Reardon turned to leave; he had heard enough.
“That’s evidence,” Piccolini repeated. “Build a case on that. Real evidence. Physical evidence.”
Reardon stopped in the doorway, his hand on the doorknob. “Be careful, Mario,” he said.
“About what?”
“About this case. About who did it. About avoiding a frame-up.”
Piccolini’s face quickly went through phases of anger, then shock, then sadness. “Is that what you think I’m trying to do in this case, John? Do you think I’m trying to frame Petrakis?”
“Sometimes it just happens.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Piccolini said.
Reardon looked at Piccolini and saw that he really believed himself incapable of such a thing. It was as if he was a little like Benedict Arturo, unconscious of his urges and even of the acts that flowed from there. For a moment Reardon thought of going over the entire case with Piccolini, demonstrating how each of his decisions had moved the investigation toward Petrakis. But he did not. It would only be a series of futile allegations which Piccolini would deny. Piccolini would not even have to lie to deny them, at least not to himself. Reardon did not want to talk to Piccolini anymore or be in his office ever again. “I think I’m going to retire after this one, Mario,” he said.
Piccolini stared rigidly at Reardon. He would not, Reardon knew, try to dissuade him from early retirement, not after this.
Reardon had a witness, but he did not have a motive. And there was only one place where he could find one. He left the precinct house immediately and headed toward the Van Allen residence on Fifth Avenue. His old colleague, Steadman, was again on duty at the door.
“Is Wallace Van Allen here?” Reardon asked.
“No,” Steadman said. “He’s in Washington.”
“How about Dwight?”
“He’s gone to school in Massachusetts.” Steadman looked at Reardon curiously. “You look beat.”
“Is Melinda Van Allen in Massachusetts too?” Reardon asked dryly.
“No, she’s in the park. In the zoo I guess.”
“Thanks,” Reardon said. He turned to leave.
Steadman grabbed his arm. “Is she expecting you?”
Reardon pulled his arm from Steadman’s grasp. “Do you have a buzzer system in the park?” he asked irritably, and immediately felt ashamed.
“No,” Steadman said, but he smiled, almost gently, as if something told him to be kind, and Reardon felt relieved.
“Melinda’s in the zoo, you think?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ll see if I can find her.”
Melinda Van Allen was not hard to find. She was sitting on the same bench where Reardon had talked to her before, just beyond the cage of the fallow deer. She had drawn the collar of her coat up around her neck to protect her from the light breezes that darted through the park.
She looked up from a book as Reardon approached. “Hello,” she said brightly.
“Hello, Miss Van Allen,” Reardon said. “I’d like to talk to you if it’s okay.”
“Sure,” Melinda replied airily. “It’s John, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Detective John Reardon, New York City Police Department,” she said in a deep voice with mock seriousness.
“May I sit down?”
“The park is for the people,” Melinda said.
Sometimes, Reardon thought as he sat down, the park is for killing.
“Is this business or pleasure?” Melinda asked pleasantly. She put her book face down on the bench beside her and folded her arms in front of her, pressing her bare hands under them for warmth.
“Business,” Reardon said.
Melinda’s face darkened.
“Who lives in your apartment?” Reardon asked.
“My father, my brother and myself,” Melinda said. Then she added: “And a few servants.”
“Do all of you usually live together?”
“We have until now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Dwight’s gone off to school.”
“When did he leave?”
“Yesterday,” Melinda said. “I’ll be leaving next week myself.”
“Same school as your brother?”
“No,” Melinda said, “but nearby.”
“Are you two very close?” Reardon asked hesitantly.
“Yes. Very. We’re twins, you know.” She seemed proud of that fact.
“Yes, I know.”
Melinda smiled. “We’re duplicates, practically,” she said enthusiastically. “When we were younger and we had to sign something, you know jointly, like a wedding or Christmas card from both of us, we wouldn’t sign our names separately.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“No,” Melinda said, “we’d just sign with the number ‘two.’”
Reardon had not expected anything like this so quickly. “With a digit?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” Melinda said, “or sometimes with the number written out, sometimes in a foreign language.”
“Or a roman numeral?”
“Sure,” Melinda said. “That was Dwight’s favorite.”
Reardon peered over Melinda’s shoulder to the empty cage of the fallow deer. The long thin shadows from the bars fell slantwise across its floor. The chalk marks were beginning to fade. “When did your father give you the deer?”
“Three years ago. It was our birthday.”
“And not quite two years ago he donated them to the Children’s Zoo in your name.”
“In both our names.” Melinda looked at Reardon quizzically. “Why all these questions?”
“You and Dwight are very close, you say?” Reardon asked. He was stalling, and he knew it.
“Yes,” Melinda said, “very close.”
Reardon nodded. He was not sure what to do next. He was not sure that Melinda was prepared to go to the place he knew he had to take her.
“What is this all about?” she asked again. “Reardon, the mysterious detective.” Jokingly she deepened her voice. “Does the Shadow know?”
“Do you know who killed the fallow deer?” Reardon asked bluntly.
Melinda grimaced. “No,” she said emphatically, “I don’t.” She laughed, but she could not conceal her distress. “Do you know who killed them?” she asked tauntingly.
“We have a witness,” Reardon said quietly. “We have a woman who saw the man who killed the deer.”
“Well, who did it?” Melinda asked excitedly. “No more phony mystery. Who killed them?”
Reardon stood up. “Melinda, I want to show you something.”
“Where?”
“Here,” Reardon replied. “Here in the zoo. Just a little ways from here.”
“All right,” Melinda said. She stood up, putting her book away in her bag. “This better be worth it, though. It’s hard to get a seat at this bench sometimes. I wouldn’t give it up for just anyone, you know.” She smiled at Reardon.
“It’s just right over here,” Reardon said. He pointed to the cage of the fallow deer.
Melinda stepped back. “No,” she said. “I don’t want to go over there.”
Reardon took her arm gently. “It’s just an empty cage now,” he said. “It’s important.” He led her forward delicately. “Please.”
“I can’t,” Melinda said. She took another step back.
Reardon still held her arm. “Please,” he said emphatically, more like an order than a request.
“Oh, all right,” Melinda said. “I’m a big girl now. Right?”
“Right,” Reardon said.
Together they walked through the police barricades and into the cage of the fallow deer. The chalk outlines of the bodies had faded considerably, although they were still visible beneath patches of dried leaves and litter. A sudden gust of wind rattled the tin roof of the shed, and Reardon felt Melinda’s arm tremble.
“I want you to look at something,” he said.
Melinda’s face was tense. “What?”
Reardon walked toward the rear of the cage, picked up a piece of tin about a foot square and, holding it face down, brought it back to where Melinda stood.