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The sake came and he allowed the waiter to pour the first cup。 He downed it； immediately poured himself another。 He itched to call Matty the Mouth but he suspected that if he did he might break this Didion thing to smithereens。 It seemed to him now that the entire case was balanced on one shining ' point： getting the name and address of this broad。
He didn't have to close his eyes to be able to picture again Angela Didion's apartment； but he did so anyway。 He went over it all again。
The first thing he noticed when he walked in was the smell。 Sickly…sweet； it was ether bined with what？ The darkened living…room had given up nothing but in the bedroom he saw the American Indian bone pipe and； sniffing it； smelled the opium。 Tasted it on the tip of his tongue。 Very high grade indeed。 Hardly street stuff。 But then this was Angela Didion's'； bedroom and a woman who was purportedly the world's highest…paid model could hardly be expected to have anything but the； best … of everything。 He didn't touch the pipe； he didn't touch anything。
Slipping on his surgeon's gloves； he crossed to the closet； opposite the enormous bed。 The bedroom was all done in midnight blue； from the silk walls to the satin lampshades。 There was only one lamp on when he came in； next to the bed。 He left the room that way。
Carefully he opened up the sliding door。 Inside he found silk dresses； six fur coats； ranging from 。a full…length dyed Russian sable to a spectacular three…quarter silver lynx。 Below； shoes from Botticelli and Charles Jourdan。
On the deep…pile rug between the bed and the closet was a black silk negligee。 He skirted that on the way to the bed。 It was a custom…made affair； moon…shaped。 The sheets were midnight…blue percale but the rumpled quilt was covered in silk。 It lay around Angela Didion's ankles like dark surf； ready to claim her。
She lay half on the bed； half off。 Her head hung over the edge； the long honey…blonde hair falling on to the floor。 She was made up。 Her eyes were mascaraed； her cheeks blushed； her lips painted。 She was naked save for a thin gold chain； which she wore around her waist。 There was no other jewellery。 She lay on the left side of the bed。 The right side was empty but the pillow on that side was indented as if someone had lain there。 There were stains on the sheets； still damp。 There was no blood。 A pillow was wedged beneath the small of Angela Didion's back。
Someone had done quite a job on her。 Bruises； just beginning to darken； lay like boils along the sides of her neck； her chest and rib cage； her stomach。 Her back was arched as if in ecstasy。 There was no expression on her face whatsoever。 No sign of pain or fear … or of passion。
It should have been grotesque； would have been with any other victim … Croaker had seen too many like it。 But this wasn't anyone； it was Angela Didion。 She must have been an extraordinary woman； Croaker thought as he stood staring down at the corpse； because her beauty transcended even this degradation； even death。 Croaker knew dial he was looking at a magnificent piece of humanity and it saddened him that it should have been destroyed so recklessly。 He felt that about most of the bodies he found； if they weren't the punks who got blown away by their own cupidity； the city breathed easier without them。
He tore his gaze away from the bed and； going around it； knelt beside the black silk garment on the carpet。 In this twilight of the room； it was almost invisible： black against the deep blue that was almost black itself。
Dipping one forefinger down； he lifted it up slightly。 Bending； he touched his nose to it； breathed in； caught the faint whiff of a perfume。 He got up； crossed to Angela Didion's dressing table。 He passed over the ivory brush and b set； the oval tortoise…shell hand mirror； the odds and ends of mascara； eyeliner； blush； powder； creams； taking them all in as he did so。 There were two perfume bottles on a silver tray against the wall。 Joy and Bal a Versailles。 He sniffed at both of them； one at a time； slowly。 Then； to make certain； he returned to the silk negligee； confirming for himself that it exuded another perfume； that it bore the imprint of another woman。
It had taken time and a lot of hard work but； in the end； Matty the Mouth had e through。 Now it was this woman's name and address Croaker was anxiously waiting for。 Angela Didion's lover。 Or； more accurately； one of them。 She could not； of course； have been the murderer。 Judging from the size of the negligee； she was far too small to have inflicted such terrible wounds on another human adult。 There were no instruments used； the M。E。 had said； other than the fists。 That meant someone strong and with a massive build： some of the bruises were quite large。
No； this woman was no murderer but； Croaker was convinced； she had been a witness to the murder。 She knows； he thought now。 She knows。 And she's scared shitless of what she's seen。 No one had got to her。 No one would but Croaker。 He must see to that。
e on； Matty； deliver the goods。 He found his hand trembling against the table； stared down at it as if it belonged to someone else。 He knew he wanted this conviction badly。 More than he had wanted any other in his career。 And the hell of it was； he knew who had killed Angela Didion。 Knew it as surely as he knew his own name。 But without this witness； there was nothing： nothing but conjecture and theory and circumstantial evidence that McCabe wouldn't even touch； let alone ask for an arrest on it。 Jesus； he hated counting this heavily on someone else but he had spent seven years cultivating Matty the Mouth and now it looked as if it would finally pay off。 If he came through。 When he es through； Croaker corrected himself。 Think positively。
Which all led him back to this ninja。 The case was getting nowhere； spinning on its own momentum。 That； Croaker knew from long； hard experience； was extremely dangerous。 〃It meant he had no handle and that meant he had no control。 People tended to get severely hurt when that happened。
And then there was the problem of Nicholas Linnear。 Vincent had been right； he felt instinctively。 Linnear had been highly offended by what he'd said。 It had been a stupid thing to say。 He had known it as soon as he had said it。 Now he realized that Linnear might be the key to the case。 He knows more about the ninja than anyone in or out of Japan； Vincent had said towards the end of the evening。 Trust him。 He knows what he's talking about。 Now he's working for that bastard Tomkin； Croaker thought。 He had a strong urge to back off then； to let events happen without him。 Perhaps Tomkin would fall。 But that； he knew； he could never do。 It was not the way he wanted it to happen。 And then there was the consideration of the four other deaths。 If the ninja was after Tomkin； why had he killed four people who did not know the man； let alone have any kind of association with him？ No one seemed to know the answer and there was certainly no one on the force he could talk this over with。 It came back to Linnear again。 If anyone might have a clue； he would。
Croaker looked at his watch； thought about calling Linnear； then quickly changed his mind。 The telephone wasn't the rig