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 apologized. 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?”
“You can tell. That lost-soul look. A beautiful kid, but lost. God, what I wouldn’t have given for the looks she had.”
“You’re not so bad,” Kling said, smiling. He sipped more brandy.
“That’s the warm, amber glow of the cognac,” Claire advised him. “I’m a beast in broad daylight.”
“I’ll just bet you are,” Kling said. “How’d you first meet her?”
“At Tempo. She came down one night. I think her boyfriend sent her. In any case, she had the name of the club and the address written on a little white card. She showed it to me, almost as if it were a ticket of admission, and then she just sat in the corner and refused dances. She looked… It’s hard to explain. She was there, but she wasn’t there. Have you seen people like that?”
“Yes,” Kling said.
“I’m like that myself sometimes,” Claire admitted. “Maybe that’s why I spotted it. Anyway, I went over and introduced myself, and we started talking. We got along very well. By the end of the evening we’d exchanged telephone numbers.”
“Did she ever call you?”
“No. I only saw her at the club.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Oh, a long time now.”
“How long?”
“Let me see.” Claire sipped her cognac and thought. “Gosh, it must be almost a year.” She nodded. “Yes, just about.”
“I see. Go ahead.”
“Well, it wasn’t hard to find out what was troubling her. The kid was in love.”
Kling leaned forward. “How do you know?”
Claire’s eyes did not leave his face. “I’ve been in love, too,” she said tiredly.
“Who was her boyfriend?” Kling asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t she tell you?”
“No.”
“Didn’t she mention his name ever? I mean, in conversation?”
“No.”
“Hell,” Kling said.
“Understand, Mr. Kling, that this was a new bird taking wing. Jeannie was leaving the nest, testing her feathers.”
“I see.”
“Her first love, Mr. Kling, and shining in her eyes, and glowing on her face, and putting her in this dream world of hers where everything outside it was shadowy.” Claire shook her head. “God, I’ve seen them green, but Jeannie…” She stopped and shook her head again. “She just didn’t know anything, you know? Here was this woman’s body… Well, had you ever seen her?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know what I mean. This was the real item, a woman. But inside… a little girl.”
“How do you figure that?” Kling asked, thinking of the autopsy results.
“Everything about her. The way she used to dress, the way she talked, the questions she asked, even her handwriting. All a little girl’s. Believe me, Mr. Kling, I’ve never—”
“Her handwriting?”
“Yes, yes. Here, let me see if I’ve still got it.” She crossed the room and scooped her purse from a chair. “I’m the laziest girl in the world. I never copy an address into my address book. I just stick it in between the pages until I’ve…” She was thumbing through a little black book. “Ah, here it is,” she said. She handed Kling a white card. “She wrote that for me the night we met. Jeannie Paige and then the phone number. Now, look at the way she wrote.”
Kling looked at the card in puzzlement. “This says ‘Club Tempo,’” he said. “‘1812 Klausner Street.’”
“What?” Claire frowned. “Oh, yes. That’s the card she came down with that night. She used the other side to give me her number. Turn it over.”
Kling did.
“See the childish scrawl? That was Jeannie Paige a year ago.”
Kling flipped the card over again. “I’m more interested in this side,” he said. “You told me you thought her boyfriend might have written this. Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. I just assumed he was the person who sent her down, that’s all. It’s a man’s handwriting.”