Deadline, 2 A.M.

Chapter 3

Saturday — 1:10 A.M.

Frank Paul Oliver — Porky Frank or Porky Oliver to his friends, depending upon the closeness of the relationship — was a businessman with various interests, and one of his interests, in a minor fashion, was the collecting of information. It was not his principal business; his major interest was in running a small but honest handbook, but when in the course of his daily endeavors he ran into facts that could have a monetary value, Porky quite properly collected those facts and eventually sold them. To have done otherwise would have been unbusinesslike, and contrary to the “Waste Not, Want Not” philosophy instilled in him as a youth by an equally businesslike mother.

The standard word for a person who indulges in the sale of information for money is “stool pigeon,” but the word carries the wrong connotation. Years of conditioning by television, the movies, and cheap novels have left the public with the mental picture of a stool pigeon as a small, cringing man, usually with a terminal cough, dressed in a crumpled suit with frayed cuffs and upturned jacket collar, who whispers hoarsely from the corner of his mouth, normally past a stained cigarette plastered to his lower lip. Frank Paul Oliver would have smiled gently at the description. A large, well-built young man with a fine sense of humor and flair for the finer things in life, Porky had gained his nickname because of his ebullient self-confidence. To be honest, Porky was quite content with the propaganda of the movies and television. It obviously made it much easier to gather information when the people speaking in his presence were constantly looking over their shoulders for small cringing men with frayed cuffs and terminal coughs, and not paying the slightest attention to the well-dressed, self-confident people in the area.

At the moment, Porky was not working. Or, one might better say, he was engaged in one of his lesser income-producing pursuits. He stood, thoughtfully chalking a pool cue, at the nine-foot, professional table in Sawicki’s Pool Hall, carefully considering the plethora of goodies left him by an inadvertent miscue on the part of his opponent, none other than Sawicki himself. The proprietor of the pool emporium, his face twisted in understandable pain as he foresaw the inevitable result of his error, leaned back against the nearby cigar counter, his head and shoulders shadowed in the darkness that lay beyond the cones of light cast by the twin shades, and waited for total disaster. Porky, satisfied that the campaign he had planned would result in clearing the table, leaving himself a proper break shot, and reducing Sawicki’s profit for the week considerably, put aside the chalk and bent down, prepared to begin the mayhem. But before he could begin his stroke, the telephone rang. Porky straightened up again politely as Sawicki put down his cue and went to answer the phone. It was not that Sawicki had the slightest doubt, Porky knew, of what was going to happen, but it was simply safer, in that milieu, to have witnesses to the feat — particularly the man who was going to have to pay.

At the telephone behind the counter, Sawicki spat carefully into a spittoon by way of preparation, raised the receiver, and growled into it in his normal foggy voice, “Sawicki’s Pool Hall.”

“Is Porky Frank there?”

Sawicki covered the mouthpiece with a hand the size of a pool rack and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper that carried the length of the room, disturbing players at several distant tables. “Hey, Porky — you in?”

“Who is it?”

“Same guy calls you here every now and then. Calls you Frank. Quiet voice. Usually sounds tired.”

“Ah!” Porky said. He laid aside his cue and moved toward the telephone. “Well, these people who keep silly hours — like nine to five — come the wee hours of the morning and they’re all through. No stamina,” Porky said sadly, and took the telephone from Sawicki’s hand. “Hello?”

“Porky?”

“I suspected it was you, Mr. R,” Porky said, pleased with his deductive powers. “Tell me, in confidence, why would a recently married man climb out of a warm bed at this hour of the morning — or any other hour, as far as that goes—”

“I’m not married,” Reardon said shortly. “Look, Porky, I have to—”

“Not married?” Porky was properly shocked. “I sat right next to you in Marty’s Oyster House less than three weeks ago and heard you propose to a lovely young lady. And I heard her accept. Tahoe was mentioned, object matrimony. And now you tell me you’re not married? I shall be a witness. In fact, I’ll offer the services of my lawyer—”

“I don’t need any lawyers. Porky, I have to—”

“Not for you! You, sir, are a cad! I meant the lawyer for the young lady. I shall suggest she sue for breach of promise, malfeasance in office, contributing to the delinquency of a major — unless the young lady had made colonel by this time, of course—”

“Porky, shut up! Can you talk?”

Porky was far from intimidated by the other’s tone; still, he glanced about. Sawicki had tactfully retreated to the pool table, where he gazed upon the spread with anguish, but other ears were in evidence in the smoke-filled room.

“I can speak of ships and shoes, and pool cues, and dollar bills with wings,” Porky said cautiously, “but nothing of greater delicacy, I fear. Why?”

“Because if you can’t talk, I want to see you someplace else, right away. What places are open at this hour?”

“Now? You want to see me now?” Porky stared in horror back toward the pool table, with the balls laid out there for the easy seduction of his cue. “Right now?”

“Right now. Where can we meet? What’s open at this hour?”

“Other than Sawicki’s Pool Hall, I gather you mean,” Porky said sadly, and sighed at the vicissitudes of an unkindly fate. “You sure you couldn’t wait half an hour...?” He sighed. “No, I suppose not. Well, the Mouse Trap’s open and relatively safe, if you don’t try their drinks; and there’s always Tommy’s Joynt—”

Reardon suddenly remembered he hadn’t eaten for hours. “Tommy’s Joynt in fifteen minutes,” he said abruptly, and hung up.

Porky put the receiver back on its hook, stared at the instrument a moment, and then walked dispiritedly back to the table. Sawicki was watching him curiously.

“Sawicki,” Porky said, reaching over to retrieve his stick and beginning to dismantle it, “if anybody drives up in a dog sled and asks you, you have my permission to reveal that you’re luckier than a guy with two straight cues.”

“Hey!” Sawicki said in his gravel voice, unable to believe his good fortune. “Hey, hey! You quittin’?”

“A call from my dying mother’s bedside,” Porky said dolorously, “and the only thing in this world that could prevent me from putting you into instant bankruptcy.” He slid the two halves of his stick into their case and placed the case in his locker. He twisted the combination lock, and moved toward the door. “Remember me in your will,” he said, pausing with his hand on the knob. “It’s the least you can do.”

“Yeah,” Sawicki said. He paused and then figured he might as well try it. “But what about the charge for the table?”

Porky stopped and looked the big man in the eye.

“I was only askin’,” Sawicki said defensively, and started to rack the balls again to avoid that baleful look. Porky shook his head unbelievingly at the ingratitude of man to man, sighed, and walked out.

Saturday — 1:55 A.M.

Lieutenant Reardon was in the act of biting into a large hot roast beef sandwich, a stein of foaming ale at his elbow, when Porky Frank arrived at Tommy’s Joynt. Porky waited until the counterman had provided him with a tuna-salad sandwich, carried it to the bar, where he received a flagon of ale, and brought his booty to the last table under the small deserted balcony, where he joined the stocky detective. The table had been well chosen; at that hour especially it assured as much privacy as could ever be assured at Tommy’s. Porky placed his burden on the table, sat, drew a bowl of pickles over more from habit than from need, neatly tucked a paper napkin into his collar, and picked up his sandwich.

“Tuna salad is getting hard to come by,” he advised Reardon, apropos of nothing at all. “According to Consumer Reports, they’re running out of bat wings and mice hair so essential to the manufacturing process.” He bit into the sandwich, chewing slowly, his eyes calmly studying the lieutenant across the table.

Reardon took another bite of his sandwich, chewed a moment, swallowed, and edged his beer closer. “There’s been a kidnapping,” he said quietly.

Porky’s face froze slightly, but other than that he betrayed little emotion. There was a slight stiffening of his fingers as he lowered the sandwich. It was not that Porky was without emotion; it was simply that the expression of emotion was a habit he had spent years learning to avoid. It did not fit in with his various businesses.

“That’s a nasty word,” he said, equally quietly.

“Pop Holland. Mike Holland,” Reardon added, and watched the other man’s face.

Porky frowned. “Pop Holland? Mike Holland? Am I supposed to know him?”

“Maybe not,” Reardon said. “Probably not. He’s a cop. Retired today — yesterday, to be exact. A sergeant on Communications these past twelve, fifteen years, I guess. Used to be in Homicide, before I was on the force. A widower. A nice guy. A real nice guy. Sixty-five years old last week. No kids. No family, I gather.”

Porky’s frown deepened. Anything bad happening to cops often meant a general tightening up of the town, from the hustlers in North Beach to the innocent bookies, wherever they might be. But that, of course, had nothing to do with the case, and certainly nothing to do with the reason Reardon had wanted to meet with him. He drew his ale to him and took a large draught as he thought. He set the flagon down, wiped his lips, and gave his full attention to the problem.

“A retired cop? Any money?”

“None that anyone knows of.”

“Any that somebody maybe thinks they know of?”

“I doubt it.”

“Any enemies?”

“You don’t kidnap enemies; you shoot them, or stab them, or run them over with a milk wagon,” Reardon said shortly. “Kidnapping is to punish someone else — financially, usually — but not the victim. It’s true the victim often gets killed, but that’s generally secondary to the kidnapping itself.”

“Then why was he snatched?”

“Now, that’s a real good question,” Reardon said sarcastically. He shoved his beer glass around the table, staring at the damp trails the glass left. He looked up. “The man said there would be a tape in the mail tomorrow with their demands, addressed to me. Maybe we’ll know more, then.” He looked at his glass again, avoiding Porky’s eyes. “In the meantime, have you heard anything?”

“About a snatch? Or even a potential snatch?” Porky’s eyes suddenly narrowed. When he continued there was an edge to his normally pleasant voice. “Mr. R, I hope I am misunderstanding you. True, I usually sell my wares after-the-fact, so to speak, but I sincerely hope you aren’t sitting there and suggesting that I would hear anything about a kidnapping — any kidnapping, not just the kidnapping of a policeman — and fail to inform you.”

“I didn’t mean that at all,” Reardon said wearily, and suddenly found himself yawning. He brought the monstrous yawn under control, realizing he was tired, and added a bit lamely, “I just thought you might have heard something in one context, for example, and that maybe you didn’t connect it up, but now that you know there’s been a kidnapping, maybe—”

“You’re getting yourself in deeper,” Porky said sternly, but his previous honest umbrage had largely disappeared. “You’re tired, Mr. R. You need rest. But I understand what you mean. And, no, I haven’t heard a thing.” He paused, and then added, “And before you can say it, yes, I shall listen closely from now on.”

“That’s all I was trying to say,” Reardon said, and yawned again.

“That’s what I thought was all you were trying to say,” Porky said forgivingly, and pushed aside his half-eaten tuna-salad sandwich, looking at it with a curious frown. “You know, they’re not as short on bat wings and mice hair as they think, or else they’ve developed some marvelous substitutes.” He drank the last of his ale, dabbed at his lips neatly, and tucked his napkin into his ale mug. He shoved the whole affair away from him and lit a cigarette, prepared to get down to business. “All right. Where did this snatch take place? And when?”

“We think it took place outside his house, in the driveway, late this afternoon,” Reardon said quietly. “I was out there with Dondero a while ago, and we got inside the house. Nothing there to indicate nothing; everything looked the way it usually did, I suppose. I was never there before. As for the time, Pop was due at a dinner we were throwing him for his retirement, and he never showed up. In his bedroom there was the stiff cardboard you get with a new shirt, and pins, from the cuffs, you know—”

“Or just to stab you,” Porky interjected, but he was listening closely.

Reardon paid him no attention.

“They were on top of the bedspread, so we gather he came home from the Hall, changed clothes, went outside, and that’s when they picked him up. His car is gone, so of course they might have snatched him any time after he left the house, but it would be a lot easier to grab him there, before he got started, than it would be after he was in town, with the lights and the people around and everything.”

“He might have put on the new shirt this morning.”

“Doubtful,” Reardon said. “He told the boys he was going home to clean up before the dinner. And his evening paper was in the house, and he’s the only one who could have brought it in.” He shook his head. “No, the chances are they picked him up when he came out to get into the car. That would be the easiest deal. No neighbor home on the side of the driveway, and it’s pretty quiet out there. That’s when I figure they pulled it.”

“They?”

“They, he, them, or her for all I know,” Reardon said wearily. “Anyway, we were waiting for Pop to show up for the dinner, and I got this call. We were at Marty’s, in the back room—”

He recounted the events of the evening, beginning with the call from the kidnapper, while Porky listened intently. When Reardon had finished, surprised in his tired state at the amount of detail he had been able to recall — and even more surprised to find himself relating all this to a man in the other’s profession — Porky nodded.

“I see. What did this character sound like? High voice? Low voice? Did he sound as if he were trying to disguise his voice? Sound as if he were speaking through cloth, or with a wad of something in his cheek? Although all that does,” Porky said in all honesty, “is make you sound like yourself, only muffled.” He thought a moment “You know, I’ll bet if you clench your jaw real tight, and then start to choke yourself, you could actually change your voice considerably. You could also, of course, fracture your larynx if you weren’t careful, or if you got carried away, but that would be the chance you’d take.”

Reardon started to smile and found it turning into a yawn. He tried to remember the nuances of the voice on the phone.

“He sounded — well, educated, but not overly educated, if you know what I mean. He wasn’t a dese, dem, and dose guy, but he wasn’t the head of the speech department at Berkeley, either. His tone? Medium, I’d say, not deep and not tenor. A little above middle baritone, I suppose you could call it.”

“Great. That brings it down to about ninety-nine per cent of the male population.”

“I know, but that’s the way it is. And he didn’t make any attempt to conceal or disguise his voice. He spoke clearly and with no long pauses. And one more thing,” Reardon said. He didn’t know what made him say it, but suddenly he knew he was right. “Speaking of voices, Mike was in pain when they taped that bit of him talking.”

Porky looked at him. “In pain?”

“That’s right.” Reardon waved a hand. “Oh, I don’t mean he said ‘ouch’ or anything like that, but I’m sure they hurt him somewhere along the line. He sounded — I don’t know — strained...”

“Well,” Porky said reasonably, “a man gets picked up and kidnapped on an empty stomach — although if he missed a dinner in the back room of Marty’s, that’s nothing to complain about — he’d sound a bit strained, don’t you think?”

“This was something different,” Reardon said stubbornly. He ran his fingers through his hair without being conscious of doing so. “We hear it in the voices of men we see who are shot, or stabbed, or in a bad accident. Before they’ve been taken care of, while they’re waiting for the ambulance, for example. They can be talking about anything else in the world, how it happened, how it wasn’t their fault, anything — but underneath their tone is something that says they know they’ve been hurt, and one part of their brain hangs onto that fact while the rest comes out as usual. Or tries to.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Porky said, and rapped the table with one knuckle piously, scattering ashes from his cigarette. He brushed them away. “May my own tones remain pear-shaped and pain-free! But, to get back to business, how does the tone of Mike Holland’s voice on a tape help to identify the man you spoke to on the telephone?”

“I don’t know. What I’m trying to say is I have a feeling the guy was getting a kick out of playing that tape, and the reason he was getting a kick out of it was precisely because Mike was in pain when they taped it, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean the guy was a mean bastard,” Porky said quietly.

“Yeah,” Reardon said, and wondered why he had pushed the matter. “I guess that’s what I mean.”

“Well, it was a good assumption he wasn’t an angel to begin with,” Porky said logically.

“I suppose so,” Reardon said, and yawned. He finished up with a shudder and glanced at his watch. “Well, that’s about it, I guess. Keep your ears open. My guess is there’ll be a pretty good reward for any information leading to the et cetera, et cetera.” He yawned again and shook his head. “I’m about ready to fall asleep on my feet.”

“In a moment,” Porky said. “Let’s see if we can’t make us a few assumptions before we break up for the evening.” His tone indicated that if he couldn’t take a young fortune from Sawicki shooting pool, but had to devote his energies to detecting instead, he might as well do a proper job of it. He brushed ash from his cigarette and leaned back, one hand fondling his empty ale mug. “One — whoever spoke to you on the telephone knew the dinner was being held at Marty’s. How?”

“It wasn’t any secret.”

Porky shook his head, unimpressed by the argument.

“It isn’t any secret that Molly’s Future can’t run in mud for a damn, but I know lots of people who don’t know it. Or I hope they don’t know it. For instance, I didn’t know you were running the dinner, or I’d have asked for an invite.” Porky drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. “He also knew about the dinner far enough ahead of time to check out the place and find out they only had the one telephone. Did you know that? I didn’t, and I eat there about as often as you do. Item three — or is it two? No matter — he also knew you were in charge of the affair, but he had never met you in person—”

Reardon’s eyebrows went up. “Sherlock Holmes stuff?”

Porky waved it away. “You’re tired, Mr. R. If he’d have met you, or even spoken to you in person at some time, it’s doubtful he would have called you direct. Why take a chance you might recognize his voice? All he had to do was speak with someone else. Right?”

Reardon thought, not for the first time, that Porky Frank would have made a very fine police officer in the Detective branch. He also thought, again not for the first time, that Porky Frank would have been vastly amused at the concept.

“Right. Still, the affair was scarcely a secret. The newspapers even mentioned it.”

Porky’s eyebrows rose in respect. “The newspapers?”

“Well, at least the man who writes the ‘View from Nob Hill’ column in the Express, whoever he is.”

“Doesn’t he have a name?”

“If he does, he doesn’t use it to sign his column. Anyway, he had a big spread about how here we are, the good citizens of San Francisco, with insufficient police protection as it is; and there they are, the police, screaming for more money all the time, just to feed their wee ones; but still we cops can afford to waste our time and money on a retirement dinner for a cop who should be made to work, instead of being put out to pasture when he’s capable of doing a day’s work, and not allowed to feed at the public trough, et cetera, et cetera. A typical anti-cop blast. You know the sort of thing.”

“You seemed to have memorized it by heart,” Porky said shrewdly. “Did he mention you by name? He must have.”

“He did. He said that people like Lieutenant James Reardon ought to be doing some useful work on the many unsolved murders in our town, work for which he’s overpaid, instead of chasing around to restaurants, comparing menus and prices, and tasting the soup to make sure nobody left out the salt.”

Porky grinned. “The man has a point. Did you speak with him in person?”

“No, his secretary called. But the column didn’t mean anything. As a matter of fact, there was an editorial in the same issue that practically disagreed with everything the columnist said.” Reardon shrugged. “It didn’t bother me. You know newspapers.”

“Fortunately,” Porky said, “I don’t. Anyway, that sort of publicity doesn’t sound like bait for any kidnapper unless, of course, they mean to hold this Holland for the gold watch I assume you meant to give him. Anyway, don’t worry about it. Who reads the newspapers?”

“I’m not worried, and lots of people read newspapers,” Reardon said, and smiled. “If you don’t read the papers, how are you going to know when World War Three starts?”

“If W.W. Three isn’t running in the fourth at Aqueduct,” Porky said loftily, “it’s going to miss me. Which is more than I’m going to do for it.” He settled back. “All right. This dinner was mentioned in this ‘View from Nob Hill’ column. And the column accused you of soup-detecting. But did he specifically say that you were in charge of arrangements? After all, soup-checking is a chore often left to a minor subordinate on the committee.”

Reardon’s smile faded. He tried to think. “I don’t remember.”

“Well,” Porky said, “it’s easy enough to check on. Since you seem to be an Express fan, we’ll leave that bit of detection to you. And if your being in charge of the dinner wasn’t in the article, who else might have known?”

Reardon thought a moment and then realized how ridiculous the question was.

“Well, hell! The whole department knew. I said it wasn’t any secret. It was on the bulletin board; they had to send their checks to me. So their families knew, and their kids—”

“And their uncles and their cousins who are numbered in the dozens. Well, maybe. Still, I find it hard to picture everyone sitting around the fireplace of an evening saying to each other, ‘Say, did you hear the big news? Mr. R is in charge of the dinner for Mike Holland!’”

Reardon frowned. “Just what point are you trying to make?”

“I’m not trying to make a point. I’m trying to hand you what is known, in detective parlance, as a clue.”

Reardon’s frown deepened. “You mean you think someone in the department might have...?”

“I don’t mean anything of the kind,” Porky said sternly. “On the other hand,” he added, thinking about it, “I don’t rule it out, either. Cops have been known to be naughty before. But in this case I honestly don’t see a cop snatching another cop. If Holland had forty years on the force, he’d have recognized the man, and some of that would have come out in that tape. No, let’s scratch cops.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. However, let us go on. You say the man on the telephone told you would receive a tape in the mail tomorrow morning with further instructions. Right?”

“Demands, he said.”

“Same thing. But,” Porky said quietly, fixing Reardon with a steady look, “in that case he must have mailed the tape even before he picked up your good sergeant.”

Reardon stared. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Porky said calmly, “let’s face the dismal facts about the U.S. mails. This Mike Holland was snatched, according to you, either late in the afternoon or early in the evening. After delivery of the afternoon paper, at any rate. Correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And the taping of Sergeant Holland’s pain-filled voice had to be even later than that, right?”

“Obviously.”

“Well, let me ask you a question. Since when have you been able to mail a package — or a letter, for that matter — late one evening and have it delivered in the next morning’s mail? Or even the next afternoon’s mail? Probably not since 1930, if you want an honest answer. If then. Certainly not today.”

Reardon shook his head at his own stupidity. Porky was completely right.

“So where does that leave us?”

“I don’t know where it leaves you,” Porky said, “but it leaves me with the distinct idea that all packages being delivered tomorrow at the Hall of Justice addressed to you ought to get a more-than-usual consideration. Together with their bearers, of course.”

He shot one of his neatly linked cuffs and glanced at the wafer-thin gold watch that was revealed.

“Well, time marches on, to coin a phrase, and you look more tired by the moment. In any event, that’s about all the clues I can offer at the moment. I suggest you write them down.”

Reardon smiled. “Too tired.”

“A minor difficulty,” Porky said. He took a thin gold pen from his pocket, wrote “Newspaper” and “Mailman” on the corner of a napkin, tore it off, and leaned across the table, tucking it into the breast pocket of Reardon’s jacket. “When you get home, put this under the pillow, and the Napkin Fairy may give you the solution before morning. And do not feel badly that the clues I revealed were not spotted by you. After all,” he said in a kindly tone, “you’re tired, and this is the shank of the evening for me.”

“And where are you going now?”

“I go to listen, as per instructions, mon Capitaine — I wonder how you say Lieutenant? — and not, unfortunately, back to Sawicki’s,” Porky said sadly, and sighed at the memory of that open table.

Saturday — 2:50 A.M.

Lieutenant Reardon pulled his Charger into an empty space before the rococo Victorian edifice on the corner of Chestnut and Hyde that contained, among other equally spartan warrens, his own bachelor quarters. He was too weary even to be amazed that a parking space was available practically before his door; most times he was sure the residents of El Cerrito came all the way over here to park, simply to deny him the space. When in a more charitable mood he conceded their real reason was there was no space available nearer.

He swung the wheels to the curb, locked the emergency brake to its fullest — all standard precautions of any San Franciscan who did not want to wake up in the morning and find his car in the bay below — and climbed out, locking the car door. He struggled up the few feet of the steep incline to the worn wooden steps of his building, and regained his balance there, staring up at the house, wondering why he didn’t simply lie down on the stoop instead of climbing those mountainous stairs to his own aerie somewhere above. Still, sleeping on the stoop with his normal thrashing about meant taking the chance of ending up in the bay himself, and the thought of waking up under water was distasteful. Besides, he had to get up too early in the morning to waste time rolling down hills.

He let himself into the house with his key and wearily climbed the inside flight to his own personal portion of the ornate old mansion, his footsteps dragging on the worn carpeting, his eyes half closed. He let himself into his living room, switched on the lamp and closed the door, grateful for the silence. Almost three o’clock, which still left four lovely hours of slumber before having to get up and face the hectic meetings that were certain to mark the morning. Four wonderful hours of rest and relaxation before the holocaust! Not the longest time span in the world, but still the equivalent of almost twenty-four ten-minute naps. Why, the thought was practically sybaritic! Four beautiful, wonderful hours! God, a lifetime!

He allowed his jacket to drop unheeded from his shoulders; his necktie was dragged over his head and tossed somewhere in the general direction of a corner. His shoes were scraped off, his trousers allowed to collapse in a pile, his shirt permitted to lie where it fell. The lamp was switched off and he padded toward the bedroom in the dark. Pajamas and toothbrushes were all right in their place, but their place was not here and now; the shade of his mother might scold and threaten eventual dentures, but at the moment sleep was more important.

The mattress felt wonderful as he sank down upon it. He swung his tired legs onto the bed, welcoming the comfort, pulled the covers to his chin, and rolled over, nestling comfortably against the warm figure lying there. “Good night, dear,” he murmured absently under his breath, and allowed himself to relax, his mind automatically seeking a means to avoid the problem of Mike Holland’s kidnapping, looking for a line of concentration that would lead to soporific release. The answer, he decided, would lie in mentally replaying the front nine of the San Francisco Golf Club course; he usually managed to be sound asleep before he came up to the fifth tee, assuming he didn’t get buried in that trap on the fairway leading up to the fourth green—

He sat up in bed abruptly, reached up to turn on the light, and stared down in surprise at the pert little face looking up at him demurely from the pillow.

“Jan!”

“Hello, darling.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, dear. You look tired.” Jan smiled at him tenderly. “Get some rest. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“But...” Reardon fumbled with words. “Does this mean you’ve changed your mind about getting married?”

“In the morning, darling. Go to sleep.”

“But...”

“In the morning.”

“All right,” Reardon said, not quite sure. “If you say so.” He lay back again, reached up and switched off the light. So he’d get up at six-thirty instead of seven — what the hell! The night was practically shot, anyway, and it would still be the equivalent of twenty-two or twenty-three ten-minute naps. He smiled at the thought in the darkness and reached out to put his arm around a warm and soft Jan as he drifted off to sleep.