Write me a Letter

the doctor —but what cared I, as long as nurse was around to chaperone me. All systems going... he made it sound like he’d stuck a patch on a bicycle inner tube, hell, anyone with an old tube of Elmer’s glue could have done it. I was pondering over just why someone would ever bother being a doctor in the first place, especially a proctologist, plus other weighty matters, such as what particular tissue of lies I’d regale the cop outside the door’s superior with, when—lo and behold —the cop in question poked his head in the door.
    ”Still there?” he said affably.
    ”Just till the cab gets here,” I said.
    ”Well, make yourself decent,” he said. ”You’ve got a visitor.” He held the door open. In walked a man holding my wallet in one hand and my old wool shirt in the other. He was tall, aged about fifty, his gray hair in a crewcut, and was wearing a brown suit, brown shoes, brown socks, white shirt, and a brown tie.
    ”Kalagan,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed nearest me. ”Lieutenant, Homicide, Sacramento Police Department. This upstanding young man assisting me is Patrolman C. D. Fisher, known to his friends in the department, I believe, as ‘Kingfisher,’ to the amusement of all concerned. He is here to keep me continually supplied with coffee and to keep a record of the salient points of our discussion, of which I hope there will be many. Patrolman, you may be seated.”
    Kingfisher sat himself on the bed on the other side of me, took out a pad and pen, and arranged his features into an attentive expression.
    ”You,” the lieutenant said, ”I am reliably informed by the contents of your wallet, are Victor Daniel.” He told me where I lived and where my office was located. He told me I was a private investigator licensed by the State of California , and that my license was up to date. So was my driving license. So was my gun permit. So was my MasterCard.
    ”I used to have a library card, too,” I said from my bed of pain, ”but I think it expired.”
    ”Your library card was not all that expired,” he said calmly.
    ”So a little bird told me,” I said. The lieutenant shot Kingfisher a black look.
    ”Perhaps you wouldn’t mind running over the events of last night for me,” he said. ”Take your time. Go into any detail you like. Patrolman, when I go like this to you”— he pointed his hand, like a gun, at him—”you inscribe, word for word. Ready when you are, Mr. Daniel.”
    ”Monday,” I said. ”That would be what?”
    ”April fourth,” Kingfisher said.
    ”April fourth,” I said. ”Right. At approximately eleven a.m. I received a visitor in my office.”
    ”Inscribe,” said the lieutenant. Kingfisher started inscribing.
    ”She gave her name as a Miss Ruth Braukis. She gave an address which later turned out to be false. It struck me her name might well have been false as well.” Did it ever. If I did think it was really her name, would I have offered it up to the lieutenant? Some questions, like ”What in heaven’s name did you ever see in that cheap, flashy, dyed blond, anyway?” are best left unanswered.
    ”Describe,” he said, cocking his thumb and forefinger again at his minion.
    I sighed.
    ”Five foot seven and an iota. Hair, ebon, falling gracefully to her suntanned shoulders. Eyes, heliotrope, flecked with fool’s gold. One dimple, left side. Eyelashes, long and well trained. Mouth—words fail me for once. Figure, slim. Chest, forty-two B. Legs, two. Dainty feet, ditto. Perfume, Miss Dior.”
    ”Too bad you didn’t get a close look at her,” the lieutenant observed. Kingfisher put one hand over his mouth to hide his grin.
    ”Age?”
    ”Twenty-eight and three months?” I hazarded.
    ”Vehicle? License plate?”
    ”Never saw one,” I said truthfully.
    ”Patrolman,” the lieutenant said. ”Coffee. Lots of. Hot. Milk. No sugar. You?” He arched his eyebrows at me.
    ”Coffee,” I said. ”Lots of. Hot. Milk and sugar. Cheese Danish on the side.”
    ”You’ll be lucky,” said Kingfisher. He departed. ”Onward,” said the lieutenant, rubbing a hand over his hair in a weary fashion.
    ”You look tired, Lieutenant,” I said sympathetically. ”Been on the go all night?”
    ”Thank you for your concern,” he said. ”Yes, I am tired. Yes, I have been on the go all night, or most of it, anyway. I got back from Locke about five. I was at the mortuary till seven. I slept for an hour in my office. I was back out in Locke by