“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 shoulder. 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.”
“Um-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 said. 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?”