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The detective nodded without changing expression but his voice was a little friendlier as he said, “O.K., let’s let the medic look at that head while I check a couple of things. Then we’ll begin at the beginning and get a formal statement from you.”

He moved off and a man in white cleaned my wound carefully and put something on it which stung. “A bandage would be more trouble than it’s worth there with your hair in the way,” he said cheerfully. “It’ll swell up some, but if you keep it clean it should be O.K.”

By the time he was through with me Cominski had returned. He took a seat across the table from me, produced a notebook, and began to read something from a card inside it. With a shock I recognized the words I’d heard only on television programs: “the right to remain silent,” “if you cannot afford an attorney—”

The detective finished reading and produced a pen. “Let’s start with your name and address,” he said calmly.

Resisting an impulse to plead for some reassurance that I wasn’t really a suspect, I said as calmly as I could, “My name is Walter Kane. I live in the Beachside Apartments in Venice. Here in San Diego I’m staying at the Aztec Hotel downtown.”

Cominski nodded. “And the purpose of your visit to San Diego?”

There are some people you just don’t tell you’re a poet, and Cominski was one of them.

“I’m taking pictures for greeting cards,” I said. “My cousin and I are in partnership— My camera! Was there a camera with me when you found me?”

The detective shook his head. “No sign of one,” he said. “I’ll ask you for a description of it later and if it was stolen we’ll do what we can. Where were you before you got to the restaurant? Can you think of anything that’ll narrow the time down?”

I explained that I’d been wandering around looking for picture subjects and he took me through my arrival at the restaurant and every detail I could remember of what had happened. Then he drummed his fingers on the table and considered.

“Latest local news on TV is six o’clock,” he said. “We can probably find out which channel you saw and when the weather comes on the show. Trouble is, the guy who found you and Klouri and called us is a waiter here. He says he worked from five to seven and then went home to take a break; business picks up again around eight. That’s when he found you — eight o’clock, when he came back. According to the waiter, Klouri was O.K. when he left. We’re trying to find some regular customers and check that. There’s no TV news you could have seen after seven. The TV unit isn’t hooked up to its antenna and it’s tuned to Channel 3, which is a blank channel. Have you got any explanation for that?”

I shook my head. This time it didn’t hurt so much. “But I suppose someone could have been trying to steal the TV — struck down Klouri first, then me when I wandered in.”

The detective nodded. “Could be,” he said. “Most times we get a businessman killed, some kind of robbery’s involved. The trouble is we got this conflict on time with you and the waiter. Till we get that figured out I’m afraid we’ve got to hold you both. Give me a description of that camera and then take it easy for a while. I’ll see if we can get some coffee for you. I’m staying here at the scene in case we get a customer who can give us some information.”

He moved off to another corner of the room and began talking to a small, dark man with a bulbous nose who was wearing black trousers and a cardigan sweater over a white shirt and dark tie. I supposed he must be the waiter. A uniformed man brought me some coffee in a styrofoam cup. I wondered why they didn’t use the restaurant’s cups. While I was sipping the coffee another uniformed man brought in a tall, white-haired man with a beak of a nose.

Cominski left the table where he was talking to the dark man to greet the white-haired man. He glanced around and led the other man to a table as far away as possible from both myself and the man I presumed to be the waiter, but the room was so small I could overhear a good deal of the conversation.

The white-haired man said, “Stephanos, yes, that’s my name, Platon Stephanos. I live opposite in the big apartments there — 9C is mine. I am Greek, but there is no good Greek restaurant here, and George is not a bad cook. Yes, I was here earlier for coffee and to talk to some of the younger men who come in after work. Now I am back for my dinner and I find a policeman at the door!”

I couldn’t hear all of Cominski’s question but Mr. Stephanos’ reply was easy to follow. “Yes, I was here till about seven, when Stavros the waiter goes home and George goes to rest his feet. He is not a good waiter, you know, Stavros. Always he bangs the dishes on the table and tonight he was worse than usual. But he is a cousin of George — what can you do? What? No, George I don’t see yet tonight. When the men come from work he is busy in the kitchen. Later he has time to talk sometimes.”

That was the important part of what Platon Stephanos had to say, but it was another ten minutes before Cominski ushered him out of the door with thanks. The detective hesitated, then came over to me.

“I guess you couldn’t help hearing,” he said. “That pretty well confirms the waiter’s story and makes it kind of hard to see how you could have come in here when a news broadcast would have been on television. Till we get that cleared up I’ll have to ask you to stick around.”

Even though the restaurant was comfortably cool, I could feel myself sweating and wished I had never mentioned that newscast. “Couldn’t Klouri have had some sort of special antenna that brought in programs from some other area?” I suggested desperately.

Cominski shrugged. “There’s no sign of anything like that and I don’t see a thief stealing an antenna—” he began, then suddenly fell silent. “Hold on here,” he said unnecessarily and strode out the door.

There was a long, long wait, but eventually Cominski returned with a grim smile on his face. Behind him was a man in uniform carrying a large cardboard carton. Cominski and the other man went into the room where I had found Klouri’s body and closed the door.

After another endless wait, Cominski opened the door and beckoned to me. The television set was on and as I got to the door a man on the screen was saying “—should burn off by noon and the afternoon will be sunny.”

I gaped at Cominski. “That’s the same weather report I saw when I came in!”

He nodded. “Exactly the same weather report,” he said, and pointed to a rectangular object sitting next to the television set. It had two round tuning dials like those on a television set and a row of buttons along its front. In a small rectangle in the upper left-hand corner red numbers glowed.

“This is a video cassette recorder — VCR, they call it,” said Cominski. “They’re just beginning to show up on robbery reports. When you said that about the antenna and I said a thief couldn’t walk away with an antenna, it struck me that he could walk away with one of these.” He pushed one of the buttons and there was a loud click. The picture on the TV changed. He pushed another button and there was a whir, then a click. He pushed still another and the TV screen went grey for a moment, then the weather forecast began again.

“Suppose you’ve got a job that keeps you busy during news time but you like to watch the news,” said Cominski. “You push a button on this gadget and it records the news for you on a video cassette. The TV doesn’t even have to be on. Then, when you have the time, you turn to Channel 3 and push some buttons to rewind your tape and play it back. You sit down in comfort and watch the six o’clock news at seven-fifteen. That’s what Klouri was doing.” He looked over my shoulder and said, “You must have known Klouri had this gadget, Stavros. How come you didn’t tell us?”