Bowman buttered his baked potato, spread salt and pepper lavishly over the thick slab of red-brown beef Eva set before him. He ate steadily, methodically, without wasted motion, like a man shoveling coal into a locomotive firebox. Every so often, he sipped from the tall glass of bourbon next to the chipped china plate that held his supper.
Eva dropped her knife on the flowered linoleum floor. Bowman looked up for the first time since he’d seated himself at the table. Eva flushed. She flung the knife into the sink. Then she got up and took a clean one from the silverware drawer.
Before Bowman could resume his assault on the pot roast, she said, “Miles, honey, who do you think murdered Tom?”
“Had to be the guy he was shadowing,” he answered. He speared another piece of meat with his fork, but did not raise it to his lips. “Thursday, that was his name. Evan Thursday.” He ate the piece of meat. With his mouth full, he went on, “Couldn’t have been anybody else.” He swallowed, and smiled at Eva. “Could it?”
“No, I don’t imagine it could,” she said quickly. She bent her head over her plate. A moment later, her fork clattered to the floor. Her lips twisted. “I’m as twitchy as a cat tonight.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Bowman said. He drank from the tumbler. Two ice cubes clinked against its side.
When supper was done, Bowman went out to the living room. He set what was left of his drink on the coffee table, then sat down on the sofa. The springs creaked under his weight. He bent over, grunting a little, untied his shoes, and tossed them under the table.
“Eva, get me my slippers,” he said.
“What?” she called over the noise of running water in the kitchen. He repeated himself, louder. The water stopped running. Drying her hands on a dish towel, Eva bustled past him into the bedroom. She came back with the towel draped over her arm and the slippers in her hands. “Here they are.” He slid them onto his feet. She returned to the dishes.
He smoked three cigarettes waiting for her to finish washing and drying them. When she came out, he handed her the tumbler. She washed it and dried it and put it away. He had opened the News by then, and was going through it front to back, as systematically as he ate.
Eva sighed softly and went over to a bookcase. She pulled out a sentimental novel and carried it into the bedroom. Bowman went on reading. When he came to the Ships in Port listing, he chewed thoughtfully on his underlip. He got up. In the clutter of papers and matchbooks in the top drawer of the hutch, he found a pencil. He underlined the names of four ships:
Daisy Miller from London
La Tórtola from Gozo
Admiral Byng from Minorca
Golden Wind from Bombay
After he read the advertisements on the other side of the page that held Ships in Port, he tore out the three-inch length of agate type and stuck it in his trouser pocket. Then he worked his way through the rest of the newspaper.
“Miles?”
Bowman looked up. Eva stood in the doorway that led to the bedroom. She was wearing a thin, clinging silk crepe de chine peignoir. Bowman had given it to her for their anniversary a few years before. She did not wear it very often.
“It’s getting late,” she said. “Aren’t you coming to bed?” She had not washed off her makeup and smeared her face with cold cream, the way she usually did at bedtime.
Bowman folded up the paper and tossed it on the floor. His fingers were stained with ink from the cheap newsprint. He rubbed them on the; thighs of his pants, rose from the couch. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said.
A hard fist pounded on the front door. Bowman sat up in bed. The pounding went on. “Who’s that?” Eva asked, her voice half drunk with sleep.
“Damned if I know, but I’m going to find out.” Bowman groped for the switch on the lamp by the bed. He flicked it, and screwed up his eyes against the sudden flare of light. He peered at the alarm clock on the nightstand by the lamp. Midnight. Scowling, he got out of bed. He had hung his holster on a chair. He pulled out his pistol, clicked off the safety.
“What are you going to do?” Eva asked. The cold cream made her round cheeks glisten like the rump of a greased pig.
“See who it is,” Bowman answered reasonably. “You stay here.” He slid into his pajama bottoms and padded out toward the door. For a bulky man, he was surprisingly light on his feet. He closed the bedroom door after him.
The pounding had slowed when the light went on. Bowman yanked the door open. He pointed the pistol at the two men on the front porch. A moment later, he lowered it. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “You boys trying to get yourselves killed? I knew cops were dumb, but this dumb?” He shook his head.
“We’ve got to talk to you, Miles,” one of the policemen said. “Can we come in?”
“You got a warrant, Rollie?” Bowman asked.
“Not that kind of talk, I swear.” Detective Roland Dwyer crossed himself to show he was serious.
Bowman considered. He nodded gruffly. “All right, come in, then,” he said, and turned on the imitation Tiffany lamp on the table by the door. “But if you and the Captain here are playing games with me—” He did not say what would happen then, but left the implication it would not be pretty.
“Thanks, Miles,” Dwyer said with an air of sincerity. He was a tall Irishman heading toward middle age. His hair had naturally the color to which Eva’s aspired. His face was long and ruddy and triangular, with a wide forehead and a narrow chin. He wore a frayed shirt collar and pants shiny with wear at the knees: he was, on the whole, an honest cop.
Bowman waved him toward the sofa. The Captain followed him in. Bowman quickly closed the door. The night was chilly, and had the clammy dankness of fog. Bowman sat down in the rocking chair next to the table that held the lamp with the colored glass shade. His voice turned hard: “All right, what won’t keep till morning?”
Dwyer and the Captain looked at each other. The latter was a short, pudgy man, a few years older than Bowman. He had a fringe of silver hair futilely clinging to the slopes of his pate, skin as fine and pink as a baby’s, and innocent blue eyes. His suit was new, and tailored in the English fashion. He smelled of expensive Bay Rum after-shave lotion.
After a brief hesitation, the Captain said: “Evan Thursday’s dead, Miles. One slug, right between the eyes.”
“So?” Bowman said. “Good riddance to him is all I have to say, Bock.”
Captain Henry Bock steepled his fingers. He pressed them so tight together, the blood was forced from their tips, leaving them pale as boiled veal. “Where have you been tonight, Miles?” he asked delicately.
Bowman heaved himself out of the rocker. He took two steps toward the Captain before he checked himself. “Get out of here,” he snarled. “Rollie tells me everything’s going to be jake, and you start with that—” He expressed his opinion with vehemence, variety, and detail.
Roland Dwyer spread his hands placatingly. “Come on, take it easy,” he said. “This guy gets iced, we have to talk to you. We think he shot Tom, after all, and Tom was your partner.”
“Yeah? Is that what you think?” Bowman made a slashing gesture of disgust with his left hand. “Looked like you were trying to pin Tom on me. Or do you figure I took care of both of ’em now?”
“Where have you been tonight?” Captain Bock repeated.
“At the office and here, dammit, nowhere else but,” Bowman said. “Ask my secretary when I left, ask Eva when I got here. You want me to get her out so you can ask her?” He glanced over to the closed bedroom door. “Only take a minute.”