Go ahead.”
Kling took a deep swallow, and Claire opened her mouth and made an abrupt “Stop!” signal with one outstretched hand. “Good God,” she said, “don’t gulp it! You’re committing an obscenity when you gulp cognac. Sip it; roll it around your tongue.”
“I’m sorry,” Kling apologized. He sipped the cognac, rolled it on his tongue. “Good,” he said.
“Virile,” she said.
“Velvety,” he added.
“End of commercial.”
They sat silently, sipping the brandy. He felt very cozy and very warm and very comfortable. Claire Townsend was a pleasant person to look at and a pleasant person to talk to. Outside the apartment, the shadowy grays of autumn dusk were washing the sky.
“About Jeannie,” he said. He did not feel like discussing death.
“Yes?”
“How well did you know her?”
“As well as anyone, I suppose. I don’t think she had many friends.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You can tell. That lost-soul look. A beautiful kid, but lost. God, what I wouldn’t have given for the looks she had.”
“You’re not so bad,” Kling said, smiling. He sipped more brandy.
“That’s the warm, amber glow of the cognac,” Claire advised him. “I’m a beast in broad daylight.”
“I’ll just bet you are,” Kling said. “How’d you first meet her?”
“At Tempo. She came down one night. I think her boyfriend sent her. In any case, she had the name of the club and the address written on a little white card. She showed it to me, almost as if it were a ticket of admission, and then she just sat in the corner and refused dances. She looked…It’s hard to explain. She was there, but she wasn’t there. Have you seen people like that?”
“Yes,” Kling said.
“I’m like that myself sometimes,” Claire admitted. “Maybe that’s why I spotted it. Anyway, I went over and introduced myself, and we started talking. We got along very well. By the end of the evening we’d exchanged telephone numbers.”
“Did she ever call you?”
“No. I only saw her at the club.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Oh, a long time now.”
“How long?”
“Let me see.” Claire sipped her cognac and thought. “Gosh, it must be almost a year.” She nodded. “Yes, just about.”
“I see. Go ahead.”
“Well, it wasn’t hard to find out what was troubling her. The kid was in love.”
Kling leaned forward. “How do you know?”
Claire’s eyes did not leave his face. “I’ve been in love, too,” she said tiredly.
“Who was her boyfriend?” Kling asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t she tell you?”
“No.”
“Didn’t she mention his name ever? I mean, in conversation?”
“No.”
“Hell,” Kling said.
“Understand, Mr. Kling, that this was a new bird taking wing. Jeannie was leaving the nest, testing her feathers.”
“I see.”
“Her first love, Mr. Kling, and shining in her eyes, and glowing on her face, and putting her in this dream world of hers where everything outside it was shadowy.” Claire shook her head. “God, I’ve seen them green, but Jeannie…” She stopped and shook her head again. “She just didn’t know anything, you know? Here was this woman’s body…Well, had you ever seen her?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know what I mean. This was the real item, a woman. But inside…a little girl.”
“How do you figure that?” Kling asked, thinking of the autopsy results.
“Everything about her. The way she used to dress, the way she talked, the questions she asked, even her handwriting. All a little girl’s. Believe me, Mr. Kling, I’ve never—”
“Her handwriting?”
“Yes, yes. Here, let me see if I’ve still got it.” She crossed the room and scooped her purse from a chair. “I’m the laziest girl in the world. I never copy an address into my address book. I just stick it in between the pages until I’ve…” She was thumbing through a little black book. “Ah, here it is,” she said. She handed Kling a white card. “She wrote that for me the night we met. Jeannie Paige and then the phone number. Now, look at the way she wrote.”
Kling looked at the card in puzzlement. “This says ‘Club Tempo,’” he said. “‘1812 Klausner Street.’”
“What?” Claire frowned. “Oh, yes. That’s the card she came down with that night. She used the other side to give me her number. Turn it over.”
Kling did.
“See the childish scrawl? That was Jeannie Paige a year ago.”
Kling flipped the card over again. “I’m more interested in this side,” he said. “You told me you thought her boyfriend might have written this. Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. I just assumed he was the person who sent her down, that’s all. It’s a man’s handwriting.”
“Yes,” Kling said. “May I keep this?”
Claire nodded. “If you like.” She paused. “I guess I have no further use for Jeannie’s phone number.”
“No,” Kling said. He put the card into his wallet. “You said she asked you questions. What kind of questions?”
“Well, for one, she asked me how to kiss.”
“What?”
“Yes. She asked me what to do with her lips, whether she should open her mouth, use her tongue. And all this delivered with that wide-eyed, baby-blue stare. It sounds incredible, I know. But, remember, she was a young bird, and she didn’t know how strong her wings were.”
“She found out,” Kling said.
“Huh?”
“Jeannie Paige was pregnant when she died.”
“No!” Claire said. She put down the brandy glass. “No, you’re joking!”
“I’m serious.”
Claire was silent for several moments. Then she said, “First time at bat and she gets beaned. Dammit! Goddammit!”
“But you don’t know who her boyfriend was?”
“No.”
“Had she continued seeing him? You said this was a year ago. I mean—”
“I know what you mean. Yes, the same one. She’d been seeing him regularly. In fact, she used the club for that.”
“He came to the club!” Kling said, sitting erect.
“No, no.” Claire was shaking her head impatiently. “I think her sister and brother-in-law objected to her seeing this fellow. So she told them she was going down to Tempo. She’d stay there a little while, just in case anyone was checking, and then she’d leave.”
“Let me understand this,” Kling said. “She came to the club and then left to meet him. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“This was standard procedure? This happened each time she came down?”
“Almost each time. Once in a while she’d stay at the club until things broke up.”
“Did she meet him in the neighborhood?”
“No, I don’t think so. I walked her down to the El once.”
“What time did she generally leave the club?”
“Between ten and ten-thirty.”
“And she walked to the El, is that right? And you assume she took a train there and went to meet him.”
“I know she went to meet him. The night I walked her, she told me she was going downtown to meet him.”
“Downtown where?”
“She didn’t say.”
“What did he look like, this fellow?”
“She didn’t say.”
“She never described him?”
“Only to say he was the handsomest man in the world. Look, who ever describes his love? Shakespeare, maybe. That’s all.”
“Shakespeare and seventeen-year-olds,” Kling said. “Seventeen-year-olds shout their love to the rooftops.”
“Yes,” Claire said gently. “Yes.”
“But not Jeannie Paige. Dammit, why not her?”
“I don’t know.” Claire thought for a moment. “This mugger who killed her—”
“Um?”
“The police don’t think he was the fellow she was seeing, do they?”
“This is the first anyone connected with the police is hearing about her love life,” Kling said.
“Oh. Well, he…he didn’t sound that way. He sounded gentle. I mean, when Jeannie did talk about him, he sounded gentle.”
“But she never mentioned his name?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
Kling rose. “I’d better be going. That is dinner I smell, isn’t it?”
“My father’ll be home soon,” Claire said. “Mom is dead. I whip something up when I get home from school.”
“Every night?” Kling asked.
“What? I’m sorry…”
He didn’t know whether to press it or not. She hadn’t heard him, and he could easily have shrugged his comment aside. But he chose not to.
“I said, ‘Every night?’”
“Every night what?”
She certainly was not making it easy for him. “Do you prepare supper every night? Or do you occasionally get a night off?”
“Oh, I get nights off,” Claire said.
“Maybe you’d enjoy dinner out some night?”
“With you, do you mean?”
“Well, yes. Yes, that’s what I had in mind.”
Claire Townsend looked at him long and hard. At last, she said, “No, I don’t think so. I’m sorry. Thanks. I couldn’t.”
“Well…uh…” Quite suddenly, Kling felt like a fool. “I…uh… guess I’ll be going, then. Thanks for the cognac. It was very nice.”
“Yes,” she said, and he remembered her discussing people who were there and yet not there, and he knew exactly what she meant because she was not there at all. She was somewhere far away, and he wished he knew where. With sudden, desperate longing, he wished he knew where she was because, curiously, he wanted to be there with her.
“Good-bye,” he said.
She smiled in answer and closed the door behind him.