returning to the scene of the crime…
I made myself another drink. My fourth or fifth. Outside, it was getting dark.
I wanted to talk to somebody. I wanted to talk to Robin, but that was out of the question. Pete Radik? I could tell things to Pete, get his opinions; they’d probably be good for me. But they’d be only opinions, and biased by his liking for me. Arch? No, not Arch.
Suddenly I knew who I wanted to talk to—and listen to. Walter Smith, the homicide detective who was on the inside of the case if anyone was. I hadn’t talked to him since the night of the murder, and then he’d asked all the questions, or most of them.
I got the phone book and there were nine Walter Smiths in it—two of them plain and seven with middle initials. I tried the plain ones first and got the right one on the second try.
I said, “I wonder if you could spare a bit of time before you report in for work at midnight, Lieutenant. There are some things I want to ask you.”
“Lay off the Lieutenant, Rod. You called me Walter. Sure, I’ll drop around. Let’s see, it’s eight o’clock. I’ll be there by nine. Okay?”
I told him it was okay.
I made myself another drink and the whisky was gettinglow. I didn’t know whether Walter Smith would drink with me or not, just before going on duty, but I wanted to have plenty on hand in case. I went down and got another bottle.
It was a warm muggy night, with flashes of heat lightning in the distance. An unusually warm night for May? even late May. If this was a fair sample, it was going to be a hell of a summer.
I didn’t like it outside, in the hot, flashing night. I was glad to get back to my room and finish the cool drink I’d made.
The hands of my watch crawled to nine o’clock and then past it, and at five minutes after there was a knock on the door.
CHAPTER 7
H E WAS slightly under medium height and on the chubby side. He didn’t look like a detective, but good detectives aren’t supposed to. And I hoped that he was a good detective because he didn’t think I was a killer. Or did he? Could he be giving me rope to hang myself? No, hardly that or he’d have hung around more; I wouldn’t have had to call him.
“Drink?” I asked him.
“Well—one. No more.” He looked at me closely. “You’ve been hitting the stuff pretty hard yourself, haven’t you, Rod?”
“Guess I have. Feeling low.” I made us two drinks. Handed him his.
“All right,” he said, “what’s on your mind?”
“Maybe you can straighten me out on some things, Walter. Let’s start at the beginning. How well did I know you? Where did we meet? That sort of stuff.”
“Friends, but not close friends. We met—let’s see—about six years ago. You were just back from college. You had your first job, in the circulation department of the
Chronicle
, and you’d just moved away from GrandmaTuttle’s and had taken a room of your own—in a rooming house my mother ran. I was about the same age as you—a year older, I think—and still a rookie on the police force. My room was next to yours and we got to be friends, used to play cards some, once in a while went out on double dates together, even shot a bit of pool and bowled once in a while.
“You stayed there a year or so and then moved away—up in the world, I guess—you were making more money and took a bachelor apartment instead of just a furnished room. We kept on seeing each other for a while, and then it got less and less frequent. Lately it’s been only when we happened to run into one another accidentally. Last time I saw you—before Monday night—was a month or so ago, on the street. We talked a few minutes and you suggested we drop in somewhere for a drink or a cup of coffee, but I didn’t have time.”
“Did you know Robin?”
“Met her one night, that’s all. I came into a restaurant—Ricci’s—to eat and you and Robin were at a table and had just ordered. You introduced us and asked me to sit at your table and
I made myself another drink. My fourth or fifth. Outside, it was getting dark.
I wanted to talk to somebody. I wanted to talk to Robin, but that was out of the question. Pete Radik? I could tell things to Pete, get his opinions; they’d probably be good for me. But they’d be only opinions, and biased by his liking for me. Arch? No, not Arch.
Suddenly I knew who I wanted to talk to—and listen to. Walter Smith, the homicide detective who was on the inside of the case if anyone was. I hadn’t talked to him since the night of the murder, and then he’d asked all the questions, or most of them.
I got the phone book and there were nine Walter Smiths in it—two of them plain and seven with middle initials. I tried the plain ones first and got the right one on the second try.
I said, “I wonder if you could spare a bit of time before you report in for work at midnight, Lieutenant. There are some things I want to ask you.”
“Lay off the Lieutenant, Rod. You called me Walter. Sure, I’ll drop around. Let’s see, it’s eight o’clock. I’ll be there by nine. Okay?”
I told him it was okay.
I made myself another drink and the whisky was gettinglow. I didn’t know whether Walter Smith would drink with me or not, just before going on duty, but I wanted to have plenty on hand in case. I went down and got another bottle.
It was a warm muggy night, with flashes of heat lightning in the distance. An unusually warm night for May? even late May. If this was a fair sample, it was going to be a hell of a summer.
I didn’t like it outside, in the hot, flashing night. I was glad to get back to my room and finish the cool drink I’d made.
The hands of my watch crawled to nine o’clock and then past it, and at five minutes after there was a knock on the door.
CHAPTER 7
H E WAS slightly under medium height and on the chubby side. He didn’t look like a detective, but good detectives aren’t supposed to. And I hoped that he was a good detective because he didn’t think I was a killer. Or did he? Could he be giving me rope to hang myself? No, hardly that or he’d have hung around more; I wouldn’t have had to call him.
“Drink?” I asked him.
“Well—one. No more.” He looked at me closely. “You’ve been hitting the stuff pretty hard yourself, haven’t you, Rod?”
“Guess I have. Feeling low.” I made us two drinks. Handed him his.
“All right,” he said, “what’s on your mind?”
“Maybe you can straighten me out on some things, Walter. Let’s start at the beginning. How well did I know you? Where did we meet? That sort of stuff.”
“Friends, but not close friends. We met—let’s see—about six years ago. You were just back from college. You had your first job, in the circulation department of the
Chronicle
, and you’d just moved away from GrandmaTuttle’s and had taken a room of your own—in a rooming house my mother ran. I was about the same age as you—a year older, I think—and still a rookie on the police force. My room was next to yours and we got to be friends, used to play cards some, once in a while went out on double dates together, even shot a bit of pool and bowled once in a while.
“You stayed there a year or so and then moved away—up in the world, I guess—you were making more money and took a bachelor apartment instead of just a furnished room. We kept on seeing each other for a while, and then it got less and less frequent. Lately it’s been only when we happened to run into one another accidentally. Last time I saw you—before Monday night—was a month or so ago, on the street. We talked a few minutes and you suggested we drop in somewhere for a drink or a cup of coffee, but I didn’t have time.”
“Did you know Robin?”
“Met her one night, that’s all. I came into a restaurant—Ricci’s—to eat and you and Robin were at a table and had just ordered. You introduced us and asked me to sit at your table and
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