Clandestine

Lorna nodded brusquely and shifted her weight to her good leg. "And you're a busy man. We should find a place to go and talk. I'm very curious to hear what you have to say." Catching herself being almost friendly, she added, "I trust you wouldn't waste my time." When I didn't acknowledge that, she asked, "Would you?"

I gave Lorna Weinberg my widest, most innocent smile. "Maybe. So much for the amenities. Do you eat dinner?"

Lorna frowned again. "Yes, Officer, I do. Do you?"

"Yeah. Every night. An old childhood habit. You know any decent places around here?"

"Not that I can walk to."

"If your bum leg acts up we can rest or I can carry you. Or we can drive somewhere."

Lorna winced against my comments, curling her lip reflexively. "We can drive," she said, "in my car."

I was more than willing to concede the point.

We walked the half-block to Temple very slowly, saying very little. Lorna limped steadily, easily throwing the dead leg forward in almost perfect rhythmic grace. If she was in pain she didn't show it; only her bare arm holding the cane betrayed any sign of tension.

I tried to think of something to say, but all my one-liners seemed fatuous or abrasive. As we crossed the street I grabbed her elbow to steady her and she withdrew it angrily.

"Don't," she snapped, "I can manage myself."

"I'm sure you can," I said.

The car was a late model Packard with an automatic shift and a specially constructed stirrup to hold Lorna's bad leg. Without consulting me, she drove north to Chinatown. She was a good, efficient driver, maneuvering the big car deftly through the heavy evening traffic on North Broadway. Squeezing effortlessly into a tight parking space and setting the hand brake with a flourish, Lorna turned to face me. "Is Chinese all right?" she asked.

The restaurant interior was a marvel of papier-mâché architecture. All four walls were shaped like mountain ranges, with cascading waterfalls dropping into a trough filled with giant goldfish. The room was bathed in a bluish-green light that imparted an underwater effect.

An obsequious waiter guided us to a booth at the back and handed us menus. Lorna made a great show of studying hers while I formulated my thoughts into a useful brevity. I stared at her as she perused her menu. Her face was very strong and very beautiful.

She looked up from her menu and caught my gaze. "Aren't you going to eat?" she asked.

"Maybe," I said. "If I do, I know what I'll have."

"Are you that rigid? Don't you like to try new things?"

"Lately, yes. Which is why I'm here."

"Is that a double-entendre, Officer?"

"It's a cross between a proposition and a statement of purpose."

"Is that a double-entendre?"

"It's a cross between a paradox and a logical fallacy."

"And the part I—"

I interrupted, "The paradox is murder, counselor, and the fact that I intend to profit from the capture of the murderer. The logical fallacy is that—well, in part I'm here because you are a very handsome and interesting woman." Lorna opened her mouth to protest, but I raised my voice to drown her out. "Pardon my language, but, as a colleague of mine says, 'Enough horseshit.' Let's eat, then I'll tell you about it."

Lorna glowered at me, speechless. I could tell she was mustering her resources for a wicked return salvo. Fortunately for me, our waiter glided up silently and said, "You order now?"

Before Lorna could start again I took a sip of green tea and began the story of Freddy Underhill, rogue cop, and his incredible intuition and persistence. She started to question me several times, but I just shook my head and continued. She changed expressions only once during my monologue, when I mentioned the name of Dudley Smith. Then her rapt look changed to one of anger. By the time I finished, our food had come. Lorna looked from me to her plate, then pushed it away and made a face.

"I can't eat now," she said. "Not after what you've told me."

"Do you believe me?"

"Yes. It's circumstantial, but it fits. What exactly do you want from me?"

"When the case is airtight, I want to file my depositions with you personally. The truth: Smith is going to try to screw me out of this; I can tell. I don't trust the bastard. Frankly, I want the glory. Are you still preparing cases for the grand jury?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then as soon as I have enough evidence, or as soon as we arrest Engels, I'll come to you. You prepare the case and the grand jury will indict Engels."

"And then, Officer?" Lorna asked sarcastically.

"And then we both have the satisfaction of knowing Eddie Engels is on his way to the gas chamber. Your career will be aided, and I'll go to the detective bureau." Lorna was morosely silent. I tried to cheer her up. "Which will make your job easier. I'll be filing lots of cases with you—but only ones where I'm sure my arrestee is guilty." I smiled.

"Dudley Smith is going to crucify you for this," Lorna said.