Robert L. Pike

Reardon

This Boole Is Gratefully Dedicated

to

Chief Thomas J. Cahill

&

Lt. William Osterloh

and the many other officers of the

San Francisco Police Department

whose co-operation made this book

possible.

Chapter 1

Tuesday — 6:15 P.M.

Through the porthole-like view furnished by the binoculars, the thick cables of the Golden Gate Bridge glinted, their edges truly golden, silhouetted against the lowering sun dipping into the Pacific in the background. The stepped towers held the thick strands like some giant cat’s cradle, casting elongated shadows across the still-bright waters of San Francisco Bay. The foreshortened view offered by the powerful glasses made the heavy traffic on the bridge appear almost frozen, inching in both directions. The girl holding the glasses shook her head impatiently at the view; an architect herself, she considered the Golden Gate Bridge towers a design disaster, ruining what should have been the most beautiful bridge in the world. Grauman’s Chinese mixed with male Gothic, she thought, and wrinkled her tiny nose.

She dropped her field of vision to the waters beneath the bridge, searching for more interesting fare and suddenly caught her breath. An ocean liner, startling in its white symmetry, was slowly entering the harbor, barely moving as it awaited the immigration cutter. The small speedboat was visible in the field of vision, bouncing across the slightly choppy waters. A ship’s ladder angled sharply from the purser’s deck to just above the whitecaps of the bay, providing access for the officials when they arrived.

Through the high-powered lenses the clean lines of the ship stood out sharply; the slightly tilted funnel breathed faint wisps of smoke, the wide bridge jutted in sentinel position above the sloping smooth wooden decks. The polished railings were lined with passengers dressed for disbarking, their luggage visible behind them, piled against the outer wall of the main salon. The brown hills of Marin County formed a background for the ship; to the right Sausalito and Tiberon edged the bay with tiny blocks of houses. The girl sighed at the beauty of the scene, drinking it in.

Lieutenant James Reardon of the San Francisco police, emerging from the bedroom of his small bachelor apartment, drew his turtleneck sweater over his head and used his fingers to comb his tousled red hair, still damp from his shower, into some semblance of order. He was a stocky man in his early thirties; he had a rugged yet remarkably sensitive face with sharp, intelligent gray eyes. At the moment he was smiling affectionately at his girl friend, Jan, sitting cross-legged, yoga fashion, on the kitchen table wearing one of his summer robes with the sleeves rolled up to accommodate her shorter arms, her feet shod in a pair of his bedroom slippers, and her forehead wrinkled in concentration above the arched eyepieces of the binoculars. Reardon straightened his turtleneck to a more comfortable grip around his thick neck, walked over and lightly ran his finger down Jan’s back, feeling the smooth familiar skin beneath the thin silky cloth, and also feeling, as always, the slight tenseness that gripped him at touching her.

“What I like about you, my darling,” he said, making his voice sound policeman-tough, “is your complete brazenness. People get arrested for the Peeping Tom bit, you know, and doing it in front of a police lieutenant doesn’t make it any less of a crime.”

Jan wriggled a bit under the finger investigating her back, but kept the glasses glued to her eyes. “I suppose you keep these binoculars here to keep an eye on suspicious neighbors.”

“Of course,” Reardon said righteously. “You never can tell when a young lady undressing might reveal something of a criminal nature.” He grinned and stared down at Jan with the pride of possession.

She was a small girl in her late twenties who objected to being called a girl; it didn’t seem to fit with the success she had already found in her profession. Her face was pert; her hair cropped in a style that seemed almost careless but was the result of long hours by a meticulous hair stylist. She had a quick, sharp, gamin-type intelligence coupled with a keen sense of humor; she also had a small pug nose and wide-set hazel eyes, which at the moment were concentrating solely on the scene before her. She sighed prodigiously and handed the glasses over her shoulder, continuing to watch the ship without the benefit of the binoculars.

“Look,” she said simply.

Reardon took the glasses from her and swung them to rest on an apartment building half a block down the hill on Larkin, only a block from his own apartment on Chestnut and Hyde. He changed the focus slightly, bringing them to bear on one particular window.

“Damn!” he said with mock disappointment. “It’s dark. Not one of the girls — I mean, the suspects, is home.”

“No, you idiot!” Jan grinned at him affectionately and tugged him around. “Just coming into the bay, near the Golden Gate — the ship. Isn’t it lovely?” Her face became serious for a moment. “Jimmy, why can’t we take a trip on a ship like that? To Hawaii, or perhaps down along Lower California? To Acapulco, maybe. When you get your vacation? I can arrange mine to suit.”

Reardon turned obediently in response to the urging on his arm, adjusting the focus as the view changed to Russian Hill park, then the roofs of homes below, sparkling in the late afternoon sun, then the Hyde Street Pier, and finally the blue waters of the bay. He swung the glasses slowly and finally located the slow moving boat. The block buildings of Fort Mason formed the foreground now. The immigration cutter was just releasing its officials; one was already swaying his way up the ladder. Even as Reardon watched, the last one sprang for the bobbing platform and the little dispatch boat skidded off, heading back for shore.

The eyes of the binoculars mounted the side of the vessel, skipping the parallel rows of portholes, jumping to the promenade deck where the passengers remained lined up like multicolored silhouettes in some shooting gallery. The damp-haired lieutenant scanned the deck slowly, pleasurably. A trip with Jan on a ship like that would be very nice — except for one thing. He studied the empty swimming pool, protected with heavy rope netting, led the view along the salon wall with its stacks of luggage and piles of deck chairs lashed for the port stay, moving toward the prow of the ship. Here a gang of seamen were readying the power winches, rigging the davits in preparation for unloading the forward hatches of their cargo. He was about to lower the glasses when a girl, dressed in what seemed to be some type of uniform came out onto the forward deck. Through the glasses he saw her settle herself in the niche formed by the railing and the deck housing, staring at the city. Reardon tightened the focus of the binoculars, studying her.

She was lovely; tall and straight with high, full breasts straining against the soft white of her dress; she appeared to be an employee of the ship taking a few moments from her work to enjoy the incomparable beauty of the sprawling, hilly city climbing out of the bay. Her shoulder-length hair whipped about her face, responding to the brisk breeze sweeping the choppy waters. Reardon touched the knurled knob of the glasses the merest bit, happy he had not stinted in purchasing the finest of optical equipment. Her face, he saw, was broad with a high forehead and slightly oriental features. It turned in his direction and for one brief instant her large dark eyes seemed to be looking directly into his, as if she could see him with equal clarity. He became aware that Jan was talking to him; he answered without lowering the glasses, almost absently.

“Yes, honey?”

“I said, would you mind taking a trip on that?”

His eyebrows rose. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious.”

“I have a feeling it would be quite an experience,” he said, straight-faced. The girl on the ship had turned slightly; her hands seemed clasped before her tightly, her profile was almost Grecian, edged with the gold of the setting sun. “Yes,” Reardon said with relish, “I’m sure it would be very worth while...”

Jan studied him mischievously, one eyebrow cocked.

“And what did you see that I missed? Or rather, who — or is it whom? — did you see that I missed?” She reached over, her small, strong hand demanding. “I have a feeling, sometimes, that you’re not to be trusted with binoculars. Let me have them.”

Reardon handed them over obediently. Jan took very few seconds to locate her target; she fiddled with the focus a moment and then studied the girl as impersonally as she could.

“For a lecher you’ve got good taste, I’ll say that,” she admitted frankly. “But I’ve always said that.” She grinned, trying to sound impersonal. “This one’s too tall for you, I think.”

“The bigger they are—”

“The harder you fall. I know.” She leaned forward a bit, as if it might aid her vision. “Wait a minute—”

“What is it?” He reached for the glasses. “Let me see.”

“Down, boy!” Jan twisted away. “I hate to smash a budding romance but it looks like you have competition. A tall handsome officer in a lovely blue uniform and nice broad shoulders, has just joined your fair one on deck...”

“He wouldn’t dare!” Reardon said with mock indignation.

“He has dared,” Jan said flatly. “Apparently he feels safe from you at this distance.” She adjusted the glasses. “Anyway, either she is furtively handing him something below the railing where I can’t see — or they are romantically holding hands. Take your choice.”

“I choose the furtiveness, obviously,” Reardon said stoutly. “She would never hold hands with another man with me waiting steadfastly and faithfully for her on shore.”

“I know,” Jan said sympathetically. “Here you are, straining your eyes through wind and rain and dark of night, searching for the first sight of her forecastle waving in the breeze—”

“Watch your language!”

Jan brought the glasses down, laughing. “Here. Look to your heart’s content. Her boy friend has gone back inside. I’m going to take a shower and get dressed.”

Reardon put the binoculars aside, grinning down at her. “Right. And then we’ll go out and have a few drinks and then dinner. Where would you like to eat? I’ll call and make a reservation.”

“Little Tokyo,” she said without hesitation. “We haven’t had sukiyaki for a long time. And we don’t need reservations there, certainly not this early. All right?”

“Fine.”

“And you can fix us martinis while I’m getting ready. All right?”

“Fine, once again.”

“And last — or rather, first — you can help me down from this table. All right?”

“Even better,” he said, and picked her up, enjoying the warm feeling of her very-much woman’s body against his. He set her lightly on her feet, bent down, and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. She pulled back, giving him her gamin grin.

“You’d have trouble picking up your girl friend from the ship. And it’s terrible being awkward about those things.”

Reardon laughed. “I’d see she didn’t climb on tables.”

Jan made a face and padded off toward the bathroom, the big slippers flopping on her tiny feet. Reardon sighed and looked about. Martinis, eh? He turned to the cupboard.

The lower shelf furnished an almost full bottle of dry vermouth and a completely full bottle of Bombay gin; the refrigerator yielded ice cubes and a lemon for lemon peel twists. There was a Mason jar back of a milk bottle with the remains of some mysterious, colorless liquid in it. Reardon frowned at it, picked it up and checked it for odor, and then with a shrug decanted the unknown contents into the sink. He rinsed the jar well, filled it with ice cubes, added a carefully measured teaspoonful of vermouth, and began pouring in the gin. When he judged he had sufficient, he stirred the affair with a butter knife, and then tilted the jar over two large cocktail glasses, smiling proudly as each was filled to the brim with no excess in the jar. A peel of lemon in each glass added the final touch of professionalism; he rinsed the jar and turned it upside down on the sink to drain. The two glasses were placed in the refrigerator to maintain their chill. Someday, James Reardon, he told himself approvingly, you’re going to make some woman a fine bartender!

Satisfied that the immediate chores were under control, Reardon picked up the binoculars again and returned to a study of the ship. It took him several minutes to locate it in the bay; it had advanced much farther, running at half speed now that the customs officials were aboard. The island of Alcatraz now furnished the background, with Hyde Street Pier in front. The ship’s ladder had been retrieved; the white vessel was approaching North Point moving in the direction of the China and Central Basins. Beneath the thin, high prow white-capped sheets of water folded back, dissolving into green foam. The foredeck was bustling with activity now; the hatch covers had been removed and the davits, working in tandem, were leaning over the cavernous holds, hooks dangling, ready to extract the contents. But the girl was no longer in sight.

How it goes! Reardon thought philosophically, and started to bring the binoculars down when he remembered the apartment down on Larkin and the four girls who made up its tenancy. Unfortunately, the windows remainded dark. Life! he thought with a grin, and put the binoculars back into their leather case, dropped into a chair, lighting a cigarette, waiting for Jan to appear.

Tuesday — 7:45 P.M.

Mr. Sessue Noguchi of the Little Tokyo restaurant bowed with pleasure to his old friends and long-time customers, the stocky gray-eyed police lieutenant and his very pretty young lady. He waited politely while they paused in a small alcove and removed their shoes, and then led them personally to a low table in a corner beside the large second-floor front window looking down on Fisherman’s Wharf and the Aquatic Park to one side. He waited while they sat, knees bent, and then took their order for martinis, but before he could hand the scribbled slip to their waitress, a second kimona-clad young girl appeared at his side. She whispered into Mr. Noguchi’s ear and slipped away. Mr. Noguchi bent over the table, truly apologetic.

“The telephone, Lieutenant.”

Reardon frowned his annoyance. Less than an hour before, he himself hadn’t known he’d be at the Little Tokyo, so who could be calling? He shrugged his apologies across the table, came to his feet, and walked to the cashier’s counter and the telephone there. He picked up the waiting instrument, staring down at his stockinged feet as he answered. And only pure luck, he thought, accounted for the fact he had put on a pair of socks without holes.

“Hello?”

“Jim? This is Dondero. You’re supposed to be—”

“How the devil did you know where I was?”

“I’m a detective, remember? It says so on my rating card,” Dondero said. “I figured it was about time for Jan to be getting the urge for sukiyaki, and where would she drag you to get it?” He laughed. “No; to tell the truth, this is about the tenth place I called. All the fancy bars in town first, naturally. Anyway, like I was saying, you’re supposed to be at some sort of meeting here at headquarters, and Captain Tower isn’t too overjoyed at your absence. He said—”

“Damn!” Reardon snapped his fingers in annoyance. “I forgot all about it! I had this afternoon off and the thing completely slipped my mind. What’s it all about?”

“The meeting? How should I know?” Dondero sounded mystified. “Clock punchers, janitors, and hired help in my grade don’t get invited. Me, I’m just a messenger, and now I’ve passed along the good word I’m checking out and heading for home. I already put in my forty-eight hours for today.” He paused as a thought struck him. “Hey, Jim — if you want I can tell the captain I couldn’t find you.”

“That would be real smart, wouldn’t it?” Reardon frowned at the telephone as if it had somehow contributed to the position he was in. “No; I’ll make it. I’ll tell you what you can do, though, Don. Forget about going home, come over here and keep Jan company until I get back.” He smiled. “You can even have the five-course special. On me.”

“Aw, gee, thanks, mister,” Dondero said. “It’ll mean missing ‘Superman’ on television, but for you — plus the five-course special — I’ll do it. The only thing is, what does a cop like me talk to an architect about? Especially a lady architect?”

“Lady architecture, naturally,” Reardon said dryly and hung up. He walked to the small bamboo-lined alcove, slipped into his loafers, and went back to the table. Jan had been staring across Jefferson Street, watching the street vendors on the Wharf, and the colored lights bobbing on the masts of fishing boats tied up to the pier. She turned at his approach, smiling; one glance at the shoes he wore and the smile disappeared. Her wide hazel eyes studied his face with sudden coldness.

“Well, Lieutenant Reardon? What now? Duty calling?”

“A meeting I forgot all about, honey.”

“A meeting you forgot about?”

“Well, I was pretty occupied this afternoon, remember?” Reardon grinned at her. His grin being rewarded with a blank look, he straightened his face. “Sorry. I had a notice on my desk when I checked out this noon, but I guess I forgot it. The meeting was for seven-thirty. I don’t know what it’s all about, but it shouldn’t last long.” Her expression was one of mild curiosity, as if wondering why he was bothering to explain. “Anyway,” he added, almost defensively, “Don will be over in a few minutes and he’ll have dinner with you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Which would be wonderful if I were in love with Sergeant Dondero,” Jan said calmly. “Instead of you. Unfortunately, that just isn’t the way it is.”

“I’m sorry, Jan. I’m really sorry, honey, but there isn’t anything I can do about it.”

“There are a number of things you could do about it,” Jan said steadily, her large eyes studying his face impersonally. “But you won’t. That’s the pity of it.” She sighed and shrugged, looking even smaller than her small self, but also looking very strong and self-possessed. “Well, Lieutenant, what am I supposed to say? Hurry back?”

Reardon met her gaze. “Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s what you’re supposed to say.”

“Hurry back,” she said obediently and turned to look out of the window.

He stared at the clipped hair on the back of her small head a moment and then turned away, moving toward the door before Jan might turn and add something that could only hurt. Their discussions about the demands as well as the dangers of his job were usually kept under control, but at times they formed a wedge between them leading to arguments neither enjoyed, but which neither seemed to be able to avoid. Lieutenant James Reardon had worked hard to earn his rating at his age, and he could not picture himself in any other kind of work; besides, he believed in the necessity of his job. For a moment he tried to persuade himself that Jan also recognized the necessity as well as his fitness in his chosen line of work, but that was nonsense and he knew it.

With a sigh he became aware of a sympathetic Mr. Noguchi holding the door open for him. He muttered an unintelligible apology for leaving before enjoying the excellent food; Mr. Noguchi bowed in understanding. With a shake of his head Reardon clattered down the steps of the restaurant to the street.

Chapter 2

Tuesday — 8:15 P.M.

“You’re late for some meeting, Lieutenant,” the uniformed patrolman at the information desk said, as Reardon came through the heavy glass doors into the red marbled lobby of the Hall of Justice.

“I know,” Reardon said flatly. He ducked under the rope that cordoned off the lobby and the upper floors to nonofficial personnel at night and then paused. “Where is it?”

“Fifth floor auditorium. Line-up room.”

“Right,” Reardon said and walked around one of the massive pillars, going to the double bank of elevators. He punched a button and waited impatiently until a door finally swung back and then stepped back to allow a fellow officer to emerge before entering.

“Say, Jim,” the other said, holding the door a moment. “Captain Tower has been—”

“I know,” Reardon said coldly and pushed the button for the fifth floor. He left the elevator, walking rapidly, turning right into the corridor, and almost ran into a young patrolman from the city cell block.

“Hey, Lieutenant—”

“Damn it, I know!” Reardon said savagely and pushed through the doors into the sloping auditorium, slamming the door behind him. The air shock on the door took the jar uncomplainingly, easing the door closed gently, almost reprovingly. There were roughly two dozen men in the large auditorium, all of his rank or higher. On the stage, standing before the large striped line-up board, and facing a blackboard on which he was writing, was a stranger. Reardon noted an empty chair next to Captain Tower in the front row and moved to it, sliding into it. Behind him in the second row he could feel the eyes of the assistant chief of police, Boynton, boring into the back of his neck. Reardon knew the fact of his late arrival was filed away in Boynton’s mind for instant reference whenever it would be required, even twenty years hence.

He leaned over, whispering. “What’s the meeting all about, Captain?”

Tower kept his voice low. “Smuggling.”

“Smuggling?” Reardon frowned at him. For this he missed a good meal and chanced a fight with Jan? “What do we have to do with smuggling? That’s a federal problem.”

Captain Tower shrugged. He was a giant of a man with grizzled hair and hands the size of boxing gloves. His face was heavy and slightly pock-marked but his eyes were bright and alert. “If you’ll listen to the man,” he said quietly, “maybe you’ll get your answer.”

Reardon slumped back dispiritedly. The stranger at the blackboard on the stage finished the list he had been compiling and turned back to face his audience, dusting his fingers fastidiously. He was a youngish man with light hair and a certain prissiness about him; his voice, when he spoke, was a trifle high and thin. Reardon, knowing the type, had a hunch the young man scored very high on the monthly pistol range check-outs.

“That’s the problem,” the young man said and tapped the blackboard with one knuckle. The chalk on it seemed to offend him and he wiped it off against his palm. “Every day a frightening amount of narcotics comes into the United States in one form or another, and a disproportionate amount comes in through the port — and that includes the airport — of San Francisco. These figures here are just the amount of the various shipments we’ve managed to intercept. The official figures usually given to the press is that we stop about one out of two shipments. I wish, sincerely, that the true figures were that optimistic.” He checked his knuckle, found it clean, and continued, relieved. “My personal feeling is that we’re lucky if we stop one out of three or even four shipments. What we don’t stop we never know, of course. And what we don’t stop has to be located by the Narcotics Division of the Treasury Department.”

Reardon shook his head sourly. So why aren’t you out talking to the Narcotics Division? he thought, so I can go back to the Little Tokyo and finish my martini? Finish it? Start it, I mean. The young man paid no attention to the unspoken advice.

“The distribution is well organized, as you can imagine. From San Francisco the stuff goes all over the country by small planes, big planes, trucks, private cars, trains — in purses, pockets, and even in the mail. So the real place to stop it is before it gets distributed.” He smiled in a deprecating manner. “Now, I realize the stopping of smuggling is our baby in Customs, our responsibility. But I also know, and I’m sure you men know even better than I do, that every drug addict in the city is a danger to the citizenry, and that the responsibility for protecting the people on the streets and in their homes, is yours. Every hophead with a gun is a danger to each one of you personally. Every girl with a habit is going to try and satisfy that habit at any cost, and that means more work for you and your men. And that’s why we feel meetings of this type are necessary for us to develop proper — well, a proper climate for co-operation between us.”

Reardon raised his eyes to the ceiling. Imported drugs weren’t the problem; not to him. Simple acid was the baby that brought out the sweat. One week before he had answered a call from some neighbors who had heard shots in a pad on Haight; he had found a youngster sitting cross-legged on the floor facing two dead bodies, both sixteen years old, one male, Caucasian, one female, Oriental. When he took the gun from the boy and asked him why he had done it, the kid looked at him blankly and said, “Done what?” Reardon tried to remember a murder done under the influence of heroin, and couldn’t. Trying to raise the price of a lift, sure; but under the influence? But acid? Daily. It had raised the homicide rate in San Francisco almost 200 per cent in a year; and New York was no better. Nor Washington, Chicago, Seattle, Cleveland; Gobler’s Knob, Kentucky, too, in all probability, he thought and tried to listen to the man.

“And it isn’t just the smuggling of narcotics that has us worried. Weapons are coming into this country at a rate that would surprise many people, especially considering the ease with which local weapons are available. Air guns manufactured in Hong Kong — precious stones...”

Reardon fought down a desire to yawn. Weapons manufactured in Hong Kong? What about that kid with the knife manufactured in Waukegan? Or the nut who used a whiskey bottle to beat his woman to death? He didn’t break the seal because he wanted the weight; or maybe he just didn’t want to spill any so he could have a relaxing drink afterward. What wasn’t a weapon? He glanced at his watch and wondered if Dondero had gotten to the restaurant as yet, how long this pointless meeting would last — because the young man from Customs sounded as if he were just getting started — and why they bothered with meetings of this nature in the first place. Obviously, co-operation was necessary; it was pretty sad to think meetings had to be held to point up the fact. And as far as narcotics were concerned, the problem was mainly in junk a high school kid could cook up in the kitchen, but soft or hard the effects were more noticeable to the patrolman on the beat than to the Customs people. All that Customs lost when a shipment got by them was a bit of face; the patrolman often lost his life. If meetings asking for co-operation had to be held, the police should be holding them at the Customs Building over on Jackson Street; not here.

He started to yawn, saw Captain Clark from the corner of his eye sitting next to Assistant Chief Boynton watching him, and swallowed it. The telephone on a small table on the stage began to ring; almost without volition he found himself on his feet, trotting up the several steps, picking it up. The young man at the blackboard paused; twenty-four pairs of eyes fixed themselves on him.

“Yes?” He listened carefully, and then fought down a smile, managing to look quite serious. “What? I’ll be right there.”

He put the receiver down and walked down the steps, bending down to speak quietly into the captain’s ear.

“That was Communications. Some problem.”

“About what?”

Reardon managed to look concerned. He never believed in lying unnecessarily. “They didn’t go into any great detail. If it’s nothing important, I’ll be right back...”

“Right.” Captain Tower watched the young lieutenant march up the aisle and nodded his head. Lieutenant Jim Reardon had some of the faults that came from youth, but he was turning out to be a damned good police officer and the captain knew it.

Reardon kept a straight face as he made his escape, but it was an effort not to smile. He climbed the ramp to the door quietly, aware of the envious glances from the other men chained in the auditorium by the droning voice which had picked up its theme once again.

“Co-operation between the various government departments and the police officers involved in the day-to-day war against crime has been studied at great length, and it is our hope—”

The closing door cut off the speaker’s repetitious voice. Good-by, dear hearts and gentle suckers, Reardon thought with a grin and walked happily to the stairs. He trotted down them contently to the fourth floor and walked to the Communications room, pushing open the door. With any luck he could either handle the matter over the phone or assign somebody — which was the logical thing to do — and be on his way back to the Little Tokyo restaurant in a matter of minutes. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time; Don and Jan would still be on their first drink. Their meal would scarcely have been ordered as yet. And speaking of meals, he hadn’t eaten since lunch, and it had been an athletic — though rewarding — afternoon.

On the other hand he had been off base in leaving the auditorium for a call that had asked for someone in Traffic — but he had to get out or go mad. But somehow he would manage to square it and still be back with Jan in short order. God wouldn’t punish a nice guy like Lieutenant James Reardon, with a nice meal and nice drink and an extra nice girl waiting for him...

Tuesday — 8:50 P.M.

The Communications room was its usual misleading quiet. The switchboard beside the entering door was unattended; the sergeant in charge of the room was leaning over one of the six patrolmen manning the center table, watching the other’s face as he handled the call. The automatic tape recorders to one side started and stopped spasmodically as some calls were recorded and others were not. The red lights on the map of the city, denoting the patrol cars on calls, covered most of the board. The sergeant looked up at the opening of the door and came forward, frowning slightly.

“I thought that was you, Jim. But I need a traffic man.”

“What’s the problem?” Reardon smiled. “Make it an easy one. I’ve got a date and supper’s on the table.

“But this is for Traffic. An accident.”

Reardon shrugged. “So nobody else was available.” He glanced at the lighted board on the wall. “And it seems nobody’s available on the streets either. What is it?”

The sergeant shook his head.

“If you insist. It isn’t Homicide, but you’re a lieutenant and I’m only a sergeant, so who am I to argue? Frankly, I’m happy somebody’s here. From any department.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“I make no promises on this one,” the sergeant said, thankful a lieutenant — even from the wrong department — was involved. “I’ll take hysterical women any time.” He pointed to the switchboard. “Take it on the headphone, Jim.”

Reardon had a cold feeling he should have stayed in the meeting. “What’s it all about?”

The sergeant shrugged. “Some guy, he’s all shook up. He’s practically crying. He — excuse me, Lieutenant...” He stared up at the board, picked a microphone from beside the patrolman he was working with, and spoke into it. He set the microphone down. “That makes about the last car free. What a night! Not even nine o’clock and—” He realized he was straying from the subject. “Grab the phone. This character’s really rattled. Says he killed somebody.”

“What?”

“That’s what the man says, Lieutenant.”

“You got it on tape?”

“I’ve got it on tape.”

“Me and my big mouth,” Reardon muttered in disgust. When they wanted a man from Traffic, why hadn’t they said there was a death involved? A ten-minute job and then yoiks and away back to Little Tokyo? What a dream! He picked up the headset, holding the receiver against his ear, wishing he were back in the meeting. “Hello?”

“Hello? Hello? Is there something the matter with this phone? Is this thing working? It took my dime! Why can’t I get anyone there to talk to me? Is this damned phone working?”

“It’s working, if you’ll let someone get a word in. You’re talking to the police.”

“I know I’m talking to the police! I called over five minutes ago and then the man who answered just wouldn’t talk any more! I tried to tell him what happened, but he said to hold on and I’ve been holding on ever since. And I don’t think it’s right—”

“So tell me.” Reardon’s voice was cold. “What happened?”

“It was an accident! It wasn’t my fault at all! And I couldn’t find a policeman anywhere, because I looked. There aren’t any down around here, I guess — and then I saw this phone booth—”

“What kind of an accident?”

“It wasn’t my fault at all — I swear it! I couldn’t have been going more than fifteen miles an hour; twenty at the most. The streets down here — half of them are full of potholes and the other half are all torn up for construction, you could break a spring — and he stepped off the curb right in front of me. I couldn’t stop in time; it happened too fast.” The speaker swallowed convulsively. “He’s... he’s dead, I think.”

“What do you mean, you think?” Reardon’s voice was unnecessarily hard; he wanted to stop the growing hysteria in the other’s voice. “Is he breathing? Is he bleeding? Is his pulse beating?”

“I... I can’t touch him. He... he looks dead.”

“Great! He looks dead! Hold on a minute.” Reardon held his disgust, cupping the mouthpiece of the headset, looking over at the sergeant. “Did you at least find a free ambulance?”

“Yes. From Mission Emergency over at San Francisco General.”

“But no patrol car?”

The sergeant gestured helplessly toward the lighted board. “Look for yourself. Everyone’s out-of-service—” It was the phrase used to indicate the cars were tied up on assignments; as always, Reardon wondered who had dreamed up the phraseology. “Everybody down in Traffic is out too — that’s why I called up to the meeting. But I asked for a Traffic man...”

“I know who you asked for,” Reardon said testily. “If I had any brains and hadn’t been feeling cute, that’s who you would have gotten.” He sighed. “Well, I can’t go back to the meeting now.” He uncupped the mouthpiece, raising it, and then thought of something else. “Where’s the phone booth this character is calling from?”

“Indiana and Eighteenth.”

“So why in the hell isn’t the ambulance there yet?” He didn’t wait for an answer, started to raise the mouthpiece again and then stopped a second time, frowning at the floor. “What the hell was he doing driving in that neighborhood at this hour of the night? It’s all dock warehouses and they’d all be closed by now.” His eyes studied the sergeant wonderingly. “As a matter of fact, what were either of them doing over there at this hour?”

“Pardon me, Lieutenant—” The sergeant escaped into the excuse of a call coming to the man before him.

“Forget it. I’m talking to myself.” Reardon returned to his telephone call. “Hello?”

“Yes? I’m still here.”

“What’s your name?”

“What difference does that make at a time like this? I’m all alone with this... this—”

“Just answer the question.”

“Oh all right! My name is Ralph Crocker. Can you please send somebody over here? Right away? My God! You need a policeman about once in a hundred years, and then—”

“There’s an ambulance on his way; he ought to be getting there in a very short while. And I’ll be down there in a matter of minutes. When the ambulance driver gets there, tell him if the man is dead, to wait for me there. My name is Reardon, Lieutenant Reardon. Do you have that?”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Reardon.”

“Right. And stay where you are. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t touch anything.” Lieutenant Reardon couldn’t help the sarcasm. “Like the body, for example.”

“I—” There was momentary silence. “No, sir.”

“Good. Just sit tight.” Reardon hung up and looked at the sergeant. “I don’t suppose any Accident Investigation cars are available.”

“One with Sergeant Wilkins ought to be through with a job in the Mission district soon. I’ll get him over there. And a regular patrol car, soon as one calls in free.” He looked at the lieutenant. “I’m sorry, Jim, but you should have sent down a man from Traffic like I asked.”

“I should have learned not to pick up telephones,” Reardon said sourly. “Who’s around to go with me? Just in case.”

The sergeant ran his finger down a sheet. “Stan Lundahl’s in. He should be at his desk.”

“Fine. Check it and if he’s there tell him to meet me at the front entrance.” He waited impatiently while the sergeant took over the switchboard; cords were manipulated, levers pulled. The sergeant spoke into the headset, listened, and then dragged the cord from its socket.

“He’s leaving now.”

“Good. If the ambulance calls in before I get there — which means the guy is dead — have them wait for me.”

“Right.”

Reardon frowned, biting at his lip, wondering if he had forgotten something. Just my date, he thought with irritation, and, of course, to keep my big mouth shut. He pushed his way brusquely out of the room.

Chapter 3

Tuesday — 9:15 P.M.

Lundahl was waiting for him in front of the information desk on the first floor. He was a heavy man, inches taller than the lieutenant, with thick black hair and bushy eyebrows that looked as if they could stand combing. As usual he looked as if he needed a shave and, as a matter of fact, did need one. While only in his middle thirties he looked much older. The two men nodded to each other and hurried through the door and down the steps. Reardon’s Charger, together with a dozen other cars, was parked in the No-parking zone before the Hall of Justice; they walked over to it, climbed in, slammed the doors, and started off with a roar of exhaust, speeding down Bryant toward Sixth.

Lundahl dug a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, offering the package to Reardon. The stocky lieutenant shook his head. Lundahl shook out the match and flipped it away, looking sideways at his superior.

“What’s it all about?”

“Somebody stepped in front of a moving automobile,” Reardon said. “And maybe got killed.”

“Hit-and-run?”

“No. The driver called it in. He’s not happy about it, but he’s waiting over there now.”

Lundahl frowned at the other. “So if it’s a regular accident, where do we come in? We ain’t Traffic.”

“It’s a long story. I don’t want to bore you.”

Lundahl seemed to read something in the other’s rigid face. He still looked puzzled, but he leaned back in his seat, making himself comfortable. “Well, at least it ain’t hit-and-run. I hate hit-and-run.” He stared out of the window, breathing smoke.

Reardon glanced in his direction. “I thought you and Dondero had a bet, which one could hold off smoking the longest?”

“He won.” Lundahl grinned. “Hands down. Me, I got no will power.” He brushed ash from the cigarette against the edge of the closed window. “About this accident, he lose his brakes?”

“I have no idea.” Reardon dropped the subject, falling into silence, stepping on the gas, speeding down Sixth, turning into Townsend with squealing tires. Like Stan Lundahl he was pleased it was not hit-and-run; that would have properly fallen into their department and the chances were he would have been tied up all night, checking garages, looking for possible witnesses — the whole business. A straight accident wasn’t too bad; he could simply turn it over to the first patrol car that showed up and be on his way. And worry about what to say to Captain Tower in the morning.

He glanced at the dim oval light of his car clock glowing eerily on the darkened dash; just about now, he calculated, the sukiyaki would be on the hibachi, the kneeling waitress carefully turning the meat and mixing the vegetables with quick and deft chopsticks, the smell would be wonderful, and Jan would be pouring sake into toy cups for the two of them.

He forced the thought away. It not only was irritating, it made him realize how long it had been since he had eaten. He should have stayed in the meeting, accepted the boredom of it, and merely kept his big mouth shut. One would have figured, he thought bitterly, that his Navy days might have taught him something about volunteering any time, anywhere, for anything; but apparently it hadn’t.

He came to the end of Townsend, crossed into Kansas, heading for Mariposa, stepping on the gas, wondering why every street in San Francisco he ever wanted to take when he was in a hurry always seemed to be one-way in the wrong direction...

Tuesday — 9:30 P.M.

The small Charger pulled into Indiana Street from Mariposa, heading south, slowing up for Eighteenth. The block they were on, as well as the one ahead, were normally dark at this hour, lined with shuttered and blank-faced warehouses with an occasional truck drawn into a driveway for the night, but at the moment the block ahead demonstrated the flashing beacon from the ambulance backed up near the center of the block. The headlights of a large car angled into the curb part way down the block added to the illumination. As he slowed for crossing Eighteenth he could see the lights from the Central Basin docks where ships were being unloaded under the blinding glare of spotlights mounted high on the ships’ superstructures and on the huge dock cranes hovering above. In the background the bay looked cold and black, with Alameda faintly lit in the distance. Well, Reardon thought, we won’t have to keep any crowd back or warn any passing motorist to move along and not rubberneck.

He automatically swerved the Charger to avoid an oil slick that glimmered wetly from the pavement and drew up across the street from the ambulance, leaving his motor running and allowing his headlights to add to the general illumination of the scene. He got out and walked across the street with Lundahl at his side. An ancient heavy black Buick was slued into the curb a few feet from a telephone pole; in the circle of its lights, aided by the additional light from the interior of the ambulance, a bundle that was the body could be seen. It lay on its back, twisted, its feet angled unnaturally. Someone had placed a handkerchief over the head. Two white-uniformed ambulance attendants had been leaning negligently against the side of the ambulance, smoking and speaking quietly, waiting. At sight of Reardon the two straightened up, moving forward. Reardon recognized the elder.

“Hello, Danny.”

“Hello, Lieutenant.” Danny was in his fifties, grown gray working the emergency ambulance service from Mission Emergency. He looked down at the bundle with a bit of regret for the wastefulness of it all; he had seen death in all its forms and had never really become accustomed to it. “He’s dead. My guess is he was killed instantly. Anyway, when I called in like you said they told me to hold everything until you got here.”

“That’s right. An APB car should be here any minute; one is finishing up someplace near here about now.” Reardon stared down at the body. “Who covered his head?”

“I did,” Danny said. “But I didn’t touch him.” He added with a touch of apology. “I didn’t know but what some car with kids in it might be driving by.”

“Today I’m sure they’ve all seen worse,” Reardon said. “Anyway, I was just asking. Who is he?”

“I don’t know. I got the message to wait for you, so I figured it had something to do with Homicide. Although it looks pretty straight to me.” He looked at the stocky lieutenant. “Anything fishy about it?”

“Not that I know of,” Reardon said and knelt beside the body, offering no further explanation. He had a feeling the story of his going out on a Traffic case was going to be the big poop around the Hall of Justice the following day.

Lundahl and Danny stood watching silently. The face that was exposed by removal of the handkerchief was staring up at them blankly. It had been a relatively young man, well-dressed; a thick mustache covered a good part of a bad scar on his upper lip, but one edge of the twisted skin trailed from the corner of the mustache to fade into the smooth cheek. Despite the scar the face was good-looking and seemed remarkably composed considering the method of his dying. The neck had the twisted unnatural look of being broken; the clothing was hunched about, tightened as if twisted on the body by some huge, powerful hand. A line of blood was etched from the corner of the mouth, following the line of the scar; it was already hardening into a black ridge on the skin.

Reardon looked up. “Where’s the driver?”

“In the car.”

Reardon glanced over; through the windshield he could make out a pale face in the darkened interior. “Stan. Get him out and over here.”

“Right.” Lundahl flipped his cigarette away and walked over, opening the door. There was a moment’s hesitation and then Crocker climbed down. He was tall and thin, handsome in a way, but not at the moment. His jaw was clenched at the unfairness of it all; he obviously didn’t like the idea of being called to the side of the body. He stopped, staring to one side, keeping his eyes fixed on the bumper of the car, speaking to the lieutenant without looking at him or the body. His hands kept opening and closing in a nervous gesture.

“It was an accident,” he said, his voice dull with constant repetition. “I keep telling everybody but nobody wants to listen. It was an accident. He stepped off the curb without looking—” He seemed to realize the hopelessness of trying to get through to these blank faces surrounding him. “It wasn’t my fault. I shouldn’t have called it in; that was my mistake. I should have kept on going.”

“Why?” Reardon stared up at him curiously. “You want five-to-ten for hit-and-run? You think vehicular homicide isn’t serious enough?” He shook his head in disgust and changed the subject. “Do you know him? Did you ever see him before?”

“Ever see—? No; I don’t know him. How should I know him? I was over at some restaurant on Army Street getting a sandwich and a cup of coffee, and I was cutting over on my way home—”

“If you don’t look at him,” Reardon interrupted quietly, “you’ll never know if you saw him before.”

“I... I saw enough of him to know...”

“Why don’t you try once more? It’s either here or at the morgue, and you might see a lot more down there.”

Crocker closed his eyes and then opened them, forcing himself to stare down at the peaceful face, marred only by the ridge of dried blood on its chin. He swallowed and then turned away. “No. I never saw him before.”

“All right. Relax.” Reardon laid the handkerchief back over the calm face and came to his feet. “We’ll have to take you in, you and the car both. Let me see your identification. Your driver’s license.”

“Certainly.” Crocker fumbled in his rear trouser pocket, bringing out his wallet. He removed a folder from one section and handed it over.

The lieutenant shook his head. “Just your driver’s license, please.”

Crocker looked surprised. He separated the license from the insurance cards and other material in the small plastic folder and handed it over. Reardon studied it in the light of the Buick’s headlamps and then slipped it into his pocket.

“Stan; what about the registration?”

Lundahl nodded and bent into the car. He fumbled for a dash-light and located it, studied the paper on the steering column a moment, and straightened up. “Description on the registration fits. It’s in the name of Ralph Crocker.”

Reardon looked at the man. “Any other identification?”

Crocker silently went through his billfold once more, handing over two gasoline credit cards and a receipt for a purchase from a local store. Reardon studied them and then handed them back.

“All right. I want—” He paused; a second police car was turning into the block, its roof beacon flashing.

“APB car, Lieutenant,” Lundahl said needlessly.

“Yes. All right, Stan. When the APB boys are through with the car, you take Crocker back to headquarters in his car and wait until I get there or until you get a message from me. The car goes into the garage.” He considered it a moment and a faint humorless smile touched his lips. “It’ll look good next to that 1935 Packard down there they use for parades.” He drew the detective to one side, speaking quietly. “Keep him company. Take him to the lab and have him blow into the bottle. He says he stopped at a restaurant, but it could have been a bar.”

“He looks sober enough, but I guess something like this could sober you up in a hurry,” Lundahl said. “Will do.”

“Right.” Reardon turned to the ambulance crew. “Danny, as soon as the Accident boys release the body, bring him to the morgue at the Hall.”

“Right, Lieutenant.”

Sergeant Wilkins of the Accident Prevention Bureau was walking toward them. He was a thickset man in his forties; at one time during his days as a beat patrolman he was putting the arm on a drunk beating his wife, when the wife hauled off with a pan and smashed Wilkins’ nose. It made Wilkins speak with a slight nasal sound, and it made him look as if he were sneering at everyone. Actually, as Reardon well knew, Wilkins was the mildest and most co-operative of men. He was also excellent at his job. Behind him a patrolman, his partner on the APB car, was reaching into the back seat for equipment.

Wilkins looked mildly surprised. “Hello, Jim. They gave it to me as a traffic accident. Or have you been transferred to Traffic since I came on this afternoon?”

“Hello, Frank.” Reardon grinned. “You’ll probably hear all about it tomorrow down at the Hall. In fact, after tonight Captain Tower may put me in Traffic just for laughs. Just put it down to the Devil finding something for idle hands to do.” He glanced down at the body a moment and then back to Wilkins. “It looks as if this one stepped off the curb right in front of that vintage Buick and the driver couldn’t stop.”

“Who is he?”

“I haven’t had time to even go through his pockets. When you’re finished with him and the car, Lundahl will drive the car back to headquarters with the driver. But I’d like to see the man’s identification. If I’m going to handle a Traffic case, I might as well do it right.”

Wilkins looked surprised. “Stick around a few minutes and you can have it. Let me take a couple of pictures—”

“I’ve got another stop to make.”

“Oh. All right. I’ll bring copies of the reports to your office and put them on your desk if you’re not there.” He grinned. “Hell, Jim — maybe you’ll even get to like Traffic.”

“I don’t even like to drive in it.”

“Who does?” Wilkins turned to his assistant. “Okay, Willie, let’s get through with the body so Danny can take him away. Then we’ll have room to work on the skid marks...”

Reardon walked back to the Charger and climbed into it. It would be a while until Wilkins was back at the Hall of Justice, and if Crocker sat around for a while thinking about the responsibility every driver took each time he climbed behind a wheel, it wouldn’t hurt him a bit. And it would give the lieutenant enough time to get over to the Little Tokyo restaurant and try to put Jan in a better mood than she had been when he left. He had a feeling that even if Dondero was at his most charming, the meal was probably not the happiest event taking place in town that night.

He turned from Eighteenth into Third, gunning the car down the dock road, cutting over the bridge to Berry and then turning right to the Embarcadero, swinging left, bringing up his speed on the wide, almost deserted road. As always, cars lined the road, parked side by side before the white façades of the piers, glimmering under weak lighting. He bumped over railroad tracks, cutting around the pillars of the Skyway. Ships hugged the docks as he shot past, towering over him; for one brief second he wondered if one of them was the one he had watched that afternoon. He put the thought aside almost forcefully; it reminded him of how pleasant the day had been until that damned telephone call from Dondero.

He turned from the Embarcadero at Jefferson, speeding past the garish lights of Fisherman’s Wharf, swung to the curb in front of the second-floor restaurant and climbed down, swinging the car door shut behind him in almost the same motion, and went in, taking the carpeted steps two at a time. Mr. Noguchi considered him gravely from his refuge behind an armful of menus and slowly shook his head. His eyes were sad.

Reardon swung around to inspect the corner table; it was deserted. He frowned, staring at his watch in surprise.

“They left already? They couldn’t have eaten that fast!”

Mr. Noguchi became even sadder. “They didn’t eat, Lieutenant,” he said in his soft voice, clutching his menus more tightly. “They had two drinks and left. Your young lady said—” He hesitated in embarrassment; it seemed impossible that anyone would say such words, especially in the Little Tokyo, but the truth was the truth and the frowning red-haired lieutenant didn’t look in the mood for anything else.

“She said what?”

Mr. Noguchi shrugged fatalistically and pronounced the terrible words. “She said she wasn’t hungry.”

“How long ago did they leave?”

Mr. Noguchi frowned in concentration and then consulted the wall clock for help. “Half hour? Forty minutes?”

“Let me use the phone.” He walked to the cashier’s counter, picked up the telephone, and dialed. His face was expressionless as he waited for the ring at the other end; his gray eyes were flinty chips of granite.

The telephone was answered almost instantly. “Hello?”

“Jan? This is Jim: I—”

“Jim, do you mind terribly if we don’t waste a lot of time talking? I’m very tired and I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow. And I’m sure you must be busy...”

“Damn it, Jan, I don’t understand you!” Reardon fought to keep his voice down; the Japanese cashier pointedly heard none of the conversation. “I had a meeting at Headquarters! It’s not the first time something has come up and I’ve been stuck for a few hours!”

Jan’s voice hardened not too subtly.

“You had a meeting, which you passed up to take an assignment. On an automobile accident case. Which isn’t your department, and you know it. And which would tie you for more than just a few hours and you know that too.” She hesitated a moment. Reardon stared at the telephone, speechless. “Well, Lieutenant? Cat got your tongue?”

“But how did you know—?”

“How did I know you took an assignment — volunteered for it when it wasn’t your job?” Her voice was bitter in self-incrimination. “Because I was foolish enough to think you might want to come back and see me after your meeting, so when Sergeant Dondero came, I asked him to call you and tell you we’d wait for you, even if you were delayed a few hours. And he spoke with someone in Communications and they said they couldn’t put the call through because you were on a case. They said—”

“Damn it! I know what they must have said. But you don’t understand. It isn’t the way it sounds—”

“Please, Jimmy. I don’t want to fight. I’m tired.”

“I don’t want to fight either.”

“This afternoon was wonderful,” Jan said, “so let’s not spoil it now with some nonsensical stories. We had already made love, so tonight was just going to be dinner, and when an interesting assignment came along during your meeting—” She tried to sound reasonable. “I understand how you felt. I do.”

“Interesting case! Some idiot steps off the curb in front of a car down at the end of nowhere and gets himself killed! Some interesting case! Jan, will you please let me explain?”

“Some other time, if you don’t mind, Jim. I’m really tired. And I really do have a very big day ahead of me tomorrow. So good night.” The telephone was silently set into its cradle.

“Jan! Damn it!” He stared at the phone a moment and then depressed the button and let it rise again, dialing another number, his eyes hard and angry. Across from him the cashier bent more closely over her accounts. When the phone was answered he barked into it.

“Hello, Don?”

“That’s me.”

“Will you kindly explain to me why you had to go tell Jan I’d left the meeting to take an assignment?”

At the other end of the line Sergeant Dondero stared at the instrument in his hand with righteous indignation. It was to his way of thinking a stupid question at best.

“Because you did, didn’t you?”

“And just why was it necessary to broadcast it?”

“Because your Jan wanted to wait for you to get there before eating, that’s why. What were we supposed to do? Wait until tomorrow afternoon for some food?” His voice dripped sarcasm. “What are you so burned up about, Lieutenant? You promised me dinner, and I just got back from driving your girl home, and you want to know what I’m doing this minute?”

He waited. Reardon sighed. “So what are you doing?”

“I’m glad you asked. I’m fixing myself a cold cheese sandwich because that’s all there is to eat in the joint, and I don’t even like cheese and I’m damned if I know why I bought it in the first place. So tell me something: what are you so mad about?”

Reardon sighed again. “Nothing, Don. I guess I’m really mad at myself for not being very smart.”

“Now you’re making sense, Jim, boy,” Dondero said approvingly, but he was talking to a dial tone.

Chapter 4

Tuesday — 10:45 P.M.

Lundahl was waiting in the small glass-enclosed anteroom to Reardon’s office when the stocky lieutenant returned to headquarters. The big man tilted his head toward the open door of the office; Crocker could be seen inside, sitting rigidly on a hard chair beside the empty desk. His face was expressionless; he seemed to be looking at a calendar on the wall across from him without seeing it. Reardon found this hard to believe; whoever had posed for the picture on that calendar certainly did not expect to be overlooked. The tall, thin man’s hands were folded in his lap, the knuckles white.

“He wanted to call a lawyer,” Lundahl said. “I suggested he wait until you got back here. I told him if he called now he wouldn’t even know what to tell the guy.” He remembered something else. “Oh yeah — We let him blow into the bottle; I told Wilkins I’d take care of that for him. The lab says zero. I didn’t even fill out an Alcohol Influence Form.”

Reardon nodded and walked into the room. Crocker swung around on his chair, his voice exasperated, as if he had reached the limit of his patience. His former nervousness seemed to have disappeared now that he was no longer in the street with the body.

“Now, see here, Lieutenant, what goes on here? Your man here won’t even let me call my lawyer!”

Reardon shed his jacket, hung it on a hook back of the door, and dropped wearily into his chair. He shifted his belt holster a bit so it wouldn’t bite into his hip, and fished the driver’s license from his pants pocket, studying it silently. When he was through he tossed it on the desk and looked at the sullen face before him.

“Mr. Crocker, you have every right to call your lawyer. If you want to call him, go ahead. But my honest suggestion would be that you let us put you up for the night and call him tomorrow, because a judge has to set your bail, and no judge is available at this hour to do it. Tomorrow afternoon in Municipal Court — it’s down on the second floor of this building — at two o’clock — you can be represented by as many lawyers as you want. In the meantime—” He shrugged, his voice trailing off.

Crocker stared at him.

“Bail? What bail? It was an accident, Lieutenant! My God! Some absolute stranger, probably drunk, steps in front of my car and I’m in trouble! It wasn’t my fault, I tell you! Why should I even be held at all, let alone asked to go bail?”

“Because whether it was an accident or not, you killed a man,” Reardon said flatly. “You took a man’s life, and there are no witnesses as to the circumstance under which you took it.” He held up a hand to prevent the flow of rebuttal from Crocker. “Technically, you could be booked on a manslaughter charge right now, and if you insist on it, I’ll be glad to do it. So you can call your lawyer or a dozen of them, but you’ll spend the night here in any event. Is that clear? I’m just trying to make it easy on you, but if you want it the hard way, be my guest.”

He shoved the phone across the desk. The thin man reached for it, hesitated a moment, and then withdrew his hand. Reardon waited a moment and then tugged on the cord, pulling the phone back to its original position.

“Is there anyone else you want to call? Your wife? Your family? Anyone expecting you anywhere?” He raised an admonitory finger. “Just remember, you’re not being denied the telephone.”

“Nobody,” Crocker said dully. “I have no family.”

Reardon looked at him steadily. “I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind, and then I’d suggest you get some rest. Everything will work itself out tomorrow. All right?”

Crocker looked up. “I told that accident man at the scene everything he needed for his report.”

“Well, some of this may be a repetition, then, but some of it won’t. Okay?”

Crocker merely nodded. Reardon leaned back in his chair; Lundahl straddled a hard chair on the side of the desk opposite Crocker. Reardon picked up a pencil and brought a pad closer to him.

“First of all, where do you live?”

“The Martinique Apartments over on Second between Harrison and Folsom.”

“Lived there long?”

Crocker shrugged. “Year now, I guess. Why?”

“Just curious. Don’t worry about the questions, just answer them. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m not working just now.”

“What did you do when you did work?”

“I was a salesman.” He hesitated. “Door to door.”

“I see.” Reardon thought a moment and then looked up. “You say you stopped over on Army Street for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Do you remember the exact place?”

“Of course I remember the place. It’s called the Mess Hall — probably because it’s on Army Street, I guess. It’s a block down from Missouri. I left there at eight-thirty on the button; I remember looking at my watch. And I cut over to Indiana and this guy—” He stopped dead. “Anyway, I called in as soon as I saw the phone booth, but it wasn’t any more than five minutes after I left the restaurant.” He looked bitter. “If there had been a policeman anywhere around...”

Reardon hadn’t put a note down; he was merely twiddling the pencil idly. Stan Lundahl lit a cigarette and waited, watching. Reardon reached out his hand; Lundahl gave him a cigarette and also lit it. As an afterthought he offered the pack to Crocker, but the tall man merely shook his head. Reardon exhaled and returned to his questioning.

“What brought you to Army Street?”

Crocker looked surprised. “You’ve got to eat someplace, don’t you? And I happen to know the counterman there. He’s somebody to talk to, and I don’t have too many of those.” He thought of something else. “How long are you going to hold my car? I don’t have the dough for taxis.”

“The technical squad will have to examine it, but it shouldn’t be long,” Reardon said and sighed. He crushed out his cigarette; Lundahl’s eyebrows went up at the waste of tobacco. What questions to ask? I’m tired, he thought; and I could stand some food myself. And why in hell wouldn’t Jan take two minutes and let me explain that I was trying to get there sooner, not later! He realized Crocker was waiting and brought his mind back to the affair, asking his next question almost without thinking.

“You were over on Army near Missouri, and you were going to Second between Harrison and Folsom. Right?”

“That’s right.”

“How come you didn’t take the Freeway? A block up on Army and you’re on it; it lets you off at Bryant and Fourth and you’re practically home.” Even as he asked it, Reardon’s brow wrinkled. It was a better question than he had meant to ask.

Crocker shook his head. “Because I never go on the skyways, Lieutenant. Because I don’t drive as fast as the people who use them, and frankly I don’t want an accident.” He seemed to realize his words sounded strange in the circumstances, but let them stand. “Anyway, I stick to the city streets. Up until tonight I’ve never even had a scratched fender.”

Lundahl leaned forward. “But you could have gone down Army to Iowa and caught the new extension. It would have gotten you at least to Mariposa, and there’s no traffic at all on her. That’s halfway home.”

Crocker faced this new inquisitor. “I told you. I don’t use the skyways. If it pleases you, I’m not the bravest driver in the world, and my car isn’t the newest.”

“True,” Lundahl murmured and leaned back again.

Reardon started to yawn and forced it back. He tried to think of more questions and couldn’t.

“I think that’s all for now, Mr. Crocker.”

Crocker looked properly relieved and rose dutifully. Lundahl unstraddled himself from his chair and moved around the desk.

“I’d suggest one of the trustee’s cells, Lieutenant.” He turned to Crocker. “They’re not locked.”

“All right,” Crocker said. He seemed to be too tired and dejected by the tragic events of the past few hours to argue about anything. “All right.”

“And that’s all I’ll need you for, Stan,” Reardon said. “You can go back to what you were doing.”

Lundahl grinned. “I was getting ready to go home when they caught me. I’ll be happy to go back to doing it. It’ll be a nice surprise for my family.” He left the room with Crocker; his place in the doorway was taken by Sergeant Wilkins, who stared after the two a moment and then came into the room. Reardon swiveled his chair in his direction, the pencil bobbing in his fingers, looking at the other expectantly.

“Well?”

Wilkins grinned. “You really want to get into Traffic, don’t you? Because Homicide this ain’t!” His grin faded. “Everything points to the way the man says. Skid marks are normal for an accident of that kind. The street lighting is terrible on that street — in that whole part of Potrero, as a matter of fact — and the headlights on that old Buick pull a bit to the left anyway. Which means that a man stepping off the curb without looking — especially someone wearing dark clothes—” He shook his head with genuine disgust. “One of the mysteries of life — or death — that I’ll never solve, is why people think they can be automatically seen by the driver of a car just because they can see him.” He shrugged. “A guy stepping off a curb at night is asking for it.”

“Could he have been drunk?”

Wilkins shook his head. “I was there when they finally loaded him into Danny’s taxi and I didn’t smell anything. They could check it with a blood test if you think it would make any difference, but it seems to me it would only make the driver that much more innocent.”

“True,” Reardon admitted.

“There was one thing though—” Wilkins hesitated.

Reardon looked up. “Which is?”

“Well, this character who got killed. He had a money clip on him with twenty-eight dollars in it — nothing spectacular, just normal, I’d say — but he didn’t have a wallet. What I mean, no identification.”

“What?” Reardon stared at him.

“That’s right. No wallet, no cards, no receipts, no nothing with his name on it. He’s downstairs as an Unknown.”

“What else was he carrying outside of money?”

“A handkerchief, some keys — not car keys, or at least not like any car key for an American car I’ve seen; they looked like regular door keys — and maybe a dollar or so in loose change. It’s all exact on the report. And he had some junk in his pocket. That’s about it.”

“Junk?”

“Nothing of importance. I’ll have the complete list in the report.”

Reardon frowned. “No identification...” He looked up. “Did you print him?”

“I didn’t, but the morgue knows we don’t have a make on him, so they’ll probably print him automatically.” He glanced at his watch. “If not tonight, tomorrow morning.”

“And where’s the car?”

“Down in the garage in the basement, but there’s nobody around to give it a check. They’ll do it in the morning, but I honestly don’t know what you expect them to find. Those old-time Buicks were built. Hell, the bumper on this one wasn’t hardly even marked, and the hood wasn’t touched. And the headlights—?” He shrugged. “You saw them. Not a scratch let alone broken.” He sighed. “Hell, they don’t build cars that way any more. My heap, I nudge a goddamn bush, it stoves in a door.” He looked around. “By the way, where is our boy? I’d like to talk to him a couple of minutes, just to finish my report.”

“He said you asked him everything at the scene.”

Wilkins grinned. With his broken nose it made him look even more sneering than usual. “Hell, he don’t know the guy who designed the San Francisco Police Department Vehicle Accident Report. I’ve been filling them out for over fifteen years, and I never got all of the questions first crack out of the box yet. They got stuff inside of stuff. Inside of stuff.”

Reardon smiled with him.

“Well, he’s upstairs on the fifth floor in the city jail, in the trustee’s section with an open door.”

“I know it well. I won’t take up much of his time. Personally, I feel sorry for the poor bastard.” He glanced at his watch. “Then I’ll type up all of our lovely forms. The pictures I took at the scene should be ready by the time I’m through. I’ll leave copies of everything on your desk. Who knows? You may be in Traffic tomorrow.”

“You could be right.” Reardon winked at the other. “And thanks.”

“For what?” Wilkins asked and left the room.

Reardon’s grin faded; he frowned at the wall somberly for a few moments and then came to his feet. He slipped the driver’s license into the top drawer of his desk and walked over, getting his jacket, shrugging himself into it. There wasn’t anything further to be done that night regarding the case, if anything had to be done on his part at all, and he didn’t feel much like doing it even if there was. His hunger had left him but he knew a sandwich would bring it back; the big question was did he stop somewhere for one, or did he go home and make one à la Dondero. Decisions, decisions, he thought with a faint smile, looked around the office a moment as if searching for something that wasn’t there, and then shrugged. With a sigh he flicked off the lights and went out, closing the door behind him.

Captain Tower was walking in his direction.

“Hello, Jim.” His voice was deceptively friendly.

“Hello, Captain.” Reardon looked surprised. “Did the meeting last this long?”

“The meeting? No. It ended a few minutes after you left. Incidentally, how’s the Traffic Department?”

“Well, sir, there wasn’t anyone else available—”

Captain Tower looked at him sternly for a moment and then his face broke into a rueful grin. “Jim, one of these days one of your cute stunts is going to get you into trouble. Why did you do it? You didn’t even know what it was all about.”

“I knew what it wasn’t all about. It wasn’t a meeting, and that was enough.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Captain, but I got punished.”

“Why? Was it a bad one?”

“No,” Reardon said. “It was an automobile accident. A man stepped off the curb in front of a car and got killed. But it got me in a jam with Jan.”

Captain Tower smiled. “You get in jams with her fairly often, don’t you?” He shook his head. “Why don’t you let her make an honest man out of you, Jim?”

“One reason,” Reardon explained, “is that right now she isn’t even talking to me. And a better one is that she doesn’t think police work is the sort of thing she wants hung around her lovely neck for the rest of her life.” He put the thought to one side, changing the subject. “About this accident, Captain—”

“Yes?”

“There are couple of things that bug me about it.”

Captain Tower studied the younger man shrewdly. Lieutenant Jim Reardon was one of his best men, with initiative, understanding, and a genuine devotion to his work, and the captain knew and appreciated it. He also respected hunches, not only his own, but those of his men. True, on occasion, such as this evening, Lieutenant James Reardon had a tendency to bend the rules a bit, but it wasn’t the first time and the captain knew it probably wouldn’t be the last. Still, the lieutenant usually managed to come up smiling, and the captain didn’t believe it could all be luck.

“What’s on your mind?” He noticed the other’s hesitation, and added, “Would you like to sit down and talk about it?”

“If you’ve got the time,” Reardon said. He led the way back into his darkened office, flipping the light switch, dropping into his chair back of the desk. Behind him, through the window, the lights of San Francisco at night climbed the hills in strings of pearls. Captain Tower took a chair beside the desk, watching the younger man.

“Well?”

Reardon picked up a pencil and began to play with it absently, thinking.

“For one thing, Captain,” he said slowly, “the man who was killed didn’t carry any identification. He had money on him in a money clip, and he had keys and the normal things you carry in your pockets, but he didn’t have a wallet. He didn’t have anything with his name on it.”

“Well,” Captain Tower said thoughtfully, “I can picture one circumstance at least when a man might not have his wallet on him. Haven’t you ever gone across the street for a pack of cigarettes or a paper and not bothered taking your wallet with you? When you have change, or money like he did?”

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t,” Reardon said evenly. “My badge is in my wallet, and my I.D. card. I doubt if you ever have, Captain. But I could still understand what you mean, except this accident took place on Indiana near Eighteenth, down near the docks. It isn’t a residential neighborhood by a long shot — not a house in sight. And no stores around to buy anything. And the way this man was dressed — the victim — he looked as if he was on his way to a night on the town.” He frowned. “That’s also odd. He had twenty-eight dollars on him, plus some change. That doesn’t pay for much of a night on this town.”

“So maybe he wasn’t on his way to a night on the town. What else?”

“Well, this Ralph Crocker — he was driving the car — was on Army Street in a restaurant and on his way home to the Martinique Apartments on Second between Harrison and Folsom. Now the Skyway runs from almost where he was to where he was going, but he was driving those dark, dockside roads, full of holes and half of them blocked with construction. I asked him why, and he said he was scared of the traffic on the freeways...”

“Lots of people are, you know,” Captain Tower said.

“But at that hour they’re practically empty. Somehow it just struck me as odd. And another thing, when I finished questioning him I suggested he stay in a cell here for the night — a trustee’s cell with the door open, but a cell just the same — and not call his lawyer until after his hearing in Municipal Court tomorrow afternoon. And he agreed. Or at least he didn’t call a lawyer.”

Reardon leaned forward, putting the pencil aside, staring at the captain.

“Now, that is odd. To me, that is extremely odd. I know I haven’t been on the force half as long as a lot of others, but I’ve been on it long enough to know that no man involved in an accident — especially one where a life is lost — is not going to call for help no matter what the time of the day or night, and no matter how much it inconveniences anyone. But Crocker let it go at that.”

“Did you book him?”

“No, sir. As I said, he’s in an open cell. Just spending the night as our guest.”

“Who was on the APB car?”

“Frank Wilkins, sir. Sergeant Wilkins.”

“He’s a good man. Did he give you any reason to believe it wasn’t an accident?” He paused significantly. “In other words, any reason our department should be involved?”

“No. As a matter of fact, Frank is convinced it was an accident.”

“Do you have any reason to disagree with him?”

Reardon hesitated a moment and then shook his head. “Just the ones I’ve given you, sir.”

Captain Tower came to his feet with an air of finality.

“In that case, Jim, I suggest you release the man on his own cognizance and turn the whole business over to Traffic. They’ll have him in court tomorrow and it’s their baby.” He shook his head. “Captain Clark in Traffic is going to be unhappy enough with your sticking your nose into their business, but that’s the least of it. Some reporter fresh out of journalism school could get hold of a story like this and make a big thing out of nothing at all. A man in a cell without a charge in a case where our own accident squad sergeant says it’s a clear-cut accident — well, it’s precisely the sort of publicity the police department doesn’t need. Especially in these days.”

Reardon picked up his pencil, twiddling it.

“All right, Captain. But I’d like to see that old Buick impounded—”

“Is that the accident car? Didn’t Wilkins examine it?”

“He didn’t have time tonight. But I’d like a real checkup on that car, not just a quick one-two-three.” He caught the captain’s quizzical eye on him and smiled faintly. “No, sir; I don’t know why.”

“Jim,” Captain Tower said, “let me tell you something. First, I think you’re trying to justify doing something tonight that was against regulations; if you can make even the slightest case for anything other than accident, even if it doesn’t stick in court, you figure you’re off the hook. Well, you won’t be — not with Captain Clark nor with me. Second, I also think you’re mad at the driver because his accident managed to get you in a scrape with Jan.” The captain was serious and Reardon knew it. “Well, the first is bad police work and the second is frivolous. You send Crocker home and tell him to be here for Municipal Court at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in the morning talk to Traffic and drop it. And right now go home and get some sleep.” The captain’s voice was no longer stern; he sounded sympathetic. “You look as if you could use some.”

“Yes, sir,” Reardon said and proved the captain’s contention with a sudden yawn. He allowed it to carry into an extensive stretch and grinned, coming to his feet. “Yes, sir...”

Chapter 5

Tuesday — 11:45 P.M.

Lieutenant James Reardon buttoned his jacket and started down the hall, glad to finally be on his way home, glad the evening was finally finished, glad that Captain Tower had made the decision to have Crocker sent home, and also glad that Crocker and his hopeless, helpless “It wasn’t my fault, it was an accident” was finally out of his hair. If he got called to Municipal Court the following afternoon as a witness, it would be his own fault. He’d have to go, of course, which was a cramp in the elbow, but he’d have no one to blame but himself.

He frowned, remembering Captain Tower’s words. Was it possible he had subconsciously tried to make a homicide case out of a simple accident just to justify his interference? If so, it was pretty sad. He knew men who had done things like that, but he didn’t respect them, and he had always thought of himself as being far too good a cop for anything like that. And if he had, of course, he owed Crocker an apology. It was a tough rap having some character step off the curb in front of you without having some hard-nosed cop try to make a patsy out of you for no good reason. Besides, Reardon thought, there but for the grace of God goes Lieutenant Jimmy Reardon. I certainly handle a car faster than fifteen or twenty miles an hour, and my mind isn’t always on what I’m doing or where I’m going. I’d hate like hell to have been coming down Indiana Street tonight, just at that exact moment!

He came down the corridor leading past Room 454, Missing Persons, and then suddenly had to sidestep as the door to the Bureau swung back and a girl emerged without looking, almost bumping into him. She looked worried, preoccupied, and his first reaction was automatically to apologize even though none of the fault was his. Then he stopped, a big smile crossing his face. The girl he had nearly collided with was his beautiful stewardess friend from the ocean liner that afternoon. She had changed her uniform for an evening dress, and she carried a small white beaded bag in her gloved hands, but her face and figure were as fascinating as ever.

“Well, well!” Reardon said. “Hello, there!”

Somehow his having studied her so intently through the binoculars only a few hours ago seemed to him to constitute an introduction of sorts, though he was honest enough to recognize she might not feel the same way about it. And he was sure the “competition” Jan had mentioned almost certainly would take a different attitude.

The young lady stared at him a moment without seeing him, and then frowned as she realized a complete stranger was addressing her. True, he was an interesting-looking stranger, but still a stranger. The look she gave him stated quite clearly that she had met fresh men before and undoubtedly would again, but only an idiot would try a pass in the Hall of Justice where, presumably, one call would have him under lock and key. She turned, a look of disdain on her face, and marched down the corridor in the direction of the elevators. For a moment Reardon thought to follow her and explain, but instead he allowed his curiosity to take him into the Bureau.

There was a lieutenant standing back of the counter, searching in a typewriter desk drawer for something. He looked up as the door opened, and his look of irritation changed to a grin.

“Hello, Jimmy,” he said and gave a wink. “You should have seen what was just in here. Wow! Meat!”

“I saw her,” Reardon said and smiled back. “How did she get under the rope downstairs? I thought anyone after 6 P.M. got sent to Southern Police Station automatically?”

“The man on the desk downstairs knew I was working. And I guess if she just smiled at him, he’d have let her into the chief’s safe.”

“What did she lose?”

“A boy friend. He stood her up on a date.” The lieutenant shrugged. “It takes all kinds, I guess. A guy has to be like out of his head to stand that up, is all I can say.”

“When did she lose him?”

“That’s the reason I’m not getting overly excited,” the lieutenant said. “He’s a couple of hours late for a date they had, and already she’s worrying. She’s called four hospitals before she come in, she said. True,” he added, wanting to be fair, “any guy shows up late for a date with that piece, he’s got to be missing something, like his brains at the very least. What probably happened, he stopped in a bar someplace for a quick one, had a couple, and forgot the time.”

“It’s possible.”

“Or else his wife wouldn’t let him out,” the lieutenant said with a grin.

“That’s possible, too, I suppose. What’s her name?”

“Penny Wilkinson. What a name, Penny! She looks more like one million bucks to me. Here’s the whole bit, Jim.” The lieutenant grinned and swung the report around so Reardon could read it. “It also has her address and telephone number, if that could be of the slightest interest to you. I hear you had a slight scrap with your own girl tonight...”

Reardon stared at him. “Man! Word certainly gets around in a hurry! Our intelligence should be so good in police work!”

“Yeah,” the lieutenant said and winked. “I also heard you got tired of Homicide and asked for a transfer to Captain Clark.”

Reardon laughed. “No; he asked for me. I’m still considering it.” He looked down at the form. “What was the guy’s name?”

The lieutenant’s thick finger pointed. “Cooke. Bob Cooke. Works with her on the ships. A deck officer.”

Reardon started reading the form, muttering the missing man’s description under his breath. “Cooke. Age twenty-eight. Height — she thinks — about five feet eleven. Weight one hundred seventy-five—”

“She was sure about that,” the lieutenant said. “Seen him on a scale.” He grinned. “I wonder where?”

Reardon kept going. “Hair, dark brown. Eyes, dark brown. Distinguishing marks—” He straightened up, frowning. “Scar on upper lip from shipboard accident, partially covered with mustache, dark brown...” He looked up. “Jesus Christ!”

“What’s the matter?”

“That’s that accident case we just picked up!”

The lieutenant lost his humor. His hand went out to the telephone, instantly all business, preparing to dial. “Which hospital?”

“Our own,” Reardon said flatly. “Downstairs!”

He hurried from the room, trotting down the corridor, punching the elevator button fiercely. To his amazement the door swung open almost instantly; he shoved the button for the first floor and stood waiting at the door. As soon as it opened he trotted across the lobby and ducked under the ropes, looking at the patrolman on duty at the information desk.

“Where did she go?”

“The girl just came down? Outside.” The patrolman pointed to the front doors.

Reardon ran down the steps and looked in both directions. About a block down Bryant he saw a girl getting into a cab; at that distance and in that light he couldn’t be sure it was his quarry, but there was no sign of anyone else in the immediate vicinity. He started to shout, realized the futility of it, and ran to his car.

He climbed in hurriedly, putting the key into the ignition and twisting it even as he slammed the door and turned the wheel to clear the car ahead. He cut into the street with the blare of startled horns from other traffic, starting in pursuit of the taxi. The cab pulled into Fifth, heading for Market Street and the brighter lights there. Reardon put on a burst of speed, flashing his high beams up and down, pressing one hand insistently on the horn. Other traffic gave way until he was behind the cab; inside the car ahead he could see the driver tilt his head backward, obviously saying something to his passenger. Whatever she said in reply only made the driver speed up. Not for the first time Reardon wished he was driving a patrol car with a flasher beacon and a siren.

They both crossed Tahama and Howard with the light; Reardon waited for a car in the other direction to pass and then jammed down on the accelerator, passing the cab and cutting in sharply. Even as he did so he wondered fleetingly what would have happened if some pedestrian had stepped from the curb as he hit those speeds, and quickly put the thought out of his mind. The taxi squealed to a shuddering halt, its left front fender nudging the Charger, the tires jammed against the curb. The driver came down in a hurry, big, tough, and angry. A short piece of one-inch pipe dangled menacingly from his right hand.

“All right, buster! What are you, some kind of nut?”

“Police,” Reardon said shortly and flashed his wallet. His voice was ice-cold. “And don’t tell me you didn’t know it.”

The driver stopped dead, his tone instantly defensive. The pipe sagged. “How the hell should I know? Anyway I ain’t done nothing.”

“I didn’t say you did. I just want to talk to your passenger.” He opened the taxi door, bending in, relieved to see the girl. “Police, Miss. Do you mind getting out?”

For a brief moment it appeared as if she might refuse, but then she climbed down, angry. And more beautiful because of it, Reardon thought.

“What is this?” She recognized him from the corridor outside of the Missing Persons Bureau, but it didn’t seem to lessen her annoyance. “What do you want?”

“I’ll tell you in my car.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“No, Miss. I’d appreciate it, though, if you’d come with me.”

He handed a bill to the driver without looking at the girl, and then turned back, taking her arm. The fait accompli seemed to work; she allowed him to lead her to the Charger. A crowd had formed on the curb, watching with the hidden hostility of those who know nothing of the matter watching an arrest. They climbed in; he straightened the wheels and pulled away from the curb, turning into Mission, heading back toward the Hall of Justice, his speed reduced as if in apology for his previous mad dash. The girl clasped her purse tightly, her face expressionless.

“All right,” she said. “What is it?”

“You reported a Missing Person.” Reardon kept his voice quiet. “I want you to look at somebody.”

She stared at him disdainfully. “Are you trying to tell me that Bob was picked up for something? That he’s in jail? That’s utterly ridiculous. He’s the last man in the world to get into trouble. If you’re holding him for anything, you’re making a mistake.” The continued lack of expression on Reardon’s face seemed to finally break through her veneer, to cause her some concern. Her voice lost some of its contempt. “Well, tell me! What is he supposed to have done?”

“You’ll see.”

Her disdain returned. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Reardon lapsed into silence, concentrating on his driving. He had turned down Sixth; he reached Harrison, waited for the light, and then turned into it, pulling to the left to swing into the public parking lot behind the Hall of Justice. He drove past the automatic ticket window without taking a ticket, and pulled around, parking for easy exit as was his habit. And if I get a ticket, he thought to himself with an inner smile, I can always tell the judge I’m working in Traffic tonight. He glanced over at the girl and his inner smile vanished. She was sitting forward, as if leaning back in comfort might constitute some sort of betrayal to Bob in his trouble.

Reardon turned off the ignition. For a moment they sat quietly, the two of them, a tableau, while her eyes climbed the smooth walls of the building to dwell on the fifth floor, where a row of lights demonstrated that the city jail was in business twenty-four hours a day whether the other offices were or not. Reardon broke the spell; he opened the door and climbed out. They walked side by side across the parking lot and through the narrow gap facing the covered arcade that led to the rear entrance to the Hall. Suddenly she held back, her eyes staring upward. Her voice was suddenly doubtful.

“Where is Bob? In one of those cells?”

Reardon took her arm but she still held back.

“Has he called a lawyer? He — he doesn’t know any here, you know.”

“He’s not in a cell. And he doesn’t need a lawyer.” He led her along the arcade and then stopped. Her forward progress was halted unevenly; she stumbled and then looked at him in surprise. Her eyes studied his face and then passed it to look at the door to their side. On it were the simple words, “Coroner’s Office.”

The girl’s face blanched; her fists locked themselves convulsively about her beaded bag. Her large eyes came to his face, asking him, begging him, and then hating him for his subterfuge.

“You didn’t say...”

“I want you to look at a man.” He still held her arm, but softly now, protectively. His gray eyes were warm with sympathy. “How do you feel? Do you think you can do it?”

She faced him, pulling her arm away. The blood had left her face, making her appear more Oriental than ever. “You mean a dead man, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Is it — you think it’s Bob Cooke, don’t you?”

“We think so.”

She closed her eyes a moment, swayed, and then recovered before he could steady her. Her eyes opened. “Is he—”

Reardon understood her instinctively. “He isn’t bad to look at.”

“All right.”

He led her into the anteroom. There was a warm rug on the floor and colorful prints on the cream-colored walls, but the sharp odor of formaldehyde destroyed the image. A door instantly opened; an attendant, warned by some inner signal, stood there.

“Lieutenant?”

“We’ll be right with you.”

The door closed behind the white-coated man; the girl looked after him with growing awareness and then abruptly looked around the room. She found a chair and stumbled to it, sinking into it, trembling.

“I think I’m going to faint or get sick,” she said in a little-girl voice.

“I’ll get you some water.” The room boasted a fountain, neatly pastel in color as if to compensate for its location, flanked by a container of paper cups. He filled one and brought it to her. “Drink this.”

She took the paper cup and brought it to her lips, and then retracted it without tasting it. For several moments she stared at the brightly carpeted floor, holding the water as if she didn’t know she had it. Finally she found the strength to question, speaking to the rug.

“You’re not 100 per cent sure, are you?”

“We’re pretty sure from your description. Can you do it?”

“What happened to him?”

“An automobile accident. Over on Indiana and Eighteenth. He was hit and killed. Instantly,” he added. Somehow that word “instantly” seemed to make people feel better, as if it held out the hope of painlessness. “Can you look at him?”

She placed the water to one side and came to her feet.

“Yes,” she said simply, and her eyes came up. “If we do it now and we do it quickly.”

He took her arm again, leading her to a set of swinging doors, opening them, guiding her through. They faced a corridor; he pushed through the first set of double doors to the right. There was an antiseptic whiteness to the tiled walls and floor, as if antisepsis could lessen in the slightest the effect of unabated horror to those unacquainted with the morgue. The glare of fluorescent lights added to the garishness; the odor of formaldehyde here was almost overwhelming, almost as if sprayed in the air to hide other, and more frightful, odors. The attendant rose hastily from a desk as they came through the door, tucking a fountain pen into his white jacket pocket.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“There was an Unknown from an automobile accident on Eighteenth and Indiana. Few hours ago.”

“Yes, sir. That would be D-4.”

The attendant glanced at the girl with the touch of sympathy he automatically reserved for those unfortunate enough to have to come here, but with a bit of curiosity as to her conduct and reaction, as well. He had seen thousands and could not help comparing. He moved to a solid wall of stainless steel drawers; they looked like the file cabinet of some giant. He found D-4 and drew it out, proud of the numbering system he had helped to devise, and prouder yet that the metal box rolled silently, with none of the tortured screeching of metal upon metal that seemed to set relatives’ nerves on edge. He drew back the unbleached sheet covering the form.

The girl forced herself to look down. She bit her lip in a daze.

Reardon touched her arm. “Well?”

“It’s — it’s Bob.”

The drawer was held open one extra second for her verification and then was slid shut on its expertly oiled runners. The attendant had no desire, nor cause, to be needlessly cruel. She stared after the drawer as if still unable to believe what she had just seen. Her eyes, wide and lovely, came up to Reardon’s face.

“What happened to him?”

“I told you.” But she hadn’t listened. How could she possibly have listened? None of those left living ever listened the first time, and often not the second. He made his voice unemotional, reportorial. “There was an automobile accident. Your friend stepped off a curb on a dark street wearing dark clothes, and the driver — a man named Ralph Crocker — didn’t see him. It was one of those things. Either your friend wasn’t looking, or his mind was on something else.” Like a date with you, he couldn’t help thinking.

He was leading her from the room as he spoke. The attendant suddenly appeared in front of them, holding them. His pen had popped into his hand as if by magic, as if he were an autograph seeker, “Lieutenant—” He tilted his head toward the stainless-steel wall behind him. “Is he identified?”

“Cooke. Robert. That’s with a final ‘E.’”

The attendant nodded, satisfied. Reardon took the girl’s arm and led her from the building. She came quietly, submissive, dazed, as if unaware that she was being led or directed. He walked her down the open arcade in the warm breeze of the night, pushing the door to the Hall open so she could enter, holding the rope high so she could go beneath. They rose in the elevator silently to the fourth floor and walked quietly down the corridor to his office. She moved as if sleepwalking. Reardon flicked on his office light for the third time that night, seated her in the chair beside his desk, and dropped wearily into his accustomed chair. There was a large manila envelope there with Wilkins’ name penciled in one corner. He pushed it aside to be considered in the morning — if ever — picked up his pencil, edged his pad closer, and looked at her sympathetically.

“Tell me about Bob Cooke.”

She looked about the small office numbly, accepting the nude calendar, the otherwise barren walls, the lovely view of the city from the window that somehow seemed out of place. There should be no beauty in a place like this, she seemed to silently say. Her eyes finally came back to Reardon. Behind them her tears were checked with effort.

“He’s dead.”

“Yes, he’s dead.” Reardon’s voice was even.

“I can’t believe it. He was the most alive person I ever knew.”

“He’s still dead. Tell me about him.”

For a moment she looked as if she were about to flare, but then she relaxed. She sighed, recognizing the necessity of official action at this point.

“There isn’t anything to tell. I can’t believe it. He’s dead. We had a date and he had to work later than I did. We both work on the S.S. Mandarin — it’s a passenger cruise ship between here and the Orient—”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“—although it carried cargo too, of course.” She might not have heard him. “He’s — I mean, he was — one of the deck officers. Actually, he reported to the purser’s office; he handled the paperwork for hold-luggage, and any of the cargo that was in the forward holds. He—” She seemed to realize she was wandering in her statement, and allowed her voice to die away.

“And you’re a stewardess on the same ship.”

He expected some surprise on her part at this unexpected foreknowledge of his, but instead he got a touch of indignation. It almost seemed for a moment that he had insulted her. At least, he thought, it took her mind from her tragedy, if only temporarily.

“I run the ship’s shop. We sell anything passengers might want on the trip — shaving equipment, post cards, film, and T-shirts, swimming things, sun lotion—” She seemed to realize she could go on forever and finished rather weakly. “—paperback books...” She fingered her purse as she added information. “We — that is the shop — are closed in port. It’s the law. So I’m free to leave the ship as soon as we dock, together with the passengers. But Bob—” She shrugged. “Well, there are papers and documents to fill out, and that’s after the holds are clear of cargo, of course, so he couldn’t get away as soon...”

Her voice dropped and then came back, strengthened. She refused to succumb to her loss. Reardon listened quietly, the pencil unmoving in his fingers.

“We were supposed to meet for a drink at the bar on top of the Fairmont, and then we were going to the Little Tokyo for dinner—” Reardon’s eyebrows raised slightly; under completely different circumstances they might have seen each other there, and he and Jan would have had a conversation piece instead of a fight. “I knew Bob might be a few minutes late, because he often is. It’s hard to tell exactly when he’ll be free. But when he didn’t show up by nine o’clock I called the ship. They put a telephone line on board as soon as the ship docks. They told me he’d left at least an hour before. That’s when I got worried, because it isn’t — wasn’t — like Bob. So I guess I got panicky and started calling hospitals, and then I thought of the Missing Persons Bureau...”

She suddenly started to cry but before Reardon could think of anything comforting to say she forcibly brought herself under control.

“I don’t cry,” she said. She sounded almost angry that she didn’t.

“Neither do I,” Reardon said. “Sometimes I think it might be a loss.”

Her eyes looked at him. “I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Jim Reardon. James Reardon. I’m a lieutenant of police.”

“What did you mean, downstairs, when you said to the man he was the Unknown you picked up?”

“When he was picked up he had no identification. No wallet.”

“You mean he was robbed?”

Reardon shook his head. “No. I just mean he had no identification. No wallet or cards. Nothing with his name on it.” He put the pencil he had been holding aside. “He had money on him in a money clip and a handkerchief and loose change and some keys, but nothing with his name.” A possibility occurred to him and he looked at her. “Did Bob Cooke live on the ship?”

“He did in San Francisco. And other ports, too, of course. Or sometimes—” She straightened in the chair a bit defiantly, daring him to make something out of it. “Sometimes when we were in port here he stayed with me at my place. My apartment. He had a small two-room house in Hawaii; it was where he was from. Sometimes I’d stay on the ship there, but sometimes I’d stay with him.”

Reardon felt an urge to ask if she had loved him and if so, how much. Jan came to mind, warm as she had been in bed that afternoon, smart as he knew she was smart, and — sadly — hurt as he knew she was hurt at the moment.

“How long are you in port here in San Francisco?”

“Four days.” The conversation on innocuous subjects seemed to have relaxed her; her hands didn’t move over her bag as much, as if seeking a solution to her problem in picking at the tiny pearl beads. “We do our main reprovisioning here, although we pick up fresh food in almost every port. We usually spend three days in Hawaii.” She considered, her mind fending off the thought of the death and her loss. “In the East it depends. Sometimes we make Hong Kong, sometimes not. Or Manila. We always make Japan, though. The cruises vary; they aren’t always the same.”

Reardon nodded and reluctantly brought the subject back to the dead man.

“Did Bob Cooke have any family?”

“No,” she said. “Or if he did he never mentioned them. We... we weren’t planning on marriage or anything like that.” Her defiance had returned. “We were just good friends.”

She sounded sincere. And before you start any sniggering inwardly, Jim, boy, he advised himself evenly, remember it’s the same deal you and Jan have. Or had, until the little argument tonight. He brought his mind back to business.

“Who was his immediate superior aboard the ship?”

“The chief purser. His name is Thompson. He’ll know what to do. About the body, that is...” She bit her lip again and tears formed in her eyes. She reached into her small bag for a handkerchief and wiped them away angrily, hardening her jaw. “He’ll know what to do...”

Reardon picked up his pencil and marked the name down. “Do you know the telephone number?”

She shook her head. “I don’t remember, but Information can give it to you.” She waited a moment in the silence. “Is there anything else?”

Reardon sighed. “I don’t believe so. Not now, at any rate.” He looked down at his notes. Among the squiggles and the little squares, neatly crosshatched, was the name S.S. Mandarin and the name Thompson, but that was all. He came to his feet. “I’ll drive you home. Will you be all right there alone tonight?”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Do you have any sleeping pills at home? Or tranquilizers?”

“No. I’ve never needed them.”

“How about liquor?”

“There’s plenty of that.”

“Then take enough to make you sleep. Let’s go. You live out past me a few blocks. I’ll take you there.”

She looked surprised. “How do you know?”

“It was on the Missing Person’s report. Also your name.” He moved to the door. “Is it Penny, or short for Penelope?”

“It’s Penny. Bob used to call me his Bad Penny, because he said he hoped I’ll always show up. Only tonight he was the one who didn’t.” She swallowed convulsively and looked around the office as if wondering what she was doing there. “What will they do to this man Rolf?”

“Rolf is his first name — or rather, Ralph. His last name is Crocker. What will they do to him? I don’t know. It depends on the judge. Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said expressionlessly. “I was just wondering. You know—” Her dark eyes came up to his face. “—I still can’t believe it. I feel as if some imposter was down there in that drawer, all made up to look like Bob. I don’t feel Bob is dead.” She looked slightly apologetic at her own statement. “I don’t feel anything.”

Reardon sighed. “Of course you don’t, not now,” he said quietly. “But you will,” and opened the door.

Chapter 6

Wednesday — 9:10 A.M.

Lieutenant Reardon hung up his jacket, dropped into the chair behind his desk, and rubbed the back of his neck to relieve the pressure that began each day for him. He studied the pile of papers in his In-basket and disregarded them, reaching instead for the large manila envelope Wilkins had left for him the night before, opening it and sliding out the contents.

There were seven eight-by-ten photographs, glossy for easy reproduction; these he put aside for the time being. There was the standard Accident and Evidence Diagram, Form 12-3, showing a street intersection; across it Wilkins had hand-printed: Not Applicable. There was the standard Accident and Evidence Diagram Form 12-2, and on this Wilkins had neatly drawn the street, the location of the car and the body, all properly dimensioned in relationship to each other as well as to the telephone pole and the two street corners of Eighteenth and Nineteenth streets at each end of Indiana. Even the width of Indiana had been noted. The form requested information on Accident Facts, Statements, and Stopping Test; Wilkins had succinctly typed after each one, “See Attached Report.” Form 12-2 never had provided Sergeant Wilkins with enough space to do a proper job.

Reardon laid this form aside with the photos and turned to the main report, San Francisco Police Department Vehicle Accident Report. He could understand Wilkins’ complaint: it was a solid mass of tiny squares and rectangles asking thousands of questions. With a sigh Reardon slumped in his chair, prepared to suffer through it.

The time of the accident was noted, as well as the location and references to Form 12-2. The name of the driver was given and all the facts as Reardon already knew them. The Buick, he was not surprised to find, was a 1940 model; a real old-timer. It was in the Police Garage in the basement of the Hall of Justice, delivered there by Sergeant Lundahl. The questions of estimated speed at impact, distance traveled after impact, prima-facie speed, were handled in Wilkins’ usual fashion; “See Attached Report. Reardon turned the sheet over. The type of road and the surface condition were checked, but that was about all, despite the fact that the back of the report provided space for the answers to at least two hundred questions. Reardon smiled faintly, picturing Wilkins facing this form ten times a day, and turned to the highly advertised report. As usual, Wilkins had started with the thing he considered most important: the victim:

The victim was a Caucasian male with no personal identification. No conclusion should be drawn from this as all labels in his clothing were intact, which together with his fingerprints and an extremely discernible scar on his upper lip will make him easily identified. Medical Examiner will furnish full data on body tomorrow. (9/16)

Victim was dressed in dark gray sports jacket, dark blue trousers, blue button-down shirt with dark blue necktie, black shoes, black socks. Clothing labels: jacket from Tuan Kyung in Hong Kong, trousers no I.D. or cleaner’s label; shirt and tie from Walker’s Men’s Store, S.F., shoes Florsheim with stamp from Cadwallers in Honolulu. No I.D. on other articles.

Attached contents of pockets in separate list.

Clothing suggests victim recent traveler or worked on one of the ships and was off duty. Lack of wallet suggests it was left on board, as would location of the accident only a few blocks from the Central Basin docks.

Victim was struck by a 1940 Buick sedan, color black, license Cal. X40J36. Driver information on Vehicle Accident Report. No previous arrests. Automobile suffered no visible damage (see photographs) but further report will be submitted after technical squad examines car tomorrow. (9/16)

In the opinion of this officer it would be extremely difficult with a driver with normal vision in the light available at the accident site (see lumin measurements on Form 12-2 taken at site as well as twenty-foot intervals along Indiana) to have seen the victim, dressed as he was in dark clothing, at a distance of more than twenty feet. The skid marks are consistent with sudden application of brakes approximately eighteen feet from point of impact for a car of that weight traveling at a speed of twenty-to-twenty-two miles per hour. This is under the speed restriction for this street.

The body was thrown a distance of twelve feet eight inches, measuring at the waistline, stopped partially by striking the curb. The brakes were tested on the surface of Indiana prior to removing the car to the Police Garage and found to be in normal working order. Duplicate skid marks were obtained. (See photographs.)

The lights of the Buick were found to pull slightly to the left but not excessively. Lights were on normal, not high beam. This is required on this street. Driver has no sight restriction on his license and claims to be ready to take the eye test again if required. Horn is in working order, but driver claims he had no time to use it.

In the opinion of the APB Squad, everything is consistent with the theory of accidental death caused by the carelessness of the victim in stepping from the curb in the path of the Buick without proper precautions.

Signed: Frank A. Wilkins, Sergeant.

Reardon flipped the last page over, looking at the list of the contents-of-pocket. Beyond what Wilkins had mentioned the night before, there had been a second handkerchief in the jacket, a pen and pencil set with a comb and nail file, and a folded twenty-dollar bill in the trouser watch pocket. Which makes more sense, Reardon thought. Twenty-eight dollars for the bar on the Fairmont roof, plus the Little Tokyo would have been a little tight. He tossed the report down to study the photographs.

The first must have been taken as he was driving away; Reardon could see the back of the Charger and a general view of the scene. Wilkins had marked, in white ink, the dimensions already noted on Form 12-2. The next two photographs were of the body taken from different angles; the handkerchief had been removed and in both the face stared up gravely, patiently, into the lens. The fourth showed the front of the car, head lamps intact, bumper slightly dented, no other visible damage. In the fifth the car had been removed and the skid marks were detailed, with Lundahl squatting at one end and Wilkins at the other; a steel tape between them indicated the length. Wilkins was looking down, one hand holding the tape, the other supporting himself on the pavement. Lundahl was staring at the camera with a smile at being drafted into a Traffic case; his free hand was holding his jacket back from a smear of oil on the pavement. The sixth photograph showed similar skid marks taken from a different angle on a different section of the street. The final shot was a close-up of the actual front end of the true skid mark, enlarged to show Lundahl’s hand holding the tape and the eighteen-foot point of the tape held to the end of the mark.

Reardon held the photographs a moment and then shuffled them together, sliding them back into the envelope together with the forms and the typed report. He tossed it aside. An accident, rough on the girl, and — of course — even rougher on young Robert Cooke of Hawaii, with a lot to live for, including a girl friend that was one in a million. Reardon sighed and shook his head, unhappy about something in the report without knowing what it was. He thought of going over it again and then decided he’d had enough of Traffic as it was.

Dondero walked into the room, delicately balancing two plastic containers of coffee. “Black with plenty of sugar,” he said and set one down in front of Reardon. He grinned in friendly fashion. “Although you don’t deserve it after last night.”

“Sorry about that,” Reardon said, making no attempt to sound sorry. Something was itching at his mind and he had no idea what it was. He picked up his coffee, sipped it, made a face, and looked at Dondero curiously. “Why don’t they put coffee in this stuff?”

“Ruins the hot water,” Dondero explained cheerfully and returned to the subject of the previous evening, sounding confident. “Don’t look so down in the dumps. Don’t worry about Jan. She’ll snap out of it.”

Reardon frowned. “That’s only part of the trouble.”

“What’s the rest?”

The stocky red-haired lieutenant picked up the manila envelope containing Wilkins report, tossing it across the desk. “That’s the rest.”

Dondero set his coffee down, dragged a chair up, and straddled it, picking up the report. He withdrew the contents, looked at it a moment and then frowned at Reardon.

“What’s this got to do with you? It’s Traffic.”

“Read it.”

Dondero shrugged and obeyed. Reardon waited patiently, sipping his coffee while the sergeant studied the pictures. When he was through he put them back on the desk and looked at Reardon questioningly.

“So?”

“So I don’t like it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Reardon shook his head. “But I still don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Dondero pointed out. “It’s not your job. Unless you think it wasn’t really an accident, and I don’t buy that. I worked in Traffic two years, and Wilkins doesn’t make many mistakes. He’s good, and you know it, Jim.”

“I know.”

Dondero thought a moment, trying to see some logic in the other’s position, some excuse for his attitude.

“What’s this guy Crocker like? A sharpie? Smoothie? Wise guy? Type of character who rubs you the wrong way?”

Reardon shook his head. He swiveled his chair, staring somberly out of the window. It was a beautiful sunny day, exceptional considering the weather department had been threatening rain and fog for a week. He swung back, shaking his head again.

“No. Actually, he’s a sad sack. He looks more like the kind of guy who steps off curbs without looking than the guy who actually did.” He smiled without humor. “Maybe that’s why I’m not happy. Wrong victim.” His humorless smile disappeared. “You know, I don’t like automobile accidents.”

“Who likes them?”

“What I mean is that an automobile is a weapon, a legal weapon, and I’ve often wondered how many people who get killed by cars are actually murdered. It’s a difficult thing to prove. But the fact remains that a speeding car is a dangerous weapon.”

“Hell, Jimmy,” Dondero said, his tone requesting reason, “a piano’s a dangerous weapon if it slips when you’re dragging it upstairs. So is a safe if a cable busts when they’re hauling it up three stories. But this—” He tapped the envelope. “This looks as clean as they come.”

“Too clean, maybe? Is that why I don’t like it?”

“When I was in Traffic no accident was ever too clean for me,” Dondero said decisively and came to his feet. He dropped his unfinished coffee into the wastebasket and dusted his fingers as if he had soiled them on the container. “I think you’re just sore about last night in general. Has Captain Tower had you on the carpet yet?”

“I saw him last night.”

“And?”

Reardon shrugged. “I’ve been chewed out worse. He told me to forget it.”

“So forget it,” Dondero said, and walked to the door. He grinned. “And I don’t blame you for not thanking me for the coffee. It was pretty sad.” He winked and walked out.

Reardon drummed his strong fingertips on his desktop impatiently. What the devil had gotten under his skin? It didn’t have to have come from the report, because he had been far from convinced before that it had been an accident. And, after reading the report he was still far from sure. Why? He frowned at the calendar on the wall, thinking, and then made up his mind. He dragged the telephone over, dialed an extension, and waited while the instrument at the other end rang several times and was finally answered.

“Medical Examiner’s office.”

“Hello? This is Lieutenant Reardon in Homicide. Who am I speaking to, please?”

“This is Dr. Stevens, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”

Reardon hesitated a moment and then plunged in. “You have a body in D-4, a Robert Cooke, supposedly an accident victim. Have you seen him yet? Examined him?”

“We looked at him the first thing this morning, Lieutenant. Why?”

“How does it look?”

Dr. Stevens’ voice was a bit puzzled. “It looks like a man hit and killed by an automobile. What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?”

Reardon shook his head stubbornly at the telephone, almost as if the other could see him. “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. There wasn’t anything queer about it?”

“Not a thing. We even talked to the garage. They hadn’t started on the car yet, but they described it to us. Do you have an idea there’s something fishy about it? Because I’d stake my reputation he was hit by that Buick and killed. The bumper caught him thigh-high and flung him. It broke his thigh bone and snapped his neck. I’ve seen a hundred the same way.”

Reardon thought a moment. “He still had his shoes on...”

“They don’t always lose their shoes, Lieutenant. Believe me.”

“Just one more thing, Doctor. Are you planning on doing an autopsy on him?”

There was a moment’s silence on the part of the other. When at last the doctor spoke his voice had become cooler.

“We are not. We have plenty of work without inventing any. If you have any reason for demanding an autopsy, you’ll have to present it through channels. All right, Lieutenant?”

“I suppose so,” Reardon said, and sighed. “Thanks, Doctor.”

He hung up, starting to drum his fingers on the desk again. Captain Tower would never agree to an autopsy, and even if he did, what could it possibly prove? From Penny’s story Cooke certainly didn’t sound drunk or doped, and even if he were, as Wilkins had pointed out, it made the argument for accident that much stronger. Still, a deck officer on a liner was usually a fairly alert character, if he wanted to stay alive, and it didn’t sound like a sober alert character would step off a curb without looking. Except, of course, all the evidence pointed to the fact that he did. And he hadn’t been alert one time on deck when whatever caught him in the mouth did a real job on his upper lip. So just why am I so bugged about this one? Reardon asked himself, and once again made up his mind. He dragged the phone over, dialing once again.

“Hello?”

“Garage here.” There was the sound of an engine racing in the background, the cheerful voice was raised above it. “Morrison speaking.”

“Morrison? This is Lieutenant Reardon. Have the technical boys started checking out that that 1940 Buick that was in that accident last night?”

“They’re just getting started now, Lieutenant. You’ll have the report before police court this afternoon, don’t worry.”

“Well, I am worried. Tell them to forget it for the time being.”

Morrison was mystified. “You mean they ain’t going to check her out, Lieutenant?”

“They’ll check her out, all right, but not today. That’s what I mean. Do you understand? They can check it tomorrow. Is that clear?”

“Well, sure, Lieutenant,” Morrison said in a voice that demonstrated that it wasn’t clear at all. “I’ll tell them right away. But—”

“That’s all,” Reardon said flatly. “Tomorrow. And no buts.”

He hung up and dialed a third number, happy to have a program to follow that satisfied him or at least kept him busy enough to ease some of the pressures of doubt he had regarding the case. “Hello?”

“Prosecutor’s office.”

“Let me talk to Merkel, will you? This is Lieutenant Reardon.” He waited, a faint smile on his lips. “Merkel? Jim Reardon here. You have a case coming up this afternoon in Municipal Court. An accident last night, a man killed. The victim was a Robert Cooke, downstairs in the morgue right now. Your man is a Ralph Crocker—”

“I know.” Merkel shrugged. “There isn’t much to it, though, that I can see. I have a copy of Wilkins’ report and it seems pretty cut and dried to me. We can’t ask for anything, not even a thirty-day suspension of his license. Not on the basis of that report.”

“Well,” Reardon said slowly, trailing the telephone cord through his fingers as he stared at the copy of the report on his desk, “there’s a little problem. We really should wait for the technical boys to finish going over the car before we release the man — certainly before we release the car. And it seems that the technical boys can’t get to it this morning. So I’d suggest a continuance of the case. Say, for just two or three days — until Friday. Day after tomorrow. How about it? Do you think you could talk the court into it?”

“Jim,” Merkel said suspiciously, “what do you think you know that I don’t know? Or that wasn’t in Frank Wilkins’ report? Other than the identification, of course?”

“Not a thing,” Reardon said honestly. “That’s the unfortunate truth. It’s just that I’d like to hold the car a few more days until the technical boys go over it. What the hell!” he said with a touch of irritation, “the man’ll still be free on his own cognizance. So let him rent a car for a few days and be damned happy it isn’t any worse!”

“His lawyer isn’t going to stand for a postponement. He has a right to see Wilkins’ report.”

“But what can he do if we haven’t been able to get to the car yet? For good and sufficient reasons?”

“Lump it, I guess,” Merkel said. “Or scream to the newspapers.”

“Yeah. I know.” Reardon pictured Captain Tower faced with a host of unfriendly reporters, and instantly shut the picture from his mind. “Look, I’m asking you as a favor. Let’s hope Crocker’s lawyer is a reasonable guy.”

Merkel sighed. “All right, Jim. I imagine you’ve got some reason for holding the boys off the car, because I know they started on it ten minutes ago. I phoned to find out when I’d get the report.”

“A lot can happen in ten minutes,” Reardon said. “In this case they all had to go to the bathroom.”

“I figured that’s where they were,” Merkel said dryly. “Are you planning on being in court this afternoon?”

“Is it necessary?”

“No. I’m sure the judge will give me a continuance until Friday, but I’d say that would be about the limit.”

“Well,” Reardon said judiciously, as if he had given the matter considerable thought, “I would imagine the boys ought to be out of the bathroom by then.”

“They’d better be,” Merkel said and hung up.

One more call, Reardon thought, and we ought to be on our way. Where to and why, were questions he preferred not to ask himself, because he didn’t know the answers, but he did know his next call would be pleasurable no matter what the result. He dialed the number he had gotten from Missing Persons and waited with less than his usual patience. Penny’s low voice finally answered.

“Hello?”

“Miss Wilkinson? Penny? This is Lieutenant Reardon. How are you this morning?”

“I hurt,” she said simply. “I feel numb and I still hurt. That doesn’t make any sense, does it? And I feel empty.”

“Well,” Reardon said, trying not to sound too light, “we can do something about the emptiness, because I was calling to ask if you’d have lunch with me today.”

“I really don’t think—”

“You see,” Reardon hurried on, “I’d like to bring you down to headquarters this afternoon to take a look at this man Crocker. And tell me if you’ve ever seen him before. With Bob Cooke, for example, or on the ship. Or anywhere else.”

“Crocker?”

“The driver of the car that killed your friend.”

“Bob never mentioned his name, I’m sure of that. And I’ve never heard of him. But if you want me to come down—”

“I’ll pick you up. We’ll have lunch at Freddy’s and then come back here. All right?”

“I suppose it’s all right.” She still sounded half-dazed.

“Fine,” Reardon said heartily. “Then I’ll see you about twelve-fifteen to twelve-thirty.” He tried to think of a proper way to end the conversation. “Take it easy.”

Even as he hung up he recognized it was a pretty sad phrase, but it had been the best he could come up with.

Chapter 7

Wednesday — 12:10 P.M.

Penny Wilkinson lived in a first-floor apartment on Gough near Greenwich; to Reardon the gaily painted three-story house looked far less sinister than it had at midnight the night before when he sat in his car and waited until she had mounted the fifteen steps, used her key, and firmly closed the door behind her. Then, as he drove off, the black gaunt height of the building seemed almost threatening. Now, in the bright noon sunshine, it looked quite Victorian and rococo, but both safe and homey.

He parked the Charger, angling the wheels to hold the car against the incline, and walked up the steps to the front door. The ornate door held an old-fashioned knocker, but Reardon correctly assumed it was purely ornamental, and rang the bell next to the Wilkinson name. From the railinged porch the hill dropped down toward the walls of Fort Mason like the first drop on a roller coaster. He rang the bell again, enjoying the refreshing breeze from the bay; the buzzer sounded and he pushed his way into the cool dimness of a high-ceilinged hallway leading to a long flight of steps. To one side a door stood open with Penny standing beside it. She was wearing a floor-length house coat, quilted, buttoned to the throat.

“Come in, Lieutenant. I’ll just be a minute.”

Reardon followed her into the apartment, shutting the door behind him. “You sound a lot better than you did a while ago.”

She shrugged. “I suppose you have to learn to live with things, with facts. There isn’t much you can do about it.” For the first time since he had met her he saw her smile. It was faint, and more brave than humorous, but it was a smile. “And, too, I had a strong drink since I spoke to you this morning. I don’t usually drink during the day, but I needed it.” She moved toward her bedroom. “The liquor’s in the living room on a card table. Help yourself. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Thanks, I will.”

He watched her straight back disappear down a hallway; her long hair gleamed dimly in the shadows. He turned and walked through the dining room to the living room which faced the street, pleased with the light decor, the bright Hawaiian prints on the wall intermixed with Japanese sketches, the general look of lived-in comfort of the room. The card table was apparently never used for anything except a bar; an ice bucket, glasses, and bottles covered it fairly completely. He raised his voice.

“How about a James Reardon martini? Will you join me?”

Her voice was faint, but matter-of-fact. “We don’t have vermouth.”

“Even better. A properly dry martini for a change.” He reached for the bottle of gin and then almost dropped it, jumping a foot as he was painfully stabbed in the back and shoulder ten times all at once. “Yow! Damn! What in the hell—!”

He swung about violently. The all-black cat that had jumped to his shoulder from the fireplace mantel leaped easily and lightly to the floor and then came up and rubbed an arched back affectionately against his trouser leg just to prove he held no malice for Reardon having proven so unstable a steppingstone to the carpet. Reardon rubbed the painful spots on his shoulder and as much of his damaged back as he could reach. He looked down at the cat. The wide green eyes looked back calmly; the cat purred and rubbed his leg once more.

Penny walked into the room, buttoning the cuff of a blouse. It had a ruffled front and was buttoned to the throat, but it did nothing to disguise her beautiful bust; if anything it somehow seemed to emphasize it. She looked down and smiled for the second time, this time a happier smile.

“I see you’ve met Smokey.”

“I’ll say I met him!” Reardon rubbed his shoulder and then stopped like a good little soldier.

“Did he jump on you?” She bent over the cat, her voice stern. “Smokey, bad cat! Bad cat!” Smokey rolled over on his back, begging to be scratched; Penny straightened up, smiling helplessly. “He only jumps on people he likes. Would you like some Merthiolate on those scratches?”

“No; I’ll bleed bravely.” Reardon grinned. “If he does that to friends, what’s his treatment for enemies?”

“Rough,” Penny said simply. She studied him curiously. “Don’t you like cats?”

“I like them fine when they don’t attack me. Police school taught us how to defend ourselves against everything except jumping cats.” He smiled and returned to the card table. He poured gin over ice in two manhattan glasses and handed one to the girl. He looked down at the cat who stared back with unabashed affection. “Smokey, eh? You look darker than that. Where did you get that name?”

Penny answered for the cat, explaining. “Smokey belongs to the neighbor upstairs. With my job on the boat, and gone 90 per cent of the time—” She shrugged in explanation and sat on the arm of the couch, sipping her drink. “But when I’m home, this is where Smokey spends most of his time. His name? When he was born he looked just like Smokey the Bear. Or at least that’s what I’m told by my neighbor.”

“Well, she ought to change his name to Leo, now,” Reardon suggested. He walked over and dropped into an easy chair, setting his drink down on a small end table. “Come here, Smokey.”

The cat looked at Penny a moment as if requesting permission, and then jumped gracefully and obediently into his lap, stretching its body against Reardon’s chest, reaching up with one paw as if to stroke the lieutenant’s face, watching his eyes for his reaction. Reardon grinned. “Hey, these things are practically human. Are you sure this one isn’t a female?”

Penny smiled again. “Positive. There are ways to tell, you know.”

“I imagined.” He looked down at the cat. “He has beautiful eyes.”

They were. They stared up at Reardon somberly, promising undying love under all conditions and circumstances; green pools of adoration, offering sacrifice or even obedience — the greatest of all sacrifices. For some reason Reardon suddenly frowned.

“His eyes make me think of something.”

The girl looked at him as somberly as the cat, but promising nothing. “Or somebody.”

“I can’t imagine who.”

“Your girl.”

“No.” Reardon looked at her straightforwardly. “Jan’s eyes are hazel.”

“And mine are brown.”

“Deep brown, almost black. They are indeed.”

There was a moment’s silence and then Penny smiled faintly. “So it has to be someone other than your Jan or me. Or you, because yours are gray. Who?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged the thought away, somehow irritated that the light tone of their discourse was being breached by some inner problem he could not analyze. He decided not to waste time on it. “Smokey, my friend, I’m afraid you’re going to have to find another bed.” He lifted the cat gently, setting him on the floor, and came to his feet, glancing at his watch. “Would you like to go?”

“Whenever you say.” She put aside her unfinished drink.

“Drink up.”

“It’s not important that I finish. I’m really not that much of a drinker.” She saw his eyes go to the crowded card table. “Oh. That was Bob. He didn’t drink much, either, but he liked to have liquor on hand, in case anyone dropped in. And it’s so cheap on the boats.” She took in her breath, staring at the carpet, her face a mask, and then looked up with a sigh. “What a terrible waste of a person!”

Reardon merely nodded. He couldn’t think of anything else to do or say, but the policeman in him heard her words and automatically tried to fit them into the pattern. Could Bob Cooke have taken one drink too many before leaving the ship that night? A few quick ones to celebrate being in port with all assignments completed and a wonderful date in store? And supposing he did? Then, even less reason for putting the technical gang off the Buick until tomorrow and getting Merkel to ask for a continuance. And making Crocker rent a car, because if he couldn’t afford taxis he wasn’t going to find renting cars very cheap. The poor schnook looked like he could use every nickel. Who rode 1940 Buicks unless they couldn’t afford something more modern, or unless they were so loaded they did it for kicks? And the ones who were loaded and did it for kicks certainly didn’t live at the Martinique Apartments, unless they also had a thing for roaches. He sighed, amazed at his own confusion. So next time don’t get involved in the problems of Traffic, he thought. Sometimes they can be more deadly than Homicide. The thought made him smile.

“Let’s go, Penny. I think I’m getting hungry.”

“All right,” she said obediently.

She led the way to the hall, locking her door behind her with a key, and walked down the steep steps at Reardon’s side, not quite avoiding the offer of his hand on her arm, but not requesting it either. Quite a girl, he thought approvingly, and smiled down at her. She answered his smile with a sudden seriousness.

“You could have picked me up after lunch to go the Municipal Court,” she said, looking at him. “Or I could have taken a cab. I’m afraid I’m not going to be very good company at lunch.” She was very nearly his height, he realized; Jan had been right. But then, Jan had to bend her neck to look up at him.

“You’re fine. And you’ll continue to be fine.”

She paused. “If you say so.”

“I say so.” He held the car door open for her, closed it behind her once she was seated, and walked around the back, climbing in at his side and fitting the key into the ignition. It suddenly occurred to him that it had been a long time since he had shown Jan the courtesy of opening a car door. And don’t try to defend yourself with the weak excuse that Penny had recently suffered a loss, he told himself sternly. Gallantry is gallantry, and Jan has earned it if anyone ever has.

“What?” Penny asked, looking at him.

“I must have been talking to myself,” he said, a bit red-faced, and twisted the key in the ignition.

Wednesday — 12:55 P.M.

Freddy’s was crowded as usual, but as usual Timmy Boyle — and nobody in the world looked less like a maître d’ than Timmy Boyle — lifted the velvet rope with a hand like a ham hock à la Freddy’s and led Reardon and his companion to an excellent table along the railing. He attempted to appear diffident but there was obviously something on his mind, and it was bothering him. He clutched the menus in his huge hands as if they were life jackets and the restaurant was sinking into the waters of Beach Street. The look with which he favored Penny neatly combined nervousness with an admiration impossible to conceal.

“Hi, Lieutenant. Say—”

“Hello, Timmy. Two very dry martinis, standing up. Bombay gin, lemon peel twist.”

“Just one,” Penny said, opening her menu. “I’ve had my ration of alcohol for today.”

Reardon studied her a moment and then nodded. “Just one, Timmy. Dry.”

“Sure, Lieutenant. But—”

Reardon conceded graciously. “But what?”

Timmy swallowed, searching for words. “A friend of yours—”

He tilted his head backward with the subtlety of an elephant avoiding a falling tree or a swarm of mice. My Lord! Reardon thought; if you hadn’t been able to duck left hooks any better when you were in the ring, no wonder your face looks like it does. Like ham hock à la Freddy’s, for example. He took pity on Timmy and rescued him.

“Who is it? Jan?”

Timmy was relieved that Reardon had guessed. “Yeah, Lieutenant.”

“Good,” Reardon said with satisfaction and looked at Penny with apology. “Would you pardon me for a minute?”

“Of course.”

He came to his feet, moving across the crowded restaurant floor. Jan watched him approach with expressionless eyes. Her small knuckles whitened as she gripped the stem of her martini glass more tightly, but other than this she did not betray her feelings at all. Reardon smiled down at her as if nothing had happened between them.

“Hello, Jan.”

“Hello, Lieutenant. Fancy meeting you here.” Her eyes came down; she glanced across the room to Reardon’s table companion. “I must say, you certainly work fast. Just like. New Year’s Eve — out with the old, in with the new. All in a matter of minutes.” She looked again; despite herself a slight frown crossed her face. Curiosity showed in her voice. “Isn’t that the girl we were watching on the ship?”

“It is. May I sit down?”

“No.” Jan’s hazel eyes studied his face impersonally. “What did you do to meet her? Subpoena the entire crew?”

“Not quite.” He started to pull a chair back from the table, but her hand abandoned the martini in favor of instantly pushing palm outward in negation. Her slightly lumpy little chin began to tremble faintly and then hardened with resolve.

“Pardon me if I sound inhospitable, Lieutenant, but it’s only because I happen to feel that way at the moment. I have this thing, a phobia about crowds. I’d rather sit alone right now, if you don’t mind. Besides, won’t you look a little ridiculous dashing from one table to another between courses? So if you don’t mind—”

“I happen to mind.” He sat down, leaning forward, speaking seriously. “Jan, yesterday you said something jokingly about my having competition when you were watching Penny—” He tipped his head toward his table, but barely. Timmy Boyle could have taken a lesson from it. “—that’s her — through the binoculars. What did he look like?”

Jan considered him with false sweetness.

“Jealous, already?” She shook her head chidingly. “My, my, Lieutenant! You should have more faith in your charm. It’s quite effective, you know. I speak, you realize, from considerable experience.”

Reardon paid no attention to her sardonic mood.

“Just answer me. Was he a good-looking guy about my size and weight? Maybe a little taller? In his late twenties? With dark hair and a thick, dark mustache?”

“Why? Tell me, Lieutenant, are you afraid he’ll follow you here and cause a scene?” She shook her close-cropped head in an effort to appear disdainful. “I doubt it. That whole scene-in-a-public-place is out of date. Look at me, for example. Do you notice how calmly I’m taking the whole thing?”

“Damn it, Jan! I’m serious!” His voice was low, but none the less tense. For several moments Jan stared at him as if judging his motives; then her long experience with Jim Reardon both as a man and as a police officer made her answer with equal seriousness.

“He was wearing an officer’s cap, peaked,” she said, “so I couldn’t see his hair, but the rest was right. And he had a thick mustache. Why?”

“What else can you tell me about him?”

“Nothing. They looked like they were holding hands a few moments, and then he went back inside. He was wearing a uniform, a standard officer’s uniform, blue, with brass buttons. I can’t think of anything particular, or anything else. Why?”

“Because,” Reardon said flatly, “right at this moment, while we’re all having lunch in a nice air-conditioned place like Freddy’s, he’s also in an air-conditioned place: a stainless-steel box in the morgue down at the Hall of Justice.” He made no attempt to hide or even disguise the brutality of his statement. Even his voice was unnecessarily harsh. “And after lunch I’m taking Penny down to the Municipal Court to see if she recognizes the man who killed him.”

Jan’s face whitened. She dropped all pretense of indifference or any lightness. “How terrible!”

“Yes. Especially for the girl, for Penny.” Reardon paused a moment before continuing; when he did his voice had lost its roughness, his eyes were steady on hers. “His name was Bob Cooke, the one who was killed, and, well — they had something going for themselves. Like we have.” He contemplated her evenly. “Or should I say, ‘Like we had’?”

“Have,” she said, and her hand went out to his on the table, covering it. “Have, Jimmy.”

“Good,” Reardon said quietly. He slid his hand from beneath hers, took her hand in his and turned it over, feeling warm at just touching her, admiring her stubby, talented fingers, the evenly trimmed and unpainted fingernails. He squeezed her hand gently. “And as for that assignment last night—”

“I know about that,” Jan said, and gave him her gamin grin. “You thought getting out of the meeting on any excuse would get you back to the Little Tokyo sooner. Sergeant Dondero made quite an impassioned plea for you a while ago.”

“He did, did he?”

“He did, indeed. I tried to call you but you’d already left for lunch. We’ve eaten here so often I thought you might come here, but when I saw you walk in with another woman — and a beautiful one at that—” She shrugged lightly, apologetically, but her voice was quite serious. “I’m sorry. I’m the jealous type. Do you mind?”

“I’d mind if you weren’t.” He gave her hand a final squeeze and then freed it a bit reluctantly, coming to his feet. He reached over, lifting her partially emptied martini. “Come over and eat with us and meet her. I have a feeling your type conversation is more what she needs right now than mine. With a policeman it’s difficult not to get back on the same subject, and this isn’t the time or the place for any more of it.”

“Of course,” Jan said sympathetically. She picked up her purse and obediently followed him across the room. From his vantage point at the velvet barrier to the large room, Timmy Boyle smiled in pleased fashion. Both the red-haired lieutenant and his small but cute girl friend were long-time favorites of his, and under that battered exterior, Timmy was quite a romantic.

Penny watched the other girl as Reardon carefully set the martini down and pulled a chair back for Jan. He waited until she was seated, sat down himself, and turned to Penny.

“Penny — Miss Wilkinson — this is—”

“I know. Jan.”

Jan looked surprised. “How did you know that?”

Penny smiled. “Because Lieutenant Reardon said that his girl, Jan, had hazel-colored eyes.”

“He did, did he?” Jan’s tone attempted to assume indignation, but she was obviously pleased. She picked up her glass, smiling affectionately at Reardon. “And just how did you happen to get onto the subject of the color of my eyes?”

“I was looking at a cat,” Reardon began and then laughed aloud. The expression on Jan’s face was wary, wondering what was coming next. “You see how easy it is for the innocent to get into trouble just by telling the truth?” He reached for the martini which had been delivered during his absence. “What I mean is—”

“You’d better let me tell the story, Lieutenant,” Penny said. It was evident she was trying to maintain a light approach to matters, to keep her mind from Bob Cooke. She turned to Jan. “I have a cat named Smokey who belongs to a neighbor but who practically lives with me when I’m home, and Lieutenant Reardon met Smokey today and was admiring him. He said Smokey’s eyes reminded him of something, and I suggested it might be his girl friend, and he said—”

“I said my girl Jan has hazel eyes,” Reardon said. “Satisfied?”

“Completely.”

Timmy Boyle had come to stand behind them, waiting for a break in their conversation to distribute the menus. When it came he handed one folder to each and stood back politely. Jan opened hers, idly scanned it a moment, and then looked up.

“Incidentally,” she said curiously, “if it wasn’t me, who did the cat’s eyes make you think of?”

Reardon’s smile faded abruptly.

“That’s something that still bothers me,” he said shortly. “That’s something I’d still like to know.” And he picked up his drink almost angrily and finished it.

Chapter 8

Wednesday — 1:55 P.M.

Lieutenant Reardon punched the button on the first-floor elevator bank at the Hall of Justice, well aware that both uniformed and nonuniformed grades he knew were passing in the mottled marbled lobby at the time, and that they, as well as the public who also used the building intensively, were giving the girl with him a complete once-over, obviously with approval. They should pay as much attention to the pictures and descriptions of the Wanteds on the bulletin boards, he thought sourly, and hit the button again. The elevator, apparently startled at this extra attention from people who normally enjoyed being away from their desks, quickly slid a door open for him. He gratefully escaped into the interior, leading the girl ahead of him, when a large hand suddenly appeared from the outside, holding the door. A moment later its owner, Sergeant Dondero, entered, pressed the button to close the door, and turned to face them. Reardon sighed hopelessly; Dondero had a wicked grin on his face that the lieutenant recognized, and he appeared in a happy mood, always a dangerous sign.

He leaned over, speaking in a sotto voce that undoubtedly carried up the elevator shaft to the County Jail on the sixth floor.

“Hi, Lieutenant. Is she dangerous? If you want I could hold her while you handcuff her...”

Reardon paid no attention, pushing the button for the second floor.

“If she’s armed,” Dondero offered, “I could search her...”

“Don, shut up!” He shook his head, beaten. “Oh, all right! Miss Wilkinson, this is Sergeant Dondero.”

“Charmed,” Dondero said and grinned. Penny merely stared at him without expression. The door slid open at the second floor. For a moment the three stood looking at each other; then Reardon put his finger on the button to hold the cab in place.

“Municipal Court is on this floor, Penny,” he said. “Just turn right after you leave the elevators. They’ll have the list of cases — the docket — on the bulletin board outside. His name will be on it; Ralph Crocker. You just walk in and sit down and wait for his case. He should be one of the first; it won’t last long. We’re asking the court for a continuance. We haven’t had a chance to look the car over yet.”

Dondero frowned at him. “What do you mean we haven’t had a chance to look the car over yet? Are you still sticking your nose into this, Jim?”

Reardon disregarded him. “He’s a tall, thin man. Anyway, they’ll announce the case.”

The girl looked at Reardon helplessly. “Aren’t you going to come in with me?”

“No. I have a lot of work to do. Anyway, it isn’t necessary. You’ll be fine.”

“And you just want me to look at him?”

“That’s right. Watch him, study how he moves, what his voice sounds like. I know you said you’d never heard Bob Cooke mention Crocker by name, but I’d like you to really look at him. See if you can remember Bob Cooke ever describing anyone like him, or talking to him anywhere. In a bar, or on the dock, or anywhere at all.”

Penny looked at him curiously. “You think he ran Bob down on purpose, don’t you? Why would he do a thing like that?”

Dondero interrupted. “Because if he didn’t, then Lieutenant James Reardon has no business messing about with the case at all.”

Reardon shook his head impatiently. “I don’t know what I think. I just know I hate automobile accidents and useless deaths.” He patted her arm. “Anyway, you go into that court and sit down and wait. Nobody will stop you; it’s free territory. And afterward come up to my office and tell me what you think. Do you remember my office? On the fourth floor?”

“I’ll take her into the courtroom and bring her back,” Dondero said, and took her arm protectively. His former facetiousness was gone. “A girl could get lost wandering around this place.”

For a moment Reardon looked as if he were going to object, but apparently the look on Dondero’s face changed his mind. He nodded.

“All right, Don. I’ll see you later, Penny.”

The elevator door closed behind the two; he rode alone to the fourth floor and turned in the direction of his office with a smile. That Dondero! Though it was pretty hard to blame a man for being smitten with Penny Wilkinson, even on first meeting. Still, it was doubtful that anyone would make much headway with the girl so soon after the death of her boy friend. On the other hand, the sooner she let herself become interested in someone else, undoubtedly the better. And Dondero could be quite a lad when he felt like it. He pushed through the door to his office smiling to himself. Why not quit the Ann Landers bit, Reardon? he asked himself; both Penny and Don are adults.

He hung up his jacket and dropped into his chair, looking at his In-basket, just as the telephone rang. He realized the reprieve from the stack of papers waiting for him was only a temporary one, but still better than nothing. He reached out, picking up the phone.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to speak with a Lieutenant James Reardon.” It was a deep voice, pleasant sounding, but still with a tone suggesting the speaker was accustomed to a degree of authority.

“This is Lieutenant Reardon. What can I do for you?”

“Oh. Well, my name is Harry Thompson, and I’m the chief purser on the S.S. Mandarin. I’ve just read in the papers—”

“Mr. Thompson. I was going to call you.” When, as, and if I’d remembered, Reardon thought with a shake of his head and went back to listening.

“Oh. Well, anyway, I read the article in the paper today. It’s a goddamned shame. Bob was a good man. One of the few I had working for me who could find his ass with both hands. Usually, as soon as I get someone halfway decent, the exec. on this bucket drags him out of my department by both feet and hands him over to any damned deck officer who wants him.”

“Yes. Well—”

“Anyway,” Thompson continued, almost without pause, “that’s water over the dam. About the body — I spoke to the company brass here, after I saw the newspaper. Bob always talked about being buried at sea — he had no family, I guess — and the brass have no objection. He was a good kid; I hate to think of him going over the rail.”

Reardon stared at the instrument in his hand in surprise.

“I’m rather amazed. I should have thought that most cruise passengers wouldn’t exactly relish anything as gruesome as a burial at sea during a pleasure trip.”

Thompson snorted.

“Then you would have thought wrong. You just don’t know cruise trips and the kind of passengers they draw, Lieutenant. Ghouls, the lot. The average age of the passengers on one of our Oriental cruises must be between seventy-five and a hundred and six. Hell, you’ve got to be older than God to be able to afford ’em. And the huge majority hate anyone younger than them, and nothing will give them a bigger kick than seeing a young man of twenty-eight, in the prime of life, take the deep six. Most of them wouldn’t even mind if he was alive when he went. The company could sell tickets, I’ll bet, like for Bingo, or horse races, or daily mileage. They’re a bunch of ghouls, I tell you!”

“Yes,” Reardon said shortly. “About the body—”

“I was coming to that. Whenever you feel you can release the body, you can send it down to the ship. Or we can arrange to pick it up if you want. We can bring it down in the laundry wagon.”

“I’ll have it sent down,” Reardon said. “We’re a little better equipped than laundry wagons. But do you have facilities for a dead body on board? I mean—?”

“You mean, a morgue?” Thompson’s deep voice sounded as if Reardon had asked him if they carried an anchor. “Of course we do. When you carry passengers the age of ours, Lieutenant, there’s damn few trips when one of them doesn’t drop dead. Usually from overeating or trying to drink the ship dry — which is tough to do — or from trying to make it with one of the stewardesses like he was a mere sixty or something. Anyway, we have to keep them on ice until we get home and turn them over to the authorities for release, to make sure they weren’t poisoned by their cribbage partners; and also not to deprive their relatives the extreme pleasure of burying them, themselves.”

Despite his knowledge of the work he had before him, the garrulous purser amused Reardon. He grinned at the telephone. “You make your cruises sound like a fun-deal all around.”

“Oh they are,” Thompson assured him. “Especially for the purser’s office.” He hesitated a moment, considering. “Or they would be, that is, if we didn’t carry people. However, it’s the only job I know, so I guess I’m stuck with it until they put me over the rail.” He sighed deeply. “Anyway, I didn’t call you to do a selling job for our cruises. When do you think Bob Cooke’s body can be released?”

“Probably right now,” Reardon said, thinking a moment. “They don’t intend to do an autopsy, and our medical examiner is just as happy to get rid of extra bodies as soon as he can. In this town we have enough fresh ones to take their place.”

“Sounds like the S.S. Mandarin,” Thompson said, with the satisfaction that comes from shared misery. “Well, send him down any time you want. If I’m not here, tell whoever delivers him to ask for the assistant purser. Somebody’s always on call. I’ll set it up with the staff here, and also with the doctor, if I can find him. The icebox is his.”

“Good enough,” Reardon said and made a note on his pad. “Where are you docked?”

“Pier 26.”

Reardon noted it and put aside his pencil. “Right. If it isn’t today we’ll make it tomorrow morning. I understand there’s no rush. I’m told you’re in port for four days.”

“That’s right. We sail Saturday.” Thompson’s voice turned bitter; Reardon had the cold feeling he had opened a Pandora’s box of complaints. “Four lousy days in port and every bastard and his mother heads over the side for fun and games — but the purser’s office?” He made a rude noise with his lips. “Service with a smile twenty-four lousy hours a day, plus twelve more at night.”

“Right,” Reardon said hastily, and was about to find some excuse to hang up when a further thought came to him. “Mr. Thompson, do you mind answering a few questions about Bob Cooke while I’ve got you on the phone?”

“With pleasure,” Thompson said and sounded as if he meant it. “I’m on the ship, and while I’m on the line, it’s tied up, so no sorry son-of-a-bitch can use it to give me grief. Because nobody calls the purser of a ship unless he wants to give the purser grief. I mention this vital fact in case you’re interested, although why in the name of Christ you should be, only his Father knows.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“I gather you mean Bob Cooke, not God. Like I said, he was a good boy. Even the captain liked him, and the captain on this tub hates everybody, especially passengers, although not quite as much as me. Not that I have anything against the captain,” he went on hastily, “except he disappears every night and I get stuck with the social amenities for these clowns. As well as looking after baggage they misplace—”

“Mr. Thompson. About Bob Cooke—”

“—wiping their noses,” Thompson continued inexorably, “seeing to it they stagger into the right room when they poop out at 9 P.M., giving them back their lost keys and false teeth, and things like that. It’s my fault the stupid bastard natives in Bankok don’t speak English, and if one of our bright lights gets his pocket picked in Manila, I’m supposed to find the miscreant who did it, spank him, and bring back the loot. The least the captain could do would be to take a drink with them a little more often.” He sounded put out; Reardon sighed, knowing full well the man could not be cut off. “Eighteen years on this job it’s a wonder I’ve got a liver left! But if you don’t let some eighty-year-old dame in a miniskirt buy you a drink, she complains to the brass like she’s been raped. Or like she hasn’t been raped. Take your choice.”

“Mr. Thompson—”

“Well,” Thompson added, aware he had been overlong in his dialogue, “enough about Harry Thompson and his meteoric rise to degradation. What did you want to know about Bob Cooke, Lieutenant?”

“Anything you can tell me.”

“Like I said, he was a good boy. It was a damned shame he stepped off that curb.” Thompson sounded puzzled. “Funny, too, because he was as wide-awake on the job as they come.”

“How did he get that scar on his lip? I heard it was an accident on board ship. That doesn’t sound like he was so wide-awake.”

“That’s when he was wider awake than ever!” Thompson resented the imputation. “A davit thole pin shears off with a couple-of-ton-load on the hook coming out of the forward hold, and four guys standing below right underneath it, talking about something important, like how to goof off or something — and Bob, without thinking, almost, jammed a small timber between the davit base and the deck engine that was driving it. It didn’t stop the load from going down, you understand, but it slowed it down for maybe ten seconds, which was time enough for those goops to get the message and scatter. Otherwise the four were mush. Anyway — well, the timber split, which was no surprise, considering, and one piece caught Bob in the kisser. He lost a ton of teeth and wound up with that scar; but he could have been killed. No; he was a wide-awake lad.”

Reardon frowned. “On the night he was hit and killed — last night — could he have had a drink?”

“Not many bars around dockside where we are, I don’t believe. I don’t know too much about San Francisco; every time we’re here I’m usually working. He could have had one in his cabin before he left the ship, I suppose, but if he did it would only have been one. He never drank on duty, and he had a date with that girl from the shop, and he wasn’t the type to get slopped before a date.”

Nor would anyone with any sense, Reardon thought; not a date with Penny. He went on, “As you know, he’d changed from his uniform into civvies. Did you find his wallet in his cabin? He didn’t have it — or any personal identification on him when he was killed.”

“Is that so? The newspaper didn’t mention that. Anyway, I had a man go through his things and pack them,” Thompson said. “I don’t know if there was a wallet or not. I know he usually carried his bills in a money clip, and I know he didn’t have any credit cards — and neither do I — and he didn’t own a car, and I don’t either because who needs it, so he wouldn’t have to carry his driver’s license.”

“No credit cards?”

“Seems hard to believe, eh? Well, you never get rich working the ships, and credit cards are like funny money when you’re in a foreign country. You take a credit card to Tokyo and walk down the Ginza, and you’ve blown about eight months’ pay before you get back. But cash? That’s different.” He paused, calculating. “I can have his stuff unpacked and find out, if you want.”

“I don’t suppose it’s really important. I was just wondering. What about his family?”

“I looked over our copy of his application blank after I saw the squib in the paper, and his nearest-of-kin line was just scratched through. That’s one of the reasons the brass gave permission for the sea burial. Nobody else to give him to.”

“What about his possessions?”

“Well,” Thompson said, “he had a bankbook he kept in the ship’s safe. He had about six hundred in savings in a bank back home — that’s Honolulu. And he was paying on a two-room shack there — away up in the hills and not worth too much, I’d say, although housing in Honolulu is something criminal today, believe me.”

“Did he leave a will?”

“If he did we don’t have it. I doubt it. What did he have to will, and who to? It’ll be up in the courts in Hawaii what happens to the little he had, but my guess is it’ll end up with the state.”

Reardon tried to think of other questions that could give him a better picture of Bob Cooke alive, and then wondered why he wanted a better picture. One final question did occur to him.

“Did you ever have a passenger on one of your cruises named Crocker? Ralph Crocker? A tall thin man, about thirty-three years old?”

“Thirty-three? I doubt it. Make it a hundred and thirty-three and I’d say there was a chance.” Thompson decided to be serious. “I’ve been on this ship since she was commissioned in 1952, and a lot of people have ridden it. But I can find out easy enough; we keep a file of all old passenger lists in the print shop. I’ll look it up. How do you spell it?”

Reardon spelled it for him. “When you look it up, if you find it or not, give me another ring, will you?”

“Sure. Who’s Crocker?”

“He’s the driver of the car that killed Bob Cooke.”

There was a moment’s pause as Thompson digested this. Reardon could almost see the other frowning at the telephone. “I thought it was supposed to have been an accident...”

“It was. Supposed to be, I mean.” Reardon sighed. “I don’t know what I mean. It undoubtedly was an accident. It’s just — well, I’m the curious type. I’d just like to know if Crocker was ever on the ship.” A further thought came to him. “Or ever worked on the ship.”

“Oh,” Thompson said, “you can find that out easier than I can. They have the records at the company offices on Market Street. American-Oriental Steamship Company. Ask for a Mrs. Halloran; use my name if you want.”

“I think she’ll tell me without it,” Reardon said dryly.

“Oh. Yeah. I forgot you were the cops. Anything else before I hang up and get back to arranging a Maypole for the next bunch of senile monsters that are going on our — you’ll pardon the expression — Fun-Filled Cruise to the Flamboyant East?”

Despite the time he had spent getting remarkably little information from the talkative purser, Reardon could not help take advantage of the offer.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said with a smile. “One day when you’re in port and have the time, I’d like you to repeat your general description of a cruise on your ship for the benefit of my girl friend, Jan. She thinks anything is better than being a cop lieutenant, and she thinks living and working on ships must be as close to heaven as you can get. She figures it’s a continuous vacation, and you get paid for it too.”

“So you’ve got a weird girl friend,” Thompson said. “She probably has some compensating qualities, though, like two heads. However, any time you want her brainwashed, let me know. I can lecture on the subject for three days without taking breath.”

“Good enough,” Reardon said. “And thanks.”

“A pleasure. Any time,” Thompson said heartily and hung up.

Reardon placed the receiver back on the hook with a grin. Thompson, despite his long-windedness, seemed like a right guy. Then he remembered the basic reason for the chief purser’s call. He rang the morgue, gave them the necessary information, was informed the body would go out within an hour as there had been a tenement fire and they needed all the file cabinets they could use. The pleasure he had felt in listening to Thompson’s exaggerations disappeared instantly; in addition to automobile accidents, Reardon also hated fires, especially in tenements. He hung up and pulled his In-basket closer; Dondero and the girl walked in the door just as he did so. He looked at his watch in surprise; he hadn’t known he — or rather, Thompson had talked so long.

His eyes went up to Penny’s face. She shook her head dismally.

“She never saw the character before,” Dondero said. He sounded a bit angry, as if just seeing the man who killed Bob Cooke was an ordeal Penny should have been spared. “And I’m taking her home now. She looks beat.”

“All right,” Reardon said calmly. “Just don’t forget to come back.”

“He was awfully upset,” Penny said softly. She made it sound like a complete non sequitur.

“Don? He’s always awfully upset. It’s his—”

“Not me,” Dondero said disdainfully. “She means Crocker. He says he needs his car and he wants it. He says it was an accident. He says—”

“He says the man stepped off the curb in front of him and he couldn’t stop in time.” Reardon finished it for him. “I know what he says. He’ll get his car after we get a chance to go over it and not before.” He looked up. “We did get our continuance, didn’t we?”

“We got it — or rather, you got it — but old Judge Jorgensen wasn’t very happy about it.”

“What did Crocker’s lawyer say?”

“He didn’t have a lawyer,” Dondero said flatly. “He said he was innocent and what did an innocent man need a lawyer for? Jorgensen had read Frank Wilkins’ report and he was in agreement with Crocker. Personally,” he added, “so am I. But Jorgensen went along with the two-day continuance as a favor to Merkel.” He stared at Reardon. “Jim, I know you were mad at this guy for lousing up your evening last night, and I know you’d love to see it as something for us, instead of Traffic, but right now I think you’re just being stubborn.”

“That’s me — stubborn,” Reardon said equably and looked at Penny. “I’m sorry I dragged you down here for nothing, Penny. Don will see that you get home okay.”

“All right,” she said emotionlessly.

“By the way,” Reardon added, “that chief purser of yours — Thompson — called. He saw an article in the paper. He said they’ll take the body and bury it at sea on their next trip.”

She looked at him a moment, her eyes wide, and then suddenly collapsed in a chair beside his desk, trying to control herself but finally succumbing to tears. She forced herself to stop, looking at the two embarrassed men almost defiantly.

“I don’t cry.” She dabbed at her eyes viciously with a wisp of handkerchief to prove it. “I’m not going on that trip. I don’t want to see Bob—” She bit her trembling lip and changed the subject. “I’ll ask to stay off a trip. I have the time coming anyway. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

She came to her feet and put her handkerchief away with a gesture that also put aside any possible future need for it. She looked at Reardon as if searching for some way to end the conversation and get away from his office and the entire Hall of Justice. He understood and nodded to Dondero.

“Let’s go, Penny,” Dondero said and took her arm almost tenderly. He looked over at Reardon. “I’ll be right back.”

“There’s no rush,” Reardon said softly and waited until the two had left the office. Then he reached for In-basket for the third time that day, together with its constantly increasing mountain of reports. As Mr. Harry Thompson of the S.S. Mandarin had put it so succinctly, it wouldn’t be a bad world if it weren’t for people.

Chapter 9

Wednesday — 3:20 P.M.

The telephone rang sharply. Reardon sighed and put aside a report he had been reading covering a series of muggings in the streets leading from the Panhandle up to Haight in the Park District, which had led to a death the previous evening. Peace and Love! he thought sourly, and raised the instrument. It was a sergeant on the switchboard in Communications.

“Hey, Lieutenant — Captain Tower wants to see you on the double. He says he’s been trying to call your extension all afternoon. Finally got tired and turned the job over to us.”

“Well, it’s one of the things you’re there for,” Reardon said a trifle unkindly. “And anyway, I’ve been off the phone for at least five minutes.”

“Yeah, but you must have been on it for over an hour straight. Anyway, you better get over to his office. He sounded like he had a hair across his butt.” The sergeant added hastily, “That’s just an expression, you understand.”

“I understand.”

Reardon came to his feet, rubbed the back of his neck for luck, picked up his jacket on the way, and left the room. In the corridor he slid into his jacket, brushed his hair back with his fingers, and walked around the corridor bend to the captain’s office. He took a deep breath, tapped on the door, and entered without awaiting an invitation. Captain Tower had his telephone in his hand; the receiver was almost lost in the huge grip. At sight of the young lieutenant he set it down gently in the cradle and studied his subordinate coldly.

“Well, well! Look who’s here.”

“You wanted to see me, Captain?”

“Now, that’s a real bright question,” Tower said sardonically and then dropped the light tone. His fist formed and hovered over the desk, preparatory to pounding it, but then he forced himself to open his hand and lay it down on the blotter. “You know damned well I wanted to see you. But you’ve been glued to that damned telephone for the past hour.”

“It was that Cooke case—”

“I thought I told you to drop that Cooke case; to turn it over to Traffic.”

“I was talking to the purser of his ship, arranging for the body to go back there,” Reardon said quietly. “He’ll be buried at sea.”

“And it took you an hour to arrange it? Well, never mind. Sit down.”

Reardon pulled up a chair and obediently sat down. He had a fair idea of what was coming, but decided to hear it out before making up his mind as to the best defense. Captain Tower swiveled his chair a moment to stare out of the window without appreciation for the lovely distant view of the Oakland hills, and then swiveled back. When he spoke his voice was deceptively plaintive, as if he had been dealt with unfairly and undeservedly, and simply wanted a reasonable explanation.

“Why do you do these things to me, Jim?”

“What things, Captain?”

“As if you didn’t know.” The big man leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, ticking off his points on his thick fingers, his dark eyes fixed on the gray ones facing him.

“One: I told you to drop that traffic accident, but did you? Well, let’s see. To begin with, Captain Clark in Traffic calls me up to say his technical squad started to go over that Buick in the garage — as you asked them to, although I told you not to, and I still don’t see any sense in wasting time going over that car beyond what Wilkins did — and then you call the garage and pull them off the job and tell them to hold off until tomorrow. Now, that gives Clark a chance to squawk that we’re interfering in his business, and he loves to squawk; and it also gives him a chance to say we’re disrupting his schedule and so forth and so on — and it puts me in a position of having to defend one of my men for something I told him not to do. And I’m damned if I know why he’s doing it.”

“Captain—”

“Let me finish.” He pressed down a second finger, warming to his arguments. “Two: Five minutes after Clark hangs up, I get a call from Judge Jorgensen saying that if we’re going to get involved in Traffic, he’d like to be apprised of the fact, and also if I’m under the impression the Municipal Court hasn’t enough cases on its docket without doing each one of them twice — especially idiotic cases — then I ought to drop down to the second floor and see for myself sometimes. He said he went along with Merkel on the continuance for Crocker this time, but if there was any more horsing around on Friday, he was going to raise hell with someone. And he bangs the receiver down. And I don’t even know what in hell he’s talking about, although I’m beginning to get a strong suspicion!”

He paused, his eyes tiny, waiting for another interruption, but Reardon kept quiet. Captain Tower nodded and pressed down a third finger.

“So I call Merkel and he tells me this is the fine Italian hand of my young Lieutenant, James Reardon, not that I don’t already know that. But he doesn’t know why Lieutenant Reardon asked for the continuance.”

Reardon continued to sit silent, watching. Captain Tower released his fingers and stared across the desk at him, glaring.

“Well?”

“Well what, sir?”

Tower’s big fist formed again, this time beyond control, bouncing on the desk. His ash tray jumped.

“Don’t ask stupid questions of me, Lieutenant! I want to know what the hell goes on! I want to know why you disobey orders! You just now spoke about a ‘Cooke case.’ Well, there isn’t any Cooke case! The man stepped off the curb in front of a car and got killed. The poor slob who killed him has enough grief without your persecuting him, because that’s what it amounts to. Why, God knows! I hope not to justify your walking out of that meeting last night, because if that’s the reason, you’re in trouble. I’ve read the Wilkins report, too, you know. And after the reaming I got from the judge, I called Wilkins at home and he repeated the whole thing, practically verbatim. And Merkel told me if Crocker had had the brains to bring a lawyer into court with him, the poor dumb bastard, either he’d have walked out a free man — or driven out in his Buick rather — or his lawyer would have been holding press conferences that would have had the Board of Commissioners seeing purple!”

He frowned across the desk blackly.

“What are you trying to do, Lieutenant? Wreck the police department all by yourself?”

Reardon’s jaw tightened slightly and his gray eyes narrowed, but otherwise he kept his cool. He had decided what his defense was going to be: a good offense, and he knew this was the time to do it, if ever. The captain was plainly in no mood for nonsense. There was only one way to settle it, and that was to do it quickly.

“Captain, you want to know why I’ve done what I’ve done. I’ll tell you in one word. Murder.”

“Murder?”

“Yes, sir. Homicide, and that makes it our business. Ralph Crocker deliberately ran down Bob Cooke and killed him. It was no accident. And I’m going to prove it.”

Captain Tower stared at him a moment. He leaned back in his chair, fumbled a pipe free from his jacket pocket, and sucked on it without lighting it. When he spoke his voice was deceptively quiet.

“What do you know about this case you haven’t reported, Lieutenant?”

“Not a thing, sir. But I’m sure Cooke was killed on purpose.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Do you happen to have any evidence? Any proof?”

“No, sir.”

Tower considered him evenly, almost paternally. “That’s a nice, honest statement. Do you have any indication — I won’t even ask you for proof — that Cooke and Crocker had ever met or even seen each other before in their lives?”

“No, sir.” Reardon faced his superior calmly. “Cooke’s girl friend never heard of Crocker and never saw him before. And says to her knowledge Cooke never mentioned him. And Crocker was strictly a landlubber, as far as we know, and Cooke worked the ships. And lived in Honolulu.”

“I see. But you’re still positive it was homicide. Now,” Captain Tower continued politely, “perhaps you can tell me why a man would go to the trouble of killing a perfect stranger. Do you believe Crocker is a homicidal maniac? Do you think he’s the type who goes running around killing strangers for kicks?”

“No, sir. I think this thing was well planned.”

“But you can’t think why.”

“No, sir, I can’t. Not yet.” He leaned forward a bit, trying to explain something that was difficult to explain to himself. “I have a hunch, I suppose you might call it. Now, I don’t think hunches are anything supernatural, and I also don’t believe they are what people call ESP — extrasensory perception. I think hunches are our subconscious trying to remind us of something we’ve forgotten.”

“And what did you forget?”

The young red-haired lieutenant suddenly grinned. “That’s what I don’t know.”

There were several seconds of silence. Captain Tower put away his pipe.

“Are you all right, Jim?”

“I’m fine, Captain.”

“I’m not so sure.” Tower drummed his thick fingers on his desktop for several moments, considering the man across from him thoughtfully. When at last he spoke he sounded as if he had come to a reluctant decision.

“Jim, I want you to take a week off. You’ve plenty of time coming, and we won’t count it against your vacation time. We’ll tack it onto sick leave. How about it? Take Jan and drive down to Yosemite, or lose some money at Reno or Vegas, or just go down to Carmel and lay around the beach. How about it?”

Reardon smiled at him faintly.

“I’ll tell you what, Captain. I’ll make you a deal. Instead of a week, I’d like just two days — until Municipal Court session on Friday. And instead of sick leave you can call it vacation time or even a holiday without pay if you want; I couldn’t care less. I know I’m right. There’s just one thing; I want a favor. I want Dondero to work with me.” He thought a moment. “And Stan Lundahl, too, if I need him for anything.”

Captain Tower stared at him. He swiveled his chair to take in the view across the bay once again, again not seeing it. He swiveled back, frowning, and then looked up.

“I suppose there’s only one way to cure you, Jim, and that’s to let you cure yourself in your own way. In all fairness to you I’ll say you’ve made damned few mistakes since you’ve been in the department; but I have a feeling this one is a beauty. I’m out of my mind to agree to it, but all right.” His dark eyes studied Reardon without any expression in them. They looked almost opaque. “If your hunch just happens to be wrong — and everything points to it, or at least if there’s anything working for it I can’t see it — then I imagine you know I’m the one who’ll be on the carpet in the chief’s office. Not you. Not after this talk of ours this afternoon. I suppose you’ve thought of that?”

“I’ve thought of it, Captain,” Reardon said evenly. “I’ve thought of it a lot, and frankly, I didn’t like thinking about it. I like to take my own falls for my own mistakes.” His gray eyes firmed. “But I’ve also thought of a girl who lost a boy friend; and even more than that, I’ve thought it’s just too damned easy to kill a man with a car deliberately and get away with it.” He waited a moment in silence and then came to his feet. “If that’s all, Captain, I’d like to get to work.”

“That’s all.” The captain’s tone was expressionless. As the door closed behind his subordinate he swiveled his chair around, staring across the low roofs to the bay and the soft hills of Oakland beyond, with tiny white houses mounting to the rounded peaks, half hidden in the late summer greenery. Jim Reardon was a good man and had been a damned fine addition to the detective force in Homicide and Captain Tower was pleased to have had the man assigned to him. He was smart, intelligent, hard working, fair, well liked, and — the captain shook his head, searching for the elusive word to complete the description.

It was “stubborn,” he finally decided. That matter settled, Captain Tower sighed heavily, swung around, and went back to work.

Wednesday — 3:45 P.M.

The police garage was in the basement of the Hall of Justice; a low-ceilinged room of vast proportions with an exhaust-stained concrete floor and supporting pillars which, Reardon had always felt, had been placed at the exact points to insure maximum damage to doors or fenders by anyone attempting to follow the direction lines painted on the floor. One bent fender had been enough for Lieutenant Reardon; now he parked either in the public lot behind the morgue — without taking a ticket from the machine — or at the curb in front of the Hall on Bryant Street on those rare occasions when the No-parking space was not filled with other interlopers.

The portion of the garage next to the office, adjacent to the ramp leading from the street, had been isolated to serve as a storage space for cars under investigation, and was protected from the balance of the garage by wire fencing and doors which could be — but never had been — closed. Reardon sighed, thinking of the old days when one, or at the most two, cars had been impounded for official reasons. Now the space was crowded with battered wrecks from which dead bodies had been hauled or had to be burned clear with acetylene torches.

He studied the area carefully; the Buick was not there. Perturbed, he walked to the office door, thrust his head inside, and bawled.

“Morrison!”

“Just a second!” The garage attendant poked his head from behind a desk where he had been retrieving a dropped coin. He pocketed it with satisfaction as he rose and slid it into a pocket. “Hi, Lieutenant.”

“Where’s that Buick?”

“Parked out in the main garage. Second row down, back up against the wall. All the way at the end.”

Reardon studied the man coldly. “Isn’t your normal practice to keep a car in the cage until the technical squad has a chance to go over it?”

Morrison looked unhappy. He wiped his hands, dusty from his search of the floor, on his buttocks.

“Sure, Lieutenant,” he said unhappily. “Only they went over it.” He raised a hand, denying culpability. “I told them what you said, but the gang came down about one o’clock and went over her then. They said it was Captain Clark’s instructions. Said they had other wrecks to go in.” He shrugged apologetically. “There wasn’t nothing I could do. Me, I’m just a guy here, runs the office.”

“I see.”

So Captain Clark had screamed about the disruption of his crew’s schedule after he had already ordered his men to check out the car! It was certainly nice to see co-operation between departments and to know one had friends in high places, Reardon thought, and put the thought of Captain Clark out of his mind.”

“What did they find?”

“Nothing that I could see, or at least they didn’t say anything,” Morrison said. “I know they dusted her for prints and went over her from top to bottom. They had the seats out, picked up the hard stuff like hairpins and coins and then they vacuumed under them and the rug too; and they had the hub caps off and all that stuff. They had the trunk open and they looked at the spare tire and took that out too. They gave it the works; a lot more than they usually do with an accident car.” He paused and then shrugged apologetically. “But it ain’t for me to say. I’m just a desk jockey down here.”

“And a damned fine mechanic,” Reardon reminded him.

“Yeah. Well, maybe I was once upon a time, but I’m flying a file cabinet now.” Morrison changed the subject. “You ought to be getting a report, Lieutenant.”

“I suppose I will, eventually,” Reardon said evenly.

Captain Clark, he thought, in addition to having a personality problem also had a technical squad that functioned under his direction and operated both efficiently and well. Oh yes — Reardon was sure he’d get a report, and so would his superior Captain Tower, and undoubtedly Assistant Chief Boynton. And the report would be as detailed as an instructed laboratory could make it, embellished by the Traffic chief, with developed fingerprints and dust analyses and eighteen type-written pages — all designed to prove what a complete waste of time Lieutenant Reardon, meddling with a department not his own, had put the long-suffering technical squad to. Not to mention the trouble Captain Clark had been forced to endure. To hell with it, Reardon thought sourly, and went on with his questioning of Morrison.

“How about the engines?”

Morrison became enthusiastic for the first time.

“I checked her under the hood myself, Lieutenant. What a lovely job!” He shook his head in admiration. “Tuned to a dime. And the body? A real old-timer. You could hit an elephant with that one. They really built cars in those days. I should be in as good shape when I’m that old!”

“You are that old,” Reardon pointed out. “Older in fact.”

“Yeah. Well, you know what I mean. Them 1940s were a dream, probably the best they made before the war. After the war, of course—” He waved a hand, putting the cars produced after the war in their proper place. “A beauty!”

“What about the radiator?”

“Not a scratch. I tell you, Lieutenant, she’s practically perfect. Leaks a little transmission oil, but what the hell! I should be in as good a shape—” He realized he was repeating himself. “I mean it ain’t bad for a car thirty years old. Even the bumper where it hit the guy, it ain’t hardly dented. Beautiful!”

“If that’s the proper word for a lethal weapon that killed a man,” Reardon commented dryly.

“That ain’t what I meant, Lieutenant,” Morrison said, his sensibilities wounded. “I just meant I wished they built them patrol cars we got like they built that Buick back about thirty years ago. Maybe then they wouldn’t be in the shop every second day.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Reardon conceded. He looked up. “Let me have a flashlight, will you? I want to take a look at her myself.”

“Sure,” Morrison said. “I’ll show you where I put it.”

He picked a flashlight from his desk, checked it to see if the batteries were alive, flicked it off and led the way down the long rows of cars fitted into the garage space like bits of a jigsaw puzzle.

“Like when I was over at Repairs,” he said. “Southern twelve. I must have put new cotter pins in the steering linkage on that bastard eight times in six months. Guy could go blind. That’s what I meant, Lieutenant.” He paused, flashing on the light, pointing with the beam. When he spoke he sounded proud. “There she is, Lieutenant.”

Reardon took the lighted flashlight and opened the rear door, sweeping the beam around the empty space, bringing it back to the floorboards and up to the roof. And what do you think you’re looking for in the first place? he asked himself sarcastically, and closed the door. It closed with a solid, satisfactory chunk. He moved to the front, opening the door, flashing the light about.

“Glove compartment’s empty,” Morrison offered. “Technical squad looked.”

“Did they, now!” Out of sheer perversity Reardon opened it and flashed the light about the bare space, and then snapped the small panel shut. He noted the mileage and frowned. Only eighteen thousand miles on a 1940 Buick? Second time around, probably, though it didn’t look that, either. He shrugged. The keys were in the switch; he turned them and watched the needles on the gauges come to life. The gas gauge moved to a quarter; he wondered idly what mileage the big car gave per gallon and turned the switch off, not knowing why he had even switched it on. He bent down, noting the registration on the steering column. He glanced over his shoulder at Morrison.

“They take a look at this?”

“Sure, Lieutenant, but they put it back. They put everything back, like the spare tire, and everything.”

Reardon bent in the car again, reading the registration information through the plastic window of the folder. Unsatisfied, he snapped the holder from the steering column, bringing it closer to the flashlight to study it. As he had already known, the car was registered to Ralph Crocker, hair etc., eyes etc., address etc. He turned the clear plastic envelope over, glancing at the back. He was about to return the folder to the steering column when he suddenly paused, looking at the back of the registration a second time. His eyes came up to Morrison’s face. The ex-mechanic, cum-garage-attendant was surprised at the expression.

“What’s the matter, Lieutenant?”

“The registration was transferred to Crocker only last week.” Reardon was frowning.

“So?”

“So he only bought this car last week!”

Morrison shrugged, unimpressed. “So he just happened to be lucky. You run into one of these jobs — in this good a shape — maybe once in a lifetime. A guy would be crazy not to grab it. Any guy who knows anything about cars, that is.”

“If he knew anything about cars...”

“Well, he had to,” Morrison said reasonably. “He grabbed it, didn’t he?”

“That’s true, he did,” Reardon said enigmatically, his brain racing. He looked at Morrison, a cold smile on his face. “Rather a coincidence, though, don’t you think? Getting it just in time to kill somebody with it?”

“Well,” Morrison said, “That’s how it goes.”

“Yes.” Reardon slipped the car registration into his pocket. He flashed the light about the interior once more and then shut the door. He crouched down, staring at the undercarriage of the high car. As Morrison had said, there was a slight leak from the transmission, but otherwise the underside looked clean; the springs looked in good shape and the muffler hadn’t rusted out. He straightened up, flicking off the flashlight, handing it to Morrison. “I guess that’s it.”

“Right. Say, Lieutenant—” Suddenly Morrison seemed diffident, hesitant.

“Yes?”

“Well—” Morrison seemed embarrassed, but then he overcame it, speaking out. “Well, sometimes, you know lots of guys don’t want to keep a car that killed somebody. Especially if they were driving. This guy Crocker, maybe hell feel that way too. You’ll be seeing him. Could you ask him for me? I’d give him a decent price,” Morrison added hastily. “I ain’t trying to gyp him, or take advantage of his tough luck. It’s just — well, I can replace them leaky seals in a matter of four, five hours — on my own time, that is — and have me a real winner. How about it, Lieutenant? Will you ask him?”

Reardon stared at the eager face before him and sighed.

“If I get a chance I’ll ask him,” he said quietly and turned away, walking toward the elevator back to the fourth floor.

Chapter 10

Wednesday — 4:30 P.M.

Dondero was sitting on the edge of an empty desk tossing paper clips into a waste basket across the room when Lieutenant Reardon returned to his office from the basement garage. The sergeant put the balance of the paper clips neatly back in the desk drawer and closed it, suggesting his recognition of the fact that one should not waste tax-payer’s money in plain view of a superior. He nodded, smiling pleasantly.

“I am informed through channels that I’m supposed to work with you a couple of days. A distinct pleasure. I imagine it’s because of my extensive experience in Traffic...”

Reardon stood beside his desk and checked his watch. He disregarded the sarcasm. His eyebrows went up. “I didn’t expect you back so soon, but I’m glad you’re here. We have a lot to do.”

“You told me to hurry back, and you know me. The Faithful Servant.” Dondero sighed. “But don’t think it was easy. My lousy luck I got green lights all the way out to her place. If I was going somewhere I was in a hurry to get to, it wouldn’t work that way.” His voice because serious; he almost sounded on the defensive. “She’s quite a girl, you know? We’re having dinner tonight. It’s just that — well, she’s sort of lost. She needs not to be alone for a while, not to think about what happened.”

“And you’re going to help her.”

“Well, sure.”

Reardon grinned. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t say no, did I? You’re both consenting adults.”

“You got it all wrong!” Dondero was insulted and sounded it. “She loses her boy friend one night, I make a pass the next? What kind of a guy do you think I am?” He took a deep breath and calmed down. “Tell you what — maybe we could all have dinner together, you and Jan and Penny and me. How about it?”

“It’s all right with me, and I’m sure Jan won’t mind. I’m meeting her at eight.”

“Swell,” Dondero said, pleased. “I told Penny eight to eight-thirty, so it’ll work out fine. I won’t even tag you for that meal you owe me from last night.” His face fell; he sounded on the defensive once again. “It’s not that I’m trying to saddle you and Jan with another couple if you want to be by yourselves, only I figure my first date with the girl, we oughtn’t to be alone. I don’t want her to think—”

“Quit apologizing,” Reardon said with a smile. He shook his head, running his fingers through his unruly mop of hair. “Dondero, the faithful and shy servant. That’ll be the day!” He forestalled any further comment with a raised hand. “We won’t be ready by either eight or eight-thirty if we keep on jabbering. We’ve got work to do.”

“What work?”

“Just tag along. You’ll find out.” Reardon fished Wilkins’ report from the pile of papers on his desk, folded it and creased it with complete disregard for the effect on the glossy photographs, wrapped a rubber band around it to prevent the bundle from spreading open, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“First to a used-car lot—” The telephone interrupted him. “Damn! Well never get started!” He reached over, dragging it closer by the cord, lifting the receiver. “Hello?”

“Lieutenant Reardon?”

“That’s me.”

“I didn’t recognize your voice. This is Harry Thompson of the magnificent S.S. Mandarin.”

Reardon settled himself on the corner of the desk. “Hello.”

“I went through all the passenger lists on the ship since she was commissioned, and nobody by the name of Crocker ever rode this bucket. The closest was a Mr. and Mrs. Corker, and I remember them. They were a couple in their sixties from Winnemucca, Nevada, wherever that is.” His voice seemed to indicate the Corkers hadn’t been a bad couple, considering their roots and the fact they had been passengers.

Reardon sighed. “Well, that’s how it goes. Thanks, anyhow.”

“Tell you what else I found, though,” Thompson said helpfully. “Just in case you’re looking for somebody who wasn’t using his right name — a shocking state of affairs that happens more often than you might think — I’ve got a mess of photographs from the night of the Captain’s Party. Got them from our photographer. We’ve got a photographer on this cruise ship who saves everything. A pack rat. Someday we’re going to have to leave off cargo or passengers so we’ll have room for his files. May it be passengers! Anyway, do you want to look through them?”

“How many are there?”

“Roughly a trillion.” Thompson paused and then revamped his figures, realizing a trillion might be considered inaccuracy above and beyond the call of exaggeration. “Well, to be a little more exact, he takes about a hundred and fifty each trip on the night of the Captain’s Party, and in eighteen years at three trips a year, that’s—”

“It wouldn’t be eighteen years,” Reardon said, thinking about it. “Eighteen years ago Crocker would have been a kid of fifteen, scarcely taking cruises. Besides, I’m only interested in the years since Bob Cooke has been on the ship.”

“That cuts it down considerably.” Thompson did some mental calculations. “A thousand or so pictures. You want to see them?”

“Hold on a second.” Reardon cupped the receiver. “Don, see if Lundahl is around.”

Dondero shook his head. “He’s out on that mugger-killing over near Haight. I know; I was supposed to working with the Park Station boys and him on it.”

Reardon shrugged and got back on the phone. “Well, we’ve gone this far we might as well go all the way. I’ll either have someone who’s seen Crocker and recognizes him come to the ship in the morning or I’ll come myself. Are the pictures clear?”

“The ones from the Captain’s Party are,” Thompson said. “Our photographer takes his time with those; he catches people shaking hands with the captain in the main salon. The other ones he takes — masquerade parties and people at the pool — you wouldn’t recognize your own mother in one of those.”

“Good enough. Will you be there all morning?”

“Will I be here? Me? You’ve got to be kidding! Our office just sent over a tentative passenger list and their bookings, and they’ve got about six couples in one stateroom, not to mention various other assorted discrepancies. This is a well-run organization, I’ll have you know. I’ll be here, don’t worry.” Thompson’s glum voice brightened. “Why not come over and have lunch? With the passengers gone it’s about the only time you can eat in peace.”

Reardon smiled. “I’ll let you know. What’s the telephone number on board?” He pulled Wilkins’ report from his pocket, marked the number down on the back, and tucked the report back. “I’ll call you in the morning and let you know definitely. All right?”

“Sure. But try to make it. One thing this scow has is decent food. The only thing, I might mention. And bring your girl friend. I’ll tell her tales that will keep her from even riding ferry boats for life.”

Reardon laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. Thanks, Mr. Thompson.”

“Just call me Happy Harry. Service with a growl, that’s us.” Thompson chuckled and hung up.

Reardon came to his feet, his smile disappearing, glancing at his watch, wishing Thompson wasn’t quite so longwinded. Still, the way a policeman learned was listening, especially to long-winded people. He moved toward the door.

“Don! Let’s go!”

Wednesday — 5:15 P.M.

Middleton Motors was a large used-car lot on Folsom. The edges of the large lot were strung with a daisy chain of colored light bulbs that sagged over an assorted line of highly polished come-ons. The rows of cars in the rear looked more like used cars, tired and weary, wondering why they still had to serve who had served so much. A high sign in blue and gold rotated above the lot, proclaiming that the place was open until ten each night, and suggesting that bargains such as those offered by Middleton Motors were impossible to obtain elsewhere. At least, Reardon thought reasonably — as he pulled into the lot and parked beside the small shack that apparently served as office — at least the owner didn’t call himself Mad-Man Middle-ton, which was a point in his favor.

They had barely closed the doors of the Charger behind them when a spruce young man wearing a wide, striped necktie and tight pants was standing at their side, smiling at them with the brightness of a toothpaste ad. His one hand was patting the fender of the Charger tenderly, as if it were the flanks of a young girl.

“Not bad!” he said admiringly, appearing to look the Charger over carefully, appreciatively, but actually seeing only the two men from the corner of his eye. “Not bad at all. I’d say you took damned good care of it.” He dropped his voice a bit, taking them into his confidence. “Frankly, that’s more than I can say for the majority of our customers. But on this Charger — hmmm!” His smile widened in congratulation. “Well, I’m sure we can give you a trade-in you’ll find impossible to resist. What kind of a car are you thinking of trading for? Caddy? T-bird? I’ve got a three-year-old Caddy like new. They don’t build them new like that boat. It was owned by an old lady won it in a raffle and never learned to drive. I’m telling you — a steal.”

Dondero was getting more than tired of the spiel. “Look, son. We—”

Reardon interrupted smoothly.

“I’m afraid you got us wrong, friend. We’re looking to trade down, not up. Got us this spread up in the hills back of Big Sur and we need something high off the ground, like they don’t make any more. Old Packard, maybe, or Oldsmobile. Twenty-five, thirty years old. In condition to run, of course, and cheap — if possible.”

Dondero finally woke up, getting into the act. “Can’t be a Jeep, either. I’ve got this hernia, see, and the doctor says no hard rides.”

The young man shook his head. “That’s funny, you know?” For the moment his false cheerfulness and brassy salesmanship had been put aside; he seemed honestly surprised at what had to be, to him, a remarkable coincidence. In another business, Reardon suddenly thought with compassion, the young fellow would be quite a nice guy.

“What’s funny?”

“We had one like that, or almost like that, for almost a year and we figured we were stuck with it. You come in here a week ago, you could have made a real deal. I’m serious.” He nodded. “We took it in from some old character had a farm back off the main road up near Nicasio in Marin County. It was a 1940 Buick, just the sort of thing you guys want. It was the only thing high enough to get him around his farm. But he was moving to town, and I doubt if the thing was ever on concrete until he was driving it down here, so the thing didn’t have many miles on it. Actually, it was in damned good shape, so we took it in trade on a two-year-old LTD. We gave him a damned good deal on it, considering we figured we’re going to be stuck with it. We knew it wasn’t anywhere near old enough for the real old-car buffs, not by at least twenty years, and who else would ever want it?”

“You’re right about the age of old cars,” Reardon said approvingly. “I’ve got a magazine about them. Can’t afford them, but I like to read about the guys who can. So what happened?”

“Well, so about a week ago this guy walks in and grabs it. Says it’s just what he’s been looking for. He had to be some sort of collector.” He shrugged. “I never heard of collecting thirty-year-old cars, but maybe it’s something new.”

“A couple of guys are doing it for the future. Anyway, that’s that. Tough.” Reardon turned to Dondero giving him a wink. “Looks like we missed the boat.” He turned back. “You wouldn’t happen to know of any other used-car lot that might have what we want?”

“Not in a million years.” The young man sounded disdainful. “The 1940 cars go on the junk heap. Who wants them? I mean, other than guys with bad roads like you fellows, and most of them want Jeeps. This was a freak. Sat around in plain sight for over a year too. Better than plain sight. We put it in the front row between a couple of practically new Caddys, with a spotlight on it. Figured it would be a gag and make the Caddys look good. I’m surprised you guys never saw it. I thought everybody and his brother saw it, but nobody ever wanted to buy it. Until that character, and then a week later, you two.” He shook his head at the remarkable coincidence.

“Tough,” Reardon said, repeating himself for Dondero’s sake. He only refrained from kicking the sergeant with an effort. “Looks like it’s gone. Gone forever.”

“Oh!” Dondero suddenly woke up. “I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe this character would be willing to sell.”

“I don’t know if he’d sell, but I doubt if you fellows could buy,” the young man said with a grin. “The old man handled the deal himself; he wouldn’t let me near it. What he charged for that Buick I don’t know — but I can tell you the old man charged him for an antique, and not for a plain, ordinary thirty-year-old Buick.”

“And you mean this guy didn’t argue?” Dondero sounded incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe it.

“Oh he argued,” the young salesman said, “but his heart wasn’t in it. You can tell when a guy really wants something in this business. That’s the way it is with all collectors; we’ve dealt with them before. Price doesn’t mean a thing to them.”

“According to this magazine I read every now and then, the only collector with enough dough to throw away on a car that isn’t a real antique, is some nut named Crocker,” Reardon said idly.

“Hey! That’s him! That’s the guy!” The young man sounded as if they had discovered mutual relatives.

“Then we can forget about it. Money he don’t need,” Reardon said unhappily and opened the door of the Charger. He climbed in while Dondero got in the other side. They closed the doors; Reardon looked up at the young salesman. “By the way, I don’t suppose this Crocker traded in anything we might be interested in for our spread? Although I suppose guys with his dough don’t trade in.”

“He traded in a VW a year old. Probably a car he wanted to get rid of anyway.” The young man shook his head sadly, unhappy at having to give such nice young men bad news. “Nothing for you, I’m afraid.”

“I’m afraid not.” The Charger’s engine was started. “Well, thanks anyways. Sorry to take up your time.”

“That’s all right. Take my card; I’m John Middleton, Jr.” A card was handed over and tucked into a pocket. “If you ever change your mind about the Charger and want to step up a bit, I’ve got an Eldorado in top shape, only two years old. Belonged to a preacher, never drove it over twenty miles an hour, but his flock thought it was too flashy—”

“I’ll remember,” Reardon said and drove from the lot.

They turned down Folsom. Dondero looked across the car; Reardon was smiling grimly. Dondero started patting his pockets, looking for a cigarette, and then remembered he had given them up. He leaned back resignedly, studying his superior.

“I’d feel better about these impromptu performances,” he said, “if a) I knew they were coming, and b) if I knew what the hell they were all about. And while we’re on questions and answers, Lieutenant, let me give you c): Why didn’t we simply flash our badges and ask the man whatever questions we wanted? Why complicate life?”

“Because we probably found out more this way.” Reardon handled the car easily, automatically, his face engraved with the same grim smile. “All salesmen are natural-born talkers, and used-car salesman are the worst — or the best. Take your pick. Give them a chance to brag and they’ll bend your ear, especially about anything to do with cars. Unless, of course, they have a good reason for keeping buttoned up — like a police badge, for instance.”

“And now we come to the sixty-four-dollar question,” Dondero said, not wasting time arguing Reardon’s theory. “What’s it all about?”

“That accident last night,” Reardon said with deep satisfaction. “I knew damned well it wasn’t an accident.” He swung the car into First, heading toward the Embarcadero. “I told you!”

“You didn’t tell me anything,” Dondero said stubbornly.

Reardon turned into the Embarcadero, heading south in the direction of Army Street. He frowned without looking at the other. “You didn’t read Wilkins’ report?”

“Sure I read it. You showed it to me in your office this morning. But until you started that sister act in the used-car lot, I had no idea we were even working on the same case. I didn’t know what was going on until that youngster mentioned a Buick, and then a big light came on in a circle over my head.”

“So now you know.”

“But I don’t see what you gained with that charade back there. Hell, you knew he bought the Buick, and if you had the registration, you knew when he bought it. So what was that all about back there?”

“I didn’t know he traded a Volks for it, and I didn’t know he didn’t argue price. That’s what that was all about.”

“I see,” Dondero said in a voice that clearly indicated he didn’t see at all. “If we’re talking about the same case, then Wilkins must have written two reports and I only read one, because the one I read certainly didn’t make it sound like anything but an accident. And I’m pretty sure it didn’t to Judge Jorgensen this afternoon either.” He glanced out the window; they were rattling across the bridge on Third Street, with the docks all about them. “And where are we going now? It happened just down below, didn’t it?”

“It did, but we’ll stop back there later. Right now we’re going over to that restaurant on Army Street.”

“What restaurant?” Dondero asked, mystified. “There wasn’t anything in Wilkins’ report about a restaurant. Are you sure we’re talking about the same case?”

“Pretty sure.” Reardon tilted his head; they had crossed Mariposa and were approaching Eighteenth Street. “It happened just up there.” He brought his attention back to the road. “About the restaurant; Crocker said he was at a restaurant over on Army Street, said he knew the counterman there. We’re going over there to find out if he really did stop there last night.”

“Man, you’ve got to be out of your mind!” Dondero stared across the car. “Why would he lie about stopping at a restaurant, for Christ’s sake? What would that gain him?”

“He had to explain what he was doing, driving down Indiana,” Reardon said patiently. “And in order to do it, he had to be coming from somewhere on the South side heading home, someplace that would give him a reasonable excuse for driving down that street.”

Dondero turned sarcastic. “And how did he know Bob Cooke would conveniently be walking down that street?”

“I don’t know.” Reardon frowned, trying to think of possibilities, but no really good ones occurred to him. “Maybe Crocker figured he’d drive up and down a few streets until he saw him. He’d be heading back for civilization from the Central Basin docks.” He shrugged. “Crocker just happened to catch up with him on Indiana, is all.”

Dondero raised his eyes to heaven. “Oh brother!”

“I’m right, I tell you!” Reardon’s jaw tightened. “Damn it, weren’t you listening back there at that used-car lot? Do you honestly think that Crocker bought that old Buick because he’s a collector? To begin with, nobody collects thirty-year-old cars, and the last guy who would — or could — would be someone who’s out of work.”

“What the hell!” Dondero said, scotching that argument. “Lyndon Johnson’s out of work too.”

“I know, but he doesn’t live at the Martinique Apartments,” Reardon said darkly.

“That doesn’t mean a thing. Some guys spend their dough on one thing, some on another. You don’t know what Crocker’s bank balance is, or if he has a fortune stashed away in a safe-deposit box someplace.” Dondero stopped suddenly, remembering, and then went on slowly. “About this collector angle, now that I remember, Crocker never said he was a collector. You started that routine yourself, after the kid said he was a collector. You’re beginning to believe your own propaganda now.” He thought of something else. “And you also don’t know what he actually paid for that old Buick. All you’ve got is the word of a salesman you wouldn’t normally trust an inch, and even then you don’t have the figures.”

“We can get them,” Reardon said grimly.

“Well,” Dondero advised evenly, “you better get them before two o’clock Friday, or five will get you ten he drives out of there in his collector’s-item Buick a free man.” He smiled humorlessly. “You also better get a lot more than what you’ve got, friend, or he’s just apt to take you out with him.”

Reardon remained silent, but not Dondero.

“And one final point: you claim you knew it was no accident even before we visited the used-car lot. So how do you explain that to anyone by using his buying the Buick just a week ago as an argument?”

“That I don’t know,” Reardon admitted unhappily. “There’s something in my mind trying to tell me something I don’t know I know. If you know what I mean.” His voice hardened perceptibly at the look of incredulity on the other’s face. “This buying the Buick a week ago is only the starter. Now it’s simply a matter of building up a case, of getting evidence. But that car bit is solid.”

Dondero shook his head wonderingly.

“You’ve really flipped! A guy buys a heavy car in order to kill somebody. Somebody definite, you say, but somebody he doesn’t know, for reasons nobody can guess at, at a place and time he isn’t sure the other guy will be.” He considered his statement a minute and nodded. “Yeah. That ought to practically sell itself to Judge Jorgensen as an argument. I hear he bought a pretty heavy car himself the other day.” His voice became musing. “I wonder who he’s planning to knock off?”

“That man Crocker bought that heavy car to kill somebody — Bob Cooke, to be exact,” Reardon said with no emotion in his voice. He turned the Charger into Army Street, bringing his speed up again. “You can’t kill a man with a Volkswagen without taking a big chance of getting killed yourself. They’re just too fragile.”

“Well,” Dondero said, “nobody will argue with you on that, but then, the VW people don’t advertise their cars as weapons. On the other hand,” he added, thinking about it, “neither do the Buick people.”

He leaned back, staring at the warehouses and occasional factory that flashed by on the deserted street, shaking his head at his friend’s stubbornness, and the potential danger to his career by his ridiculous insistence that the Cooke case was no accident...

Chapter 11

Wednesday — 6:20 P.M.

Whoever named the restaurant the Mess Hall did an accurate job, Reardon thought critically, drawing the Charger to the curb before the joint and switching off the ignition. A cutey-cute name, but more accurate than the namer meant. Even before he descended from the car, the sight of the place brought back memories of days in his youth when he had been reduced to eating in places like that, and he repressed an involuntary shudder. Without going in he could imagine the unwiped formica counter-top, the vinyl tile floor with tiles broken and missing and littered with unswept cigarette butts, the coffee urn misty with grime, the doughnuts soggy in their cardboard box on the shelf, the faintly sour odor of the place. He sighed, climbed down, joined Dondero on the sidewalk, and opened the door.

A cursory inspection proved his forecast eminently correct. He looked around. Other than the counterman the place was empty. Reardon’s eyebrows rose. While it certainly was not the Top of the Mark or Freddy’s, still people must eat here, he thought, and the people in this type neighborhood didn’t normally dine at ten in the evening. He shrugged the thought away, staring down the counter. The counterman was a thin, pimply-faced character in his late forties or early fifties, with a filthy apron over equally stained ex-white trousers and T-shirt, and tennis shoes without socks. He sat at the last stool before the counter reading a newspaper, a toothpick locked in his mouth. He didn’t look up when they opened the door; it wasn’t until Dondero closed it with significant force that he bothered to note their presence. He came to his feet resignedly, shuffled back of the counter and stared at them.

“Yeah? What’ll you have?”

No need for subterfuge with this one, Reardon decided at once. He pulled his wallet from his back trouser pocket, flipped it open to display his badge on one side and his I.D. on the other, and extended it before the other’s eyes.

“Police.”

“Surprise, surprise,” the counterman said, impressed not at all. “Cops pay for coffee in this joint same as everybody else.” His voice had the aplomb of a man who was in the clear and knew it.

Reardon looked him in the eye for a moment, but the thin pimply-faced man met his look with confidence. The lieutenant nodded and sat down on a stool.

“Fair enough. Make mine black, plenty of sugar.”

“Better put some milk in mine,” Dondero said and straddled the adjoining stool.

“And join us, if you don’t mind,” Reardon added.

The counterman considered him a moment from beneath hooded lids, turned and drew three coffees in chipped and not-too-clean mugs. He set them on the counter, added spoons from a shelf beneath, and pushed over a pitcher of milk and a shaker of sugar. The two detectives dragged the mugs closer; Reardon added sugar, stirred and tasted, but Dondero, considering the scum on the surface of the milk, decided he hadn’t wanted any coffee in the first place. The lieutenant sipped his, paused to nod in a manner that could have indicated either appreciation or confirmation of a previous opinion. He looked up.

“I have a few questions I’d like to ask.”

The counterman shrugged. His sharp eyes were faintly amused; they seemed to indicate he had scarcely figured the police were there for the coffee. He continued to pour sugar into his mug. His voice was equable.

“Go ahead.”

“Know a guy named Crocker?”

“No.”

“Maybe you know him as Ralph. Ralph Crocker.”

“The answer is still no.” The pimply-faced man stirred his coffee and then checked it. It seemed to come up to specifications; he sipped again. He didn’t seem to be faintly interested in either the lieutenant’s question or his own answer.

Reardon felt a sudden flash of elation, but no part of it showed on his expressionless face. At his side Dondero looked up for a moment, and then looked away. Reardon continued.

“He says you do.”

“And I say I don’t.”

There was no argumentativeness in the counterman’s voice; not even boredom. He was stating facts, neither in a hurry to end the interview nor to necessarily extend it. He sipped and set his mug down. He had been standing erect back of the counter; now he placed one foot on the shelf beneath, pushing something aside with his toe to make room, and leaned forward, making himself more comfortable, enjoying his coffee.

Reardon suddenly changed course. “How come the place is empty?”

There was a brief flash of humor in the other’s eyes. “Because nobody is in here eating.” The counterman decided that humor was wasted on police. “Because we get busy around a quarter to nine, nine o’clock, when the factories around here start their second-shift lunch breaks. We ain’t exactly a family restaurant.” The flash of humor returned. “Why? You guys thinking of buying in?”

“So between eight and eight-thirty last night you must have been pretty empty.”

“We wasn’t turning them away in droves,” the counterman said.

“Then you ought to remember this guy Crocker. He claims to have been here last night at that time. Says he had a sandwich and a cup of coffee and left at eight-thirty.”

“Oh him? Yeah. There was a guy here about that time. Had him a hamburger with nothing on. And coffee. But I don’t know his name.”

Reardon’s previous elation disappeared. He took a deep breath. “What did he look like?”

“What do you want him for?”

“What difference does it make?”

The counterman considered the question judiciously and came to the conclusion the red-headed cop lieutenant was right. It wasn’t any skin off his butt and it would be stupid to make it any skin off his butt.

“Don’t make no difference,” he said. “I was just curious.”

“Well, he was in an accident,” Reardon said evenly. Dondero sat listening, stirring his untouched coffee idly, watching the oily surface break up in little swirls.

“Get hurt bad?” The counterman sounded more polite than interested.

“No.”

“Well, if it was the same guy, he’s been in a couple of times before. Tall, skinny guy your age maybe. Maybe a couple years older. I don’t remember what he had on in the way of clothes.”

“Did you see his car?”

“Yeah. It was parked outside, right in front. Big, black job, hundred years old.” The counterman finished his coffee, studied his toothpick critically and decided he had earned a new one. He picked one from the holder on the counter and put it in place.

Reardon sighed, drumming his fingers on the formica counter-top, trying to think of some useful questions to ask, but none seemed to come. At last he looked up, filling in more than anything else, waiting for a better idea to come.

“It’s odd you didn’t know his name. He claims you were friends.”

“Friends?” The counterman shook his head slowly in negation. “He was just a guy comes in for a sandwich and a coffee.”

“He says he liked to talk to you.”

“I can’t say.”

Reardon frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, I can’t say. He always did the talking. Sometimes I listened, sometimes I didn’t.” The tiny flash of humor returned momentarily. “When I didn’t I don’t think I missed much.”

“Why? What did he talk about?”

“That what I’m saying. He didn’t talk about anything.”

Something had been bothering Dondero and he finally recognized what it was. He couldn’t see what it advanced the lieutenant’s case any — he couldn’t see where anything could or would — but it bothered him and he wanted to get it off his chest. He cleared his throat introductorily and cut into the conversation.

“You say he always parked that big car of his outside. Well, he only had it for a week.”

The counterman shrugged. “So he never come in before a week ago.”

Reardon looked up, alert. “You mean, the couple of times before he was here were all in the last week?”

“That’s what I mean.”

The feeling of elation, of discovery, was beginning to return; cautious and wary now, but none the less on the move. Reardon kept his voice the same. “What else can you tell us about the man?”

“Like what?”

“Like anything at all.”

The counterman considered a moment. “Well,” he said at last, “the first time he comes in, I remember he says, “Where’s the clock?’”

“Where’s the clock?” Reardon looked around the bare walls. “Where is the clock?”

“There ain’t. Oh, we had one but it got busted,” the counterman explained, “and the boss sent it out to be fixed. Or anyway, he says he sent it out to be fixed. I’m betting dough he’s a goddamn liar; he’s too cheap to pay for fixing it. But I couldn’t care less; who needs it? Once the second-shift lunch break at the factories ends, I shut the joint down. I even leave the dirty dishes. Guy on days does them before he opens up.”

Reardon was feeling that old, familiar feeling of being onto something.

“Go ahead about the clock.”

“That’s all there is. He says, ‘Where’s the clock?’ and I says, ‘We ain’t got one,’ and he says, ‘Oh,’ and that’s it.” He shrugged. “Don’t know what he was griping about; he had a wristwatch.”

Reardon felt a strong hunch. “Let me ask you something else. Did he ever ask about a television?”

Dondero frowned at him as if he were crazy, but the counterman grinned.

“Cops must be getting smarter than in my day. How you knew I don’t know, but he sure did. Second time he was in here — last Friday, I think. Yeah, it couldn’t have been Saturday because they got different hours, Saturday, at the plants.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, he asks do we have a TV and I says to him, I says, ‘Look around, does it look like we got a TV? We don’t keep it in the safe, you know, because we also ain’t got a safe.’” His tiny eyes twinkled with the memory. “Then he asks if we got a radio, and I told him the tight bastard owns the joint figures a radio takes a guy’s mind off his work. What the boss means is radios cost dough, and damned if I’ll bring in my own. So I says to this guy, I says, ‘No, we ain’t got a radio. Entertainment, you go over on Broadway. Here, we just feed people.’”

Reardon smiled in response to the thin man’s grin. “And what time did he leave last night?”

The grin disappeared, replaced with a look of disgust.

“Well,” the counterman said, and expertly shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth, “he says to me, I got to run, it’s getting late, eight-thirty on the button.’ And he pays his tab and hits the road. Well, eight-thirty I got to start putting up fresh coffee for that gang due in in a couple minutes; I’m late even. Which is mighty unusual, because I always get a feeling when it’s time to put the coffee up, if you know what I mean—” He looked at Reardon expectantly.

“I know what you mean,” Reardon said softly.

“Yeah. Christ, I ought to be able to tell, I been doing it long enough. Anyways, so I rush around like a goddamn maniac boiling the water, making up the pot, seeing to it there’s fresh milk in the pitchers—” Dondero made a slight sound but the counterman disregarded it. “—and then, goddamn it, I sit on my butt for half hour before the first guy from the factory shows. So I says to him — his name’s Ken something — I says, ‘What’s with the shifts tonight you’re late, Ken?’ And Ken says to me, he says, ‘No, they’re on time, you got to be early,’ and he laughs.” The counterman sniffed in disgust. “That character should talk about how we ain’t got a clock! He ought to get his own watch fixed.”

Reardon kept his voice conversational. He was moving his empty cup in aimless circles around the stained formica top, his eyes following his hands, watching the damp trails, not watching the counterman at all.

“So you figure he actually left here about eight-fifteen?”

“If then,” the counterman said and looked at Dondero. “Ain’t you going to drink your coffee?” The look on Dondero’s face gave him his answer. “It’s from the guy on days,” he said defensively and took the three mugs, shoving them under the counter.

Reardon came to his feet, pulling out his wallet.

“That’s twenty cents,” the counterman said. “You don’t have to pay for me. Come the day I pay for coffee in this joint!”

Reardon extracted a ten-dollar bill and handed it over.

“Keep the change. And thanks for the information.” He smiled. “Take the dough and go someplace and buy yourself a good meal.”

The counterman took the bill, looked at it a moment, and then folded it and tucked it neatly into his watch pocket. He smiled back, faintly as if the muscles in his face were unaccustomed to form themselves into smiles for cops.

“The food here ain’t as bad as you might think. True, the place needs a little touching up, not to mention a good cleaning, but I don’t get paid for that. I get paid for short-order cooking, and if I say so myself, I make a fair hamburger and a damned good western.” His smile faded completely; he looked Reardon in the eye, even removing the toothpick for emphasis. “As for the information, I ain’t got nothing to hide from the cops. Sure I been in Q. The boss knows it and you knew it the minute you walked in here. But I’m clean. I been clean over eight years, now.”

“I believe you,” Reardon said. “Even the part about the hamburgers.”

He smiled, waved a hand at the man, and walked out the door with Dondero immediately behind him. They climbed into the Charger; the engine turned over and they pulled away from the curb. The lieutenant was smiling in self-satisfaction.

“You look like the canary that swallowed the cat,” Dondero said in disgust. He patted his pockets for his cigarettes, remembered his pledge, and shook his head. “Stan went back to them, but he’s got no guts,” he said, apropos of nothing, and then returned to the subject at hand. “And just what did you think you discovered back there that takes you anyplace at all?”

“The time,” Reardon said softly, and smiled without humor. “Our friend Crocker tried to set up an alibi based on time. That was the reason he was at that coffeepot — I mean that particular one instead of one over near the market, or another in that general neighborhood. He scouted places until he found one without a clock...”

“Oh, come on, Jim!” Dondero almost snorted; it ended up a half sneeze. He dragged out a handkerchief, used it, and returned to the battle. “So he doesn’t see a clock and he asks about it!”

“Oh, ‘Come on, Jim,’ my foot! How about that television and radio bit?”

“What about them?”

Reardon glanced over at him in surprise and then returned his eyes to the road. He turned back into Third Street.

“Wake up, Don; you’re really not that thick. Crocker wanted a place without a television set or a radio so the counterman couldn’t catch him out when he made up that My-goodness-it’s-eight-thirty-on-the-button-I’ve-got-to-rush-old-pal garbage. Suppose he says it’s eight-thirty and the man is watching TV and it’s in the middle of a program? Or suppose he has a favorite program at eight-thirty he wants to see, and turns it on and finds it’s far from eight-thirty?”

“And suppose the counterman happens to own a watch?” Dondero couldn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice.

“So what? Then we’ve got one man’s word against another as to which watch is accurate. But NBC or CBS are hard to argue with. For Christ’s sake, Don, what other reason could he possibly have for asking if the joint had a TV or radio?”

“Well,” Dondero said easily, “I’ll tell you what I’d say if I was him — or if I was his lawyer. I’d say something like the counterman was a lousy conversationalist — which he admits — so Crocker would like some TV or radio to keep him company while he eats because he’s a lonely guy looking for somebody to listen to. Lots of people can’t eat alone without TV or radio or a book or newspaper or something. I happen to be one of them,” he added, half defiantly.

Reardon shook his head in mock admiration. “Beautiful! So he’s lonely and he wants TV or radio, so he picks the only joint in town without them. Remind me never to have you for my lawyer.”

He turned from Third Street into Nineteenth. Dondero looked at the clock on the dashboard.

“We’re going to be late for our dates.” It was a most deliberate change of subject.

“I want to drive by that accident scene again. I have a feeling that whatever’s bugging me started there. And you ought to see the block, anyway. We’ll only be there a few minutes.” He glanced across at Dondero and smiled. “Don’t look so woeful. All we’re going to be late for is a shower and a change. So we won’t eat anywhere fancy. Maybe we’ll drop into Tommy’s Joynt, or eat at the Wharf.”

“We could always go back to the Mess Hall,” Dondero said with a grin. “If we time it right and get there just before the factory boys, we might even get a decent — or anyway, fresh — cup of coffee. Who knows? Maybe our friend there is a good cook.”

“I’d rather take his word for it,” Reardon said with a smile and became serious again. “Well? You still haven’t answered my argument. Why did Crocker pick the only place without TV or a radio?”

“Who knows?” Dondero said glumly and then brightened. “I know. Maybe he hates TV and radio and wanted to be sure nobody would turn it on while he was eating. There’re people like that too.”

“What it proves,” Reardon said firmly, “is that he lied about the time, and he must have had a damned good reason for doing so. He gave himself an extra fifteen minutes at the minimum before he called that accident in. Why? Where was he during those fifteen minutes? What was he doing? It’s about four minutes from the Mess Hall to where we’re going.” He looked at Dondero sardonically. “You’re so good at finding excuses for everything Crocker did and said, find one for that.”

“Easy,” Dondero was not easily cowed. “He stopped for gas, and—”

“The gas gauge was at a quarter full,” Reardon said, remembering, scotching that argument in its infancy.

“Then he stopped at a gas station and used the john. Hell, does he have to explain all that in court? There’s only one pinpointed time in this whole business, and that’s when he called it in. Communications has that fixed. The rest is all guesswork on somebody’s part. You still can’t get around the fact that if he knew his victim you can’t prove it. Or show any reason why he would run him down.”

“He must have known him. And he must have had a reason for killing him. He isn’t a nut.” He frowned. “We just haven’t run across the proof yet.”

He swung the wheel; they turned into Indiana. Reardon pulled to the curb and stopped. His headlights were brought up to high beam; the street lay before them as it had the night before, seen from the opposite direction. The blank-faced warehouses loomed over them, fronting the pavement. They seemed even deeper in shadow because of the bright lights reflected over their roofs from the Central Basin docks. Reardon turned to Dondero.

“Here’s where it happened. That’s the phone booth he called from. Do want to get out and look?”

“Not me.” Dondero shook his head emphatically. “If Frank Wilkins checked this area a few minutes after it happened, I’m not going to waste time trying to be Columbus a day later.” He looked at his superior sympathetically; the stocky lieutenant was staring around him in the rapidly growing dusk. There was an almost desperate intensity to his concentration. “Do you see anything that helps you scratch that itch of yours, Jim?”

Reardon gave up the search in despair.

“No. Forget it.” He suddenly swung around on the seat, staring at Dondero intensely, almost fiercely. “Don, you heard that youngster at the used-car lot. You heard that counterman a few minutes ago. What do you think? What do you honest-to-God think? Am I really making up stories to suit myself?”

Dondero hesitated a moment before answering, but when he did answer it was to give as straight an answer as he knew how to give. Jim Reardon was more than a higher grade he happened to be assigned to work with that day; he was also a very close friend.

“Jim,” he said slowly, “if you are, you have a reason for it. You always have had reasons for everything you did, and I’m sure you have now. At least in your own mind. I’ll admit there are various interpretations for everything we heard, and I know that one of those interpretations could easily support your arguments. I’ve been playing the devil’s advocate, in a way, and I honestly don’t know if it was because I was just trying to anticipate what a defense attorney would say, or because I really think you’re off base on this one. I’ve seen you wrong before, but never so sure.”

He hesitated. Reardon waited, his face a mask. Dondero sighed.

“But I’ll tell you this, Jim — and I think you know it: with the case you have right now, together with catching him flagrantly spitting on the sidewalk, we couldn’t hold Crocker for a misdemeanor.”

Reardon looked at him for several seconds and then turned to stare out of the car window, looking down the street, letting his gaze move back to the telephone pole in the middle of the block. His big hands held the steering wheel of the car lightly. He sighed deeply.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “In fact, I know you’re right. But I’m right too. That’s the problem.”

He started to put the car into gear. Dondero put out his hand, touching the lieutenant’s arm.

“Jim—”

Reardon turned. “Yes?”

“There’s just one thing—” He hesitated a moment and then went on. “You’ve been living this thing pretty intensely for the past twenty-four hours. I haven’t had it that long, but I’ve had a piece of it. Now, you and me, well, we’re used to it. It’s our job. But with Penny it’s different. Penny—”

“What about Penny?”

Dondero tried to explain. “Well, we’re all going out to dinner to relax. If we kick this thing around all evening, nobody’s going to be very relaxed. Especially Penny. Let’s drop the whole subject of Bob Cooke and Crocker and accidents and murder and everything else that comes under the heading of police work. For tonight, I mean. Let’s try to have fun, or as much fun as we can under the circumstances.”

“Fair enough,” Reardon said quietly and then suddenly grinned. He slid the car into gear and fed her gas, heading toward Mariposa and the nearest entrance to the Skyway. He seemed to be more at ease than he had been all day. “One thing is sure — Jan won’t mind...”

Chapter 12

Thursday — 7:45 A.M.

Lieutenant Jim Reardon lay on his back in bed in the dim room faintly lit through drawn shades, smoking a cigarette. His open eyes were fixed on the shadowy ceiling, his thoughts tracing for the hundredth time the intricate maze of the Crocker-Cooke puzzle, reliving every moment of the past two days, searching for answers or at least signposts. At his side, snuggling against him, warm and soft and extremely feminine, Jan breathed quietly in sleep. Reardon reached over and crushed out his cigarette, trying not to disturb Jan. The movement merely caused her to press herself against him more closely, as if seeking protection, without breaking the even tenor of her breathing. There was a throaty quality to it that reminded him of the purring of Smokey. He glanced down at her gamin face and smiled tenderly. In more than her purring did she remind him of Smokey, that most lovable of animals. Both had claws and could use them when required, but far more important was the major difference between them — their difference in sex.

The sudden ringing of the telephone at his side startled him from his reverie. He reached for it instantly, lifting the receiver, hoping he had stopped it before it wakened the girl at his side. And who in the devil could be calling at what had to be the first crack of dawn? he thought savagely. In your job almost anyone in the world, he answered himself unhappily; that’s who. He spoke into the mouthpiece.

“Hello?” It was practically a whisper.

“Jim? This is Don.” Dondero sounded wide-awake and happy to be alive. “Crummy day out, what?” He sounded pleased about it, and then changed the subject. “Hey, how about doing me a favor? My heap’s in the garage — transmission’s shot. Comes from trying to drive like you. Anyway, how’s about picking me up on the way into the Hall, huh? Not at my place, at Penny’s.” A potential interpretation of this statement suddenly occurred to him and he hurried to correct any possible misunderstanding. “Don’t get me wrong, man. I’m home right this minute, and this is where I slept. It’s just—” His voice took on a note of pride. “Well, I’m going over there for breakfast. How about that, huh?”

“What time is it?”

“Quarter to eight on a lovely, foggy, rainy typical California day. What more do you want? And what’s the matter with your voice? You getting laryngitis?”

“No, it’s just—”

Behind Reardon a throaty voice spoke. There was a smile in it.

“You don’t have to whisper. I’m awake. Who is it?”

He cupped the receiver, smiling over his shoulder. “It’s Don. He wants me to pick him up at Penny’s.” He saw her eyebrows go up mischievously and shook his head with a grin. “I hate to disappoint you sex-starved match-making women, but he’s home and he slept home. He’s just going over there for breakfast.” He turned back to the telephone. “No, I’m all right. Just a frog in my throat. When do you want to be picked up?”

“Yeah, you sound a lot better now,” Dondero conceded. “Pick me up, say, in an hour? There’s a cab stand on the corner — this hour shouldn’t be any problem getting one. I’ll be over at Penny’s in fifteen minutes, tops.”

“And if there aren’t any cabs, you can always trot, eh?”

“The word is jog,” Dondero said and grinned.

Jan was sitting up in bed, twisting to reach up and release the window shade over the bed. It slid up a foot; beyond it the drizzle tapped the glass. The building next door was scarcely visible in the foggy morning. San Francisco, I still love you, she thought and turned to him.

“Go ahead,” she said with a smile. “I’ll catch a cab down to the office.”

She saw his attention drawn to her full, lush breasts and slid back under the covers, making a face at him.

Reardon brought his attention back to the telephone with an effort.

“I’ll tell you what, Don,” he said. “Make that an hour and a half instead of an hour, and you have a ride. I’ll pick you up.”

“Great,” Dondero said happily. “And thanks.” He put the receiver back in its cradle.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jan said seriously. “I could have caught a cab down to the office. You don’t have to drive me downtown and then come all the way back.”

“Who’s going to drive you downtown?” Reardon asked, sounding amazed at the weird suggestion. He reached up and pulled the shade down again, and then slid under the covers, putting his strong arms around her, drawing her willing body tightly against his, putting his head down to kiss first her breasts, then her throat, and finally locking his mouth on hers in growing need. The kiss finally broke. Jan rubbed herself against him, and then opened her eyes. They twinkled up at him impishly.

“An hour and a half?” she asked. “Mmmmm!”

Thursday — 9:20 A.M.

Lieutenant Reardon parked the Charger on the sharp hill, took the necessary precautions to keep the car in place with the automatic movements of any San Francisco driver, and slipped from the seat with a whistle on his lips. The drizzle had stopped, at least momentarily, replaced by damp fog. He crossed the street and trotted up the many steps of the tall, Victorian-style house, feeling at peace with the world and himself. The usual roller-coaster view of Fort Mason disappeared after less than a block, buried in the whitish mist below. He knew that when Judge Jorgensen opened Municipal Court the following day, he was going to have to do a lot of explaining to a lot of people, but that was the following day. Today was today and had started off wonderfully, despite the weather.

Penny answered his second ring and gave him a brief smile that — while it couldn’t have been called exceptionally gay — really wasn’t too bad under the circumstances.

“Don’s in the kitchen,” she said, leading him into the apartment and closing the door behind him. “That’s where I eat.”

“Where else?” Reardon asked, surprised.

She smiled again. “Let me have your jacket. It’s muggy. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or something more substantial, like breakfast?”

“To tell you the truth,” Reardon said with a grin, “I’m starving. I’ll take you up on that.” He slipped out of his jacket. Wilkins’ report almost fell out, but he stuffed it back in place and handed the jacket over. Penny hung it neatly on a hanger in the closet and led the way to the kitchen. Dondero was just gulping the last of his coffee.

“I’m ready.”

“I’m not,” Reardon said and pulled a chair to the table. He smiled at the sergeant. “I’m going to have something to eat.”

“Oh. Fine,” Dondero said vaguely.

Penny stood at the stove. “Eggs with bacon or ham? Or both?”

“Bacon, please. And some toast and coffee.” Reardon leaned back in the hard, wooden chair, smiling genially at nothing in the world, but nothing out of it either. “It’s a lovely, beautiful day,” he said to no one in particular.

“For ducks, maybe,” Dondero said and shook his head. “This happiness routine — what came over you since I called you?”

“I tried to tell you before — I got hungry. That always drives away the demons. No room for two problems at the same time in my tiny brain.” He reached over and picked up a piece of buttered toast from the edge of Dondero’s plate. “May I? You seem to be finished. If not I’ll pay you back in a minute.”

“I’m done. Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Reardon said politely and began munching.

“And what do we do this morning? Once you get through stuffing yourself, that is.”

“A good question,” Reardon conceded graciously. “I thought we might go down to the ship and look at pictures. With any luck in selecting the proper hour, we might manage to stay for lunch.”

“You’re going to get fat, eating all the time,” Dondero warned.

“You mean, then nobody’ll love me?” He raised the piece of toast to his mouth and then paused; apparently from nowhere a black ball of fur had projected itself into his lap and was curiously stretching its twitching nose in the direction of the toast. Reardon pulled his hand back from the curious sniffing. “Smokey will still love me, won’t you, boy? Skinny or fat?” He pulled his hand even farther away. “I just got through bumming this toast myself. Go bum your own.”

Smokey had no intention of bumming his own from anyone else, but he was willing to forego the whole issue of toast just to be with his friend; besides, toast was something to be sniffed at, not to be eaten. He stretched himself out on Reardon’s chest as he had the day before, reaching up with one paw to touch the face above him, his large liquid eyes fixed solemnly on the gray eyes staring into his.

“Smokey, my friend,” Reardon said, speaking through toast, “you are a beautiful cat.” He glanced across to Dondero. “Don, take a look at this cat.”

“I’m looking,” Dondero said. Despite his attempt to sound unimpressed, a touch of jealousy could be heard in his voice. Reardon looked at him quizzically a moment and brought his eyes back to Smokey’s serious face.

“What eyes!” He suddenly frowned. “Damn! They still make me think of something...” He closed his own eyes a moment in concentration and then opened them suddenly, sitting erect. The brusque movement was not to Smokey’s liking; he considered it ill mannered in a friend. He leaped to the floor and stalked off, highly insulted. Dondero took one look at his superior’s face and knew that whatever had been hidden in Reardon’s mind had worked itself loose and come to the surface.

“What is it, Jim?”

“Don! In the closet, my jacket! It’s got Wilkins’ report in it; bring it in, will you?” Dondero came to his feet swiftly, moving to the hallway. Reardon raised his voice, calling after him. “Bring the jacket too.” He got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Penny. Forget the eggs. We won’t have time.”

She looked at him, surprised. “But the bacon’s almost—”

“I’m really sorry, but I won’t have time to eat.”

Dondero came in with the jacket; Reardon laid the report on the table while he pulled on his jacket. He slipped the rubber band from the report and leafed through the photographs until he had the one showing the end of the tape being held to the edge of the skid marks. He put it down and found the one with a general view of the street. What he was looking for was faint, but it was there, and he was sure under the magic of modern laboratory techniques it could be made sufficiently plain to convince a jury, let alone Captain Tower. Dondero was staring at him.

“What’s the matter, Jim? What is it?”

Reardon looked at him with quiet triumph.

“So I’m crazy, am I? Do you remember when I told you I knew something but I didn’t know what it was I knew? Well, I do now. My friend Smokey’s eyes brought it all back. I finally remembered. Oil slicks!”

“Oil slicks? What’s the cat’s eyes got to do with oil slicks?”

“They shine a certain way in light. That Buick is a fine car for its age, but it has a leaky transmission seal. Leave it in one place for fifteen minutes and it leaves a nice puddle underneath. I saw one when I first pulled into Indiana night before last, just after I crossed Eighteenth Street into the block where it happened; I remember I swerved to miss it, automatically. I saw one again in this picture showing the skid marks being measured; and I saw one a third time in the garage when I was looking the car over. Morrison even mentioned it. I just didn’t connect them in my stupid brain until right now!”

Penny had turned the fire off on the stove and had joined them at the table. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s complicated, but the man who killed Bob Cooke is going to pay for it.” He turned back to Dondero. “Remember that fifteen minutes Crocker rigged at the restaurant? Well, he wasn’t driving around blindly; he was parked on Indiana, where that first oil slick was. His lights were out and he was waiting for Bob Cooke. He knew Cooke would come down that street!”

“But how did he know it? How could he know it?” Dondero still wasn’t too happy with the theory. “And how could he know the man would step off the curb? He’d have had a pretty lousy alibi if he had to chase Cooke up onto the sidewalk to get him. Well?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Reardon said grimly. “That’ll be the first question we ask Mr. Crocker when we see him. Which we are going to do right now.”

“But I thought we were going to the ship to look at pictures?”

Reardon shook his head decisively. “Not now. Maybe later. Maybe this afternoon. But that oil slick should be enough by itself to put Mr. Crocker in the box.” He thought a moment. “I’ll call Thompson and set it up for after lunch. I have a feeling that Captain Tower may want more than an oil slick for my two days of vacation.” He smiled grimly, turned the report over to the telephone number he had marked down the previous day, and looked at Penny. “Where’s the phone?”

“Right back of you.” She still didn’t seem to fully understand what he had been saying or talking about. She dried her hands nervously on her apron and wiped her hair back from her forehead with the back of one hand. “Do you mean that man killed Bob? Purposely?”

“That’s what I mean, Penny.” She looked so forlorn that he put a hand out and touched her arm. Dondero moved to her side. “Yes,” Reardon went on softly, “he killed Bob Cooke on purpose, and now I’m sure I can prove it.”

“But why would he do it? Why?” Penny bit her lip; her dark eyes were beginning to mist dangerously. She shook her head, angry at her display of emotion, and then looked at Reardon in misery. “But why?”

“I don’t know,” Reardon said evenly. “But well find out. And he’ll pay for it.” He turned away, referring to the number on the report, dialing it. There was a brief wait and then an answer. “Hello? Is the chief purser, Mr. Thompson, there?”

“One minute, please...”

Reardon glanced at Penny sympathetically; Dondero was holding her hand. The lieutenant looked down at the floor, putting his thoughts in order; then Thompson was on the line.

“Hello? Chief purser here.”

“Mr. Thompson? This is Lieutenant Reardon—”

“Harry to you, Lieutenant.” His voice had lost the tenseness with which Harry Thompson always faced potential telephone messages from passengers. “I might need police protection someday and I’d like to be on a first-name basis when that day comes. May it never! What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to tell you I can’t make it to the ship this morning, but I still want to see those pictures, so I’ll definitely get out there sometime this afternoon. What dock did you say you were at? I marked it down, but it’s on my desk at the office.”

“Pier 26.”

“That’s at the Central Basin docks, isn’t it?”

At the other end of the line Thompson’s bushy eyebrows rose in amazement.

“Good Lord, no! We’re far enough from the bright lights and civilization as it is. What are you trying to wish on us? The Central Basin docks? They’re halfway to San Mateo, if not Bakersfield. No; we’re between Harrison and Bryant — on the Embarcadero, needless to say.”

“What!”

Thompson was mystified at the other’s tone. “That’s right; Harrison and Bryant. Why? Aren’t we supposed to be here? My God, don’t tell the captain!”

Reardon was not amused. “Harrison and Bryant... My God, but I’m stupid!”

“You’re stupid because we’re down here? Maybe,” Thompson conceded, “but I claim we’re even more stupid, because we’re smack dab under the Bay Bridge, and if the thing falls down, we’re in for it. No place to duck.”

“Sorry,” Reardon said, in no mood for lightness at the moment. “I’ve got to run. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“Make it late and try to stay for dinner,” Thompson suggested. “Bring the girl friend of yours. I’m tired of eating alone or with the chief engineer. He’s a noisy eater and he also always smells of diesel fuel.”

“Well see,” Reardon said abruptly and hung up. The smile that normally would have been on his face after a conversation with Harry Thompson was conspicuously absent. His eyes moved to Dondero’s questioning face. “Don — let’s go!”

“Sure,” Dondero said. He gave Penny’s fingers a slight squeeze of reassurance; Reardon nodded to Penny and walked quickly down the hallway with the sergeant immediately behind him. He trotted down the steps and across the street; he slid into the Charger, started the engine, and was backing up before Dondero had the door completely closed. When he spoke his voice was bitter with self-denunciation.

“God, but I’m stupid! They ought to put me on a beat, but a beat where nobody might ask any questions requiring intelligent answers. We’re going to solve this case and put Mr. Crocker where he belongs — which is in the gas chamber at San Quentin — but it won’t be because of any great stroke of genius on my part. His lawyer could sue me on the basis of being luckier than I deserve!”

“What’s eating you?”

Reardon glanced at his companion a moment and then brought his eyes back to the road. He stepped on the gas; Dondero braced himself as he listened. He’d driven with Lieutenant Reardon when the lieutenant was in one of these moods before, and he knew it would be hectic. And with the heavy fog and the damp streets and the intermittent drizzle, it was quite apt to be something even more.

“We couldn’t figure out how he knew Cooke would be there, just in the right place at the right time to be hit and killed,” Reardon said bitterly. “Well, that’s because we didn’t use our heads. It was just too simple, and that’s what stumped us. We figured Cooke had to be walking up from the Central Basin docks. Well, the ship he worked on is docked at Pier 26. That’s under the Bay Bridge, miles away.”

“I could have told you where Pier 26 is,” Dondero said.

“I’m sure you could.” Reardon continued to marvel at his own idiocy. “So could about twenty million other people, if I’d had brains enough to ask them. But I was so damned sure, I just automatically assumed it was the closest point to where Cooke was killed. So I didn’t ask any logical questions and, naturally, didn’t get any useful answers.”

Dondero still didn’t get it. “So what difference does it make where the ship was — and is — docked?”

Reardon risked a quick turn of his head to see if Dondero was serious.

“What do you mean, what difference does it make? What was Cooke doing over at Indiana and Eighteenth? He had a date with Penny at the Fairmont, and it’s nowhere near his route. It’s the opposite direction. There’s only one possible reason for him to be there: he had a meeting set up with Crocker!”

He swung the car into Van Ness, heading for the bay and the Embarcadero as being the quickest way to the Martinique Apartments at that hour.

“Crocker was waiting on the corner with his lights out. He’d set up a time alibi to explain the time he had to wait for Cooke to get there. It must have been like shooting carp in a rain barrel. When Cooke showed — and now that we know what the score is we’ll find the cab that took him there, or near there, because he certainly didn’t walk — Crocker probably flashed his lights to show where he was, and began edging the car slowly forward. So Cooke started to cross the street toward the car, and that big Buick picked up speed in a hurry! And wham!” His jaw tightened at the thought. “Our friend Crocker then backs up slowly, drives at twenty-five miles an hour down the street, and jams on his brakes as hard as he can, swerving the wheels. He then pulls Mr. Cooke back from whereever he was, arranges him neatly against the curb, and comes screaming hysterically to the police for help!”

Dondero frowned. “But if the Mandarin is docked at the foot of Harrison and Crocker lives in a hotel off Folsom, just a couple of blocks away, why go all the way down to Indiana to set up the meet?”

“Because it’s generally conceded to be poor planning, killing somebody on your own doorstep,” Reardon said sardonically. “And besides, Harrison carries a lot of traffic; it isn’t deserted like Indiana. True, if he could have arranged it in front of witnesses it might have helped him, but if it didn’t go exactly right he’d be hanging himself.”

He turned into the Embarcadero, increasing his speed. A motorcycle policeman cut over toward him, recognized the car and driver, and turned away.

“But if Crocker killed Cooke deliberately,” Dondero said after some thought, “and he picked a spot for it where nobody was anywhere near, why does he stick around? Why call the cops? It’s dead enough down there. Why doesn’t he simply blow?”

Reardon smiled a cold smile and shook his head.

“Don, you were in Traffic — you ought to know the answer to that. You know the percentage of guys who get away with hit-and-run. Damned few; and it’s the one crime we can keep accurate statistics on. It’s like shooting a policeman; it’s one of the things we never let go of. But a man who sticks around after an accident and even calls the police — well, the court is usually sympathetic if he hasn’t been drinking. He may get a lecture, and if he was speeding a little he may lose his license for a while, but if he has any kind of story, the chances are he walks out a few minutes after he walks in. And he’s clean. Forever. Nobody after him.”

“And now?”

“Now Mr. Crocker is in a crock. All because he had an oil seal that leaked and because a cat had eyes that reflected light...”

Dondero frowned. “You make it sound right, but it’s still circumstantial as hell. To repeat, why the hell did he kill the guy?”

“I have no idea,” Reardon said flatly. “None. But I’m sure he had a good reason.” His voice hardened. “Maybe he’ll be nice and co-operative when we see him, and tell us. Do you suppose?” He increased his speed, swinging into Folsom. Ahead, as he turned, he could see Pier 26; he shook his head again at his stupidity, returning his attention to the road and the job at hand. The past was behind him; ahead of him was a smart and dangerous killer.

They came to Second Street and the wheel turned again. He drew to the curb and switched off the ignition. He reached beneath the front seat with his keys, unlocking a small compartment, withdrawing a service revolver and a belt holster. He clipped it in place beneath his jacket and glanced at Dondero; the sergeant looked surprised that he should even be questioned about being armed. He patted his hip.

The two men climbed down from the car and walked to the entrance of the apartment building. Reardon looked up; ten stories of weathered yellow brick stared back at him impersonally with fifty streaked glass eyes. None of them looked particularly friendly. He put his hand on the front door, twisting it, looking at Dondero with an expressionless face.

“Let’s not do this for the old Gipper,” he said evenly. “Let’s do his one for good old, stupid Lieutenant Jimmy Reardon, shall we, Don?”

“And for Penny Wilkinson,” Dondero added grimly and pushed through the door at the lieutenant’s side into the lobby.

Chapter 13

Thursday — 10:25 A.M.

The lobby of the Martinique Apartments had the standard stippled brown plaster walls enclosing a space no larger than was necessary for two tenants to bump into each other — with disastrous results if either happened to be encumbered by a baby carriage, a shopping cart, or even an inebriated mate. The mailboxes were embedded in one wall, a line of brass gap-toothed mouths; a mailman was busily stuffing the hungry maws with fourth-class fare. He stood aside politely to allow Reardon to run his fingers down the list of names; the finger passed Crocker, Apartment 304, without the slightest hesitation, and stopped at 1002. The finger then moved over casually to press the button beside the name and number. There was no response. With a philosophic shrug he appeared to press it again, but pressed 1003 instead. He was instantly rewarded with a shrill buzzing and smiled at the mailman pleasantly to indicate his success. The mailman looked at him as if he were crazy to even want to get into a building like that, and went back to his vital task of distributing junk mail.

The two plain-clothes detectives pushed into the first-floor corridor and walked to the central area of the hallway, which housed the elevator and an incinerator alongside a dismal air shaft. The two entered the elevator and rode the small box-like contraption jerkily to the third floor, accompanied by the odors of cooking long dead. They waited while the elevator door laboriously creaked open and then moved quietly but quickly to Crocker’s apartment. Reardon pressed the tiny button beside the doorframe and waited, his face a mask. He waited a moment and then pressed the bell once again and rapped on the door panel with his knuckles, more from impatience than from any hope of evoking a response.

“Nobody home,” Dondero suggested inanely.

“I guess not.” Reardon reached into his pocket, bringing out a bunch of keys, studying them a moment, and then selecting one. Dondero frowned unhappily.

“We ought to get a search warrant if we’re going in, Jim. I go along with your ideas about Crocker and Cooke, either because you’ve got me convinced or hypnotized, but Captain Tower is rough on this sort of thing. He says it’s stuff like this that some lawyer uses to get a guy off who’s guilty as hell. You know that. Let’s go get a warrant. It won’t take all that long.”

“A warrant?” Reardon was testing the keys, one by one, selecting the ones that were of the same make as the lock. “I’ve heard tell of those. A piece of paper, aren’t they? With a lot of writing on them? I mean, printing?” He tried the next key in line; the lock turned easily. He withdrew the key and eased the door open, looking back over his shoulder. “Are you coming? Be my guest.”

“But suppose he comes back?”

“What do you mean, suppose he comes back? What do you think we came here for? Breakfast? If he comes back, marvelous! If he doesn’t come back, I’ll get somebody to sit here and wait for him until he does come back!” He shook his head in amazement, looking at the husky sergeant. “What a question! I think love has addled your brains. What if he comes back!”

He walked into the apartment. Dondero followed, chastened into silence, closing the door behind him. There was a slightly musty smell to the place, as if the windows had been closed too long. Still, Reardon admitted, with the rain and fog, who wanted to open windows? He looked about the room. It was scantily provided with cheap plywood furniture upholstered in colorful and durable plastic, the few prints on the dun-colored walls were in dime-store black wooden frames, the rug was no thicker than a crepe suzette; everything clearly advertised the apartment as being rented furnished. Reardon grimaced at the decor and turned to Dondero.

“You take the kitchen and in here. I’ll take the bedroom and bath.”

“What are we looking for?”

“How should I know? Look for anything that ties in with Cooke, or with ships, or with” — he shrugged — “with murder, if that makes any sense. Look for anything out of the ordinary.”

“Right.”

Dondero didn’t sound happy about being in a private residence without a search warrant, but he knew better than to argue at this stage. He also knew that Lieutenant Jim Reardon took his chances, but he also took his own raps. He walked into the kitchen while Reardon headed for the bedroom. A quart of milk stood on the kitchen table together with an empty bowl and a box of breakfast cereal. He opened the refrigerator, studying the contents when he heard his superior’s voice raised urgently.

“Don!”

Dondero closed the refrigerator and came hurrying into the dingy hallway to the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway, looking around, fully expecting a corpse, at the least. The room looked normal enough to him.

“What’s the matter?”

Reardon didn’t even bother to answer; he merely waved his hand around. Dondero took a second look and instantly understood.

“He’s skipped!”

“It looks like it.”

The dresser drawers were open and empty except for some shelf paper some tenant sometime in the distant past had used for lining. The closet pole was bare, denuded of suits or even hangers, although a few wire hangers were on the floor. Reardon looked around a few minutes and then walked back to the hallway and went into the bathroom. The medicine chest door was open; the glass shelves within were also empty. Reardon sighed. Dondero walked farther into the room, bent down, and picked something out of the wastebasket.

“Jim — look here.” He held an empty cardboard box. Reardon took it.

“They’re 44s. So he’s armed. Great.”

He left the bathroom, walking to the kitchen. He opened a door or two to the kitchen cabinets and shook his head. Other than a few cans of food and some plastic dishes, they exhibited nothing unexpected. The refrigerator had a plastic bag full of ice cubes, a cucumber, three bottles of some sort of soft drink, and that was all. Reardon slammed the door shut.

“But why would he skip?” Dondero was frowning at him. “He’s supposed to be in court tomorrow!”

“I hope nobody holds their breath until he gets there.” Reardon’s voice was scathing in his self-blame. “He skipped because I had to be a big brain and a big shot and ask Merkel to get us a continuance — as if that made the slightest goddamn difference! Crocker knew damned well something was fishy when I did that; he had the deal figured out just right. He should have been released at once; that’s why he didn’t bother having a lawyer with him in court. A lawyer might make the court look at something twice. He figured to walk out the door free and clear, and when Merkel asked for an extension — and got it — he knew it wasn’t normal. So he figured he’d slipped up somewhere. He didn’t know where, but I have a feeling prudence is a large part of Mr. Crocker’s make-up. So he simply blew.”

“But what could you have done?”

“I should have let him walk out with a lecture by the judge. He would still have been liable for a murder charge when I had the goods on him. And he would still be around in the meantime. But, no! I had to ask for a continuance!”

Dondero knew better than to commiserate with Jim Reardon at a time like this. The best thing to do was to change the subject, and he hurried to do it.

“You going to get the technical boys down here?”

“Looking for what? Bedbugs? Cockroaches? Secret passageways? I can picture Captain Clark if I did. I can hear him like it was yesterday.” He stalked over to the telephone and raised it, listening. “Well, at least he skipped out on a phone bill too. Thank God.” He dialed a familiar number and waited impatiently. The phone was answered almost at once.

“San Francisco Police Department. Sergeant Holland speaking.”

“Bill? This is Jim Reardon. I want to put out an all-points on a man named Ralph Crocker. He—” He paused, thinking. “Is Stan Lundahl there?”

“One moment, Lieutenant.” There was a brief pause; Reardon could see the sergeant’s finger going down the assignment list. “Yes, sir. He should be in the building somewheres.”

“Fine. He can give you a detailed description of the man.”

“Yes, sir. What’s this man wanted for?”

“Murder. Hell probably be using either public transportation or taxis. Or he may be across the bay by now halfway to Seattle, because we don’t know when he blew. Get hold of the taxi dispatchers and see if any of the drivers in town remember him. You can check the airport too. He should be carrying at least one suitcase, maybe two. I’m at his apartment and I’m going to talk to the superintendent and the neighbors. They may have some ideas, but I doubt it.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant didn’t hang up, a sign he had something further to add. There was a moment’s pause as he apparently asked someone to contact Lundahl; then he went on. “Lieutenant — Morrison down in the garage has been trying to get hold of you for the last couple of minutes. He rang your office and then us—”

“Switch me over to him.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a click and another telephone began to ring. It rang for a full minute before it was finally answered.

“Yeah?”

“Morrison? This is Lieutenant Reardon. You wanted me?”

“I sure did, Lieutenant. That character’s been giving me a real hard time. He’s got some sort of paper, but I’m no lawyer. It looks like one of them forms you buy in a stationery store; legal-looking and all that, but I don’t know. I’d feel a lot better if you come downstairs and give it your personal okay.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“About this character,” Morrison said, his tone of voice clearly expecting to be understood. He remembered something else, and disappointment entered his voice. “And another thing, he don’t want to sell the car under no circumstances. I told him about the transmission seal, but he couldn’t care less. He just wants to drive it away, and he’s got this paper—”

Reardon finally woke up. “Morrison! Is there a man there trying to take out that Buick?”

“That’s what I been trying to tell you, Lieutenant,” Morrison said, deservedly aggrieved. “He’s got this here paper—”

“Keep quiet! Listen! That’s Ralph Crocker; that man is wanted for murder. There’s an all-points out on him. Grab him and hang onto him. I’m not in the building, but I’ll be there in damned few minutes!”

He hung up and moved swiftly to the door. Dondero, who had heard and understood, was ahead of him, holding the door open. They forewent the elevator in favor of speed and clattered down the bare staircase, pivoting around the landings and the floor areas, hitting the first floor on the double, bursting through the lobby doors into the street. Behind them the mailman paused in his labors and frowned a moment before returning to feeding “Resident” envelopes to the poor inhabitants of the building. Whatever had those hard-looking characters running, he wanted no part of it.

Reardon was at the wheel and had the engine roaring in seconds; the car left the curb with an impulsive leap as Dondero slammed the door behind him and leaned forward, bracing himself with his huge hands against the padded dashboard, prepared for anything.

They shot down Harrison at full speed, not speaking to each other. The high beams were on, a warning signal in the dark mistiness of the day; both of Reardon’s thick thumbs pressed tightly on the horn ring even as his strong hands handled the wildly twisting wheel, flashing past stop lights with no regard for cross traffic, blaring the klaxon in warning, swerving past slower traffic, urging more speed from the car. He swung into Seventh, going contrary to the one-way traffic, nearly hitting a Greyhound bus, skidding past it into the entrance to the police garage, sluing to a stop blocking the ramp, the tires squealing in protest. Dondreo opened his eyes, sweating, and got down from the car a split second after his superior.

The two men ran down the ramp, guns in hand.

“Don — you take this aisle! I’ll take the other one.”

They separated and pounded down the broad spaces separating the neat rows of parked cars, dashing toward the highly lighted area in front of the garage office. Even as he ran Reardon knew something was wrong. Their noisy entrance had evoked no response of any kind. He passed the spot where the Buick had stood the afternoon before. It was empty; only a glistening pool of oil marked where it had stood. Reardon kept running toward the office area, arriving just as Dondero came in from the other aisle. The two men paused, panting, catching their breath, staring at Morrison sprawled on the oil-stained concrete, his head looking oddly lumpy with blood edging from it. A stained wrench lay beside him.

Reardon drew several deep breaths to steady his voice.

“Don, you get help for Morrison. And then wait to hear from me. Stay in Communications.”

He turned and ran back the way he came, stowing his revolver in his belt holster as he ran, cursing the luck that had permitted Crocker to hit the garage when nobody but Morrison was around. An automobile horn echoed hollowly from the garage entrance, blaring its protest against the blockage of the passageway by the Charger. Reardon trotted up the ramp, catching his breath, passing the Charger to see who wanted to get in. It was a ten-car from Southern, with a sergeant named Pilcher at the wheel. Beside him sat a cadet. Reardon knew Pilcher and liked him. Luck, he thought, and about time too! He paused at the side of the patrol car, drawing in deep draughts of air, finally getting control of his speaking.

“Sergeant, is your car in good order?”

“Yes, sir.” Pilcher understood the reason for the question. “I’m here because we’re to check out at eleven this morning.”

“Well, today you’re in for overtime,” Reardon said decisively, and opened the door beside the young cadet. “Out. The keys are in the Charger; park it in the lot.” He took the youngster’s place in the front seat, closing the door behind him, reaching for the microphone, pressing the button on it. “Hello? Communications? This is Lieutenant Reardon. I’m at the entrance to the police garage in the Hall of Justice. I’m in Southern Six; it’s a ten-car with Sergeant Pilcher. This Crocker — the one we just put an all-points on — just attacked Morrison and took his car out of the garage. It’s a black Buick, 1940. Repeat, 1940. He can’t be far away. I want you to advise all patrol cars near here to start closing in on this area, and have them call me direct with their positions. Clear?”

“Clear. Even the ones out-of-service?”

“Unless it’s more important than murder,” Reardon said dryly.

“How about the bike men? They only have two-way; you’ll have to handle them through us.”

“Good enough.”

“The footmen call in every two hours, you know; the foot sergeants every hour. We can give them the description too.”

“You can, but a footman, by the time he calls in — Crocker will be long gone from there. I’m cutting off. Let the cars call me direct.”

“Right.”

Pilcher looked across at him. He was a gray-haired man in his fifties with steady blue eyes and hands on the wheel like hams. He had six citations and Reardon knew he had been lucky to run into him. Pilcher studied the younger man. “Where to, Lieutenant?”

“No place for now. Let’s wait around until we start getting some calls.”

There was a small burst of static from the speaker; a disembodied voice came on.

“Lieutenant? This is Potrero Four. We’re on Carroll. Parked.”

Reardon closed his eyes, picturing the streets, making a map of them in his mind. His eyes opened. “Start this way. Call again when you get near Army.”

“Right.”

“Lieutenant? Mission Three. We’re at Hawthorne and Folsom.”

“What are you doing there? That’s not your district.”

“Liquor store heist. We were the closest. We’re free now.”

“Stay there.” He made up his mind. “Calling Potrero Four.”

“Here, Lieutenant.”

“From Army start zigzagging. Over Connecticut, up Twenty-Fifth, over Carolina, up Twenty-Second, and all the way over to Mariposa that way. Then hit the main streets. We’re looking for a 1940 Buick, black, with one man in it. Keep your eyes open.”

“Right.”

“Jim? This is Sergeant Johns. I’m in Potrero Eight. I’m at the China Basin.”

“Good! Did you hear what I told Potrero Four?”

“I heard.”

“Then you fill in what he has to miss. I know you can’t hit it all by a mile, but we have to try. Mission Three?”

“Here.”

“You start zigzagging too. Come up Folsom to Fourth, over Fourth to Harrison, up Harrison to Fifth, Fifth to Bryant, and keep that up. But I’m sure he’s a long way from here right now, unless he’s hit a flock of red lights.”

“Southern Two here, Lieutenant. Embarcadero at Mission.”

“Southern Two — stay there and keep your eyes open. That’s a good spot to see five or six streets. You hear what we’re looking for?”

“Yes, sir. We had it before from Communications.”

“Good. Communications — are you on?”

“We’re here, Lieutenant.”

“How about the Highway Patrol? On the freeways?”

“They were number one we contacted, Lieutenant. Then the bridge police.”

“Good.”

“Highway Patrol car Sixty-Five.” Even over the impersonal sameness imposed by the speaker system the voice was speaking quickly and with the tenseness of important news. “We’re on the 101 Freeway, heading south. A black car just passed us heading the other way. Man with me knows cars, says it’s a Buick either 1939 or 1940. One man driving.”

Reardon realized the car might or might not be the one he wanted, but he knew he’d have to take a chance.

“He could go almost anywhere from there. If the bridge police get him, fine, but he’ll think of that. Mission Three, where’s the nearest exit from the Freeway from where you are now?”

“First Street. We’ll get over there and cover.”

“Good. Everyone else keep on with what you’re doing.” He turned to Pilcher. “Let’s go. Get on the Freeway, open up the siren, and let’s see how fast we can get to the end of it.” He returned to the microphone. “Communications, who do you have who can take the exits from the Embarcadero Freeway?”

“Southern Two is the closest.”

“I want them to stay where they are. Who else?”

“Central Seven is at California and Powell. That’s too far.” There was a brief hesitation. “I’ll see what I can do with the bike men.”

“Good.”

Pilcher had taken the patrol car up Bryant against the traffic, his siren beginning to howl. He had to cut sharply to make the Skyway entrance; he mounted the ramp with increasing speed, cutting into traffic at the upper level without slackening speed, raising the shrill whine of the siren higher, shooting past cars that automatically pulled to one side, slowing down. Reardon returned to the microphone.

“Communications: get as many patrol cars and bikes on the north side of Market going down the main streets toward the bay: Stockton, Powell, even Van Ness. He might manage to get that far west if we don’t spot him before. Tell them to keep their eyes open. Mission Three, anything new?”

“If he came down here, we missed him, Lieutenant.”

“Then start scouring the area down to the bay. Southern Two, stay where you are until you hear us pass. We’ve got the siren on full.”

“We can hear you now.”

“Once we pass, head for the Washington exit from the Freeway. We’ll take the Broadway exit. And everyone listening, don’t just look for moving cars — he may have parked someplace, nosed into the curb, or even a parking lot. It would be easy enough to spot if you were looking for it, and easy enough to miss if you weren’t.”

“We’ll pass the word.” That was Communications.

“Good.” Reardon lowered the microphone, staring ahead through the windshield. Pilcher was an excellent driver, and Reardon knew good driving from his own experience. The sergeant spoke from the corner of his mouth without taking his eyes from the wet road.

“Up Broadway or down Sansome when we get off at the end?”

“Take Broadway.” He raised the microphone. “Southern Two, start down Sansome after we pass Washington.”

“Right, Lieutenant.”

Reardon realized trying to spot a moving car in a city the size of San Francisco with only a few patrol cars on the watch, was almost impossible; not for the first time he wished walkie-talkies were in use for the footmen. He stared at the cars they were rapidly passing, automatically checking them and dropping them even as he tried to calculate where the Buick might have gone to. They curved into the final stretch of the Freeway, shooting past the old Ferry Building, curved with the roadway once again, and then dropped like a plummet toward the street. Pilcher had the brakes on, barely pausing at the bottom of the ramp, and in the same instant started up again, heading up Broadway toward the tunnel. Reardon reached over and cut the siren; Pilcher responded by reducing his speed to match the normal traffic. In the fog and mist of the morning the tawdry strip joints and topless bars looked even less appetizing than usual. They drew up at a red light, the engine panting to be off.

Reardon frowned unhappily. Somehow the Buick had managed to escape the confines of the Freeway; now it had half the city to hide in. It had begun to drizzle again; Pilcher started the windshield wipers going. They clicked softly and hypnotically. Reardon ran his window up and stared ahead, his eyes moving from one side of the street to the other, looking at the parked cars. There was a sudden burst of static from the speaker, followed by a voice.

“Lieutenant!”

The microphone was raised instantly. “Yes?”

“Southern Two. I think we have him, or anyway the one that was on the Freeway, probably. We’re on Sansome; he’s ahead of us heading for the Embarcadero. I’m putting on the siren.”

“Right.” He lifted his head to Pilcher. “Let’s get over there as fast as we can!”

“He’s turning into the Embarcadero, Lieutenant. It’s got to be him or somebody else with a guilty conscience, because he knows we’re after him and he’s pouring on the coal. That bastard can move too!”

“Stay with him!” Reardon felt the old feeling of triumph return. No innocent driver of an old Buick — or any other car — would be running from a police car. His eyes came up from the microphone. “Take Columbus. We’ll cut him off down below.”

Pilcher swung the car even as the Lieutenant spoke. His hand moved to the dashboard; the siren came on again, drowning out the rhythmic clicking of the windshield wipers. Below them the bay was covered with fog; it crept partially up the hill they were on, dissipating itself in the light rain that was falling. The pavement glistened beneath them, treacherous, waiting for the slightest mistake on the part of the driver. Pilcher’s face was a mask, his blue eyes icy. He stepped on the gas, taking the diagonal street faster than he wished, but determined not to slow down.

Southern Two came back on. “That idiot will get us all killed! It’s slippery as hell here.” The disembodied voice sounded almost admiring. “He can travel, but we’re gaining.”

Reardon leaned forward as if to help the patrol car’s speed. They shot through the triangular intersections with their siren clearing the slower traffic to one side, weaving about cars who paid the warning little or no attention.

“He’s turning into Bay. I might get a shot at his tires. We’re only a couple of blocks back of him now.”

“No shooting! Not in the city! You’d ricochet and kill somebody!”

“Right.”

Pilcher swayed violently as the patrol car shot around a cable car turning into Columbus from Mason. The faintest sheen of sweat touched his forehead. Reardon swallowed and then peered ahead.

“We’ve got him now.” His voice was taut. Bay Street lay only four blocks below them. He raised the microphone. “We’re on Columbus crossing Lombard. We’re going to try and cut him off at Bay.”

“Right.”

Reardon put the microphone in place and glanced at Pilcher. “When we get there, block the road.” Pilcher’s leathery face revealed nothing; he merely nodded. Reardon looked at him a moment in silence. “And when we do, be ready to jump.”

“Yes, sir.” No muscle moved in his face.

Reardon brought his eyes back to the road. One hand grasped the door handle for instant action; the other braced itself against the dashboard. His heart began to beat more rapidly, adrenaline induced. Below them Bay Street rushed toward them out of the fog...

Chapter 14

Thursday — 11:20 A.M.

They crossed Chestnut with Pilcher already beginning to slow down his suicidal speed; at Francisco he began applying the brakes, easily at first, and then more firmly, controlling the tendency of the car to skid with strong hands responding instantly with countermoves on the steering wheel. Below them the fog boiled over the intersection of Bay and Columbus, hiding it. They approached the crossing at a reasonable speed, but before Pilcher could take the patrol car into the intersection, an ancient black car hurled itself past, its driver hunched over the wheel, unrecognizable at that speed.

Automatically and without thinking Pilcher tramped on the gas again, a muttered curse on his breath, swinging up the incline into Bay Street behind it. The noise of his siren cut out the similar warning from Southern Two, hurtling up Bay in pursuit of the fleeing Buick. Even as he did so Pilcher realized his error; he tried to swing to the near side of the street to allow room for the other car, but it was too late. There was the squeal of useless brakes, a shriek of wet tires fighting the slippery pavement for purchase, and then a heavy crash, audible over the sirens, metal on metal, a brief pause and then another crash. Pilcher braked instantly, looking into his rearview mirror. Reardon looked back over his shoulder, twisting in the seat. Southern Two in attempting to avoid them had sideswiped a parked car, bounced off, twisted across the street and struck another. Its siren sobbed itself to silence. Nobody emerged from the wrecked car.

Reardon swung his body back. “Get going!” His voice was tight. “We’re not going to lose him now!” He raised the microphone as Pilcher brought his eyes back to the road, stamping on the accelerator, regaining speed. His eyes searched the fog ahead for the outline of the black car even as he spoke into the perforated disc. “Communications! Rush an ambulance to Bay and Columbus. Southern Two had a bad accident. Send the nearest car to help. We’ve got Crocker ahead of us and we can’t stop.”

“Yes, sir.”

He put the microphone back in place and sat still, his eyes glued on their quarry, now faintly visible ahead of them. They were gaining on the black car, slowly but perceptibly. Reardon realized their siren was clearing traffic from the path of the Buick as well as their own, but he didn’t want Crocker to die in a car crash. He wanted him alive where he could answer questions before he went to the gas chamber.

They passed Fort Mason at a reckless speed, their windshield wipers flashing before their eyes, clicking madly, their entire world now the scream of the siren and the swaying back of the car ahead, framed in the swirling fog. Reardon was thankful it was not rush hour; their quarry would almost certainly have been able to make it impossible to be followed. Reardon reached for the microphone again.

“Communications. Notify the Golden Gate Bridge police as well. It looks like that’s where he’s heading. Either there or the Presidio.”

“We already have, Lieutenant.”

“Good.”

The microphone went back in place. The Buick ahead of them cut sharply into Cervantes, turned at the end to parallel the water of the bay on Marina Boulevard without slackening speed, and then suddenly swayed violently, weaving across the road. For a split second Reardon wondered what could possibly be in Crocker’s mind to handle the car so dangerously; then his brain began functioning again.

“Blowout,” he said briefly, but with deep satisfaction.

Pilcher hit his brakes at once; at those speeds it took distance to bring a car to a safe halt. Ahead of them the Buick slued around in a circle and slammed into a telephone pole, crushing in the side opposite the driver. Crocker was out of it before it had stopped rocking; he paused long enough to throw two quick shots in their direction and then he had disappeared down one of the wooden ramps leading to the Marina yacht harbor. The patrol car came to a halt beside the crashed car, its siren cut. Both Reardon and Pilcher were out at once, running toward the water’s edge, guns in hand. There was the roar of a motor and the loud shout of someone’s voice raised in outraged anger. They came to the edge of the grass to see a young man in his early twenties screaming after a small speed boat disappearing into the fog.

Reardon and Pilcher trotted down the ramp to the pier. The young man turned at the sound and noted Pilcher’s uniform.

“Hey!” He pointed. “That guy swiped a boat!”

“And I’m going to swipe another,” Reardon said flatly. “Police.” He turned to Pilcher, speaking rapidly, putting his gun back into his belt holster. “Get back to the car and have Communications advise the harbor police. And see what they can do about trying to keep an eye on places he might possibly land.” This latter was a completely hopeless task and he knew it; the bay with its surrounding arms encompassed hundreds of miles of shore line. “And then stick around and wait for me.” He turned to the young man. “Which is the fastest one here?”

“This one; it’s mine.” The boy’s voice hardened. “But I go with it.”

Reardon hesitated only a fraction of a second and then dropped into the bottom of the boat. There was no time to argue and he realized he knew nothing of the bay. That body of water, as familiar to him in sunlight as the back of his hand, was a mysterious wasteland in the fog.

“All right, then. Let’s go.”

The young man threw off the mooring and slipped behind the wheel, grinding the starter. The twin engines caught with a roar; the boat fairly jumped from the dock, throwing Reardon back into his seat. Ahead of them the opening into the bay presented itself faintly in the thickening mist; beyond, the white curtain formed a solid wall, pierced by the hundred voices of as many foghorns. Reardon was suddenly very glad he had allowed the boy to take charge of the boat; alone he knew he would have been forced to return to shore — assuming he could locate it — and pray that eventually the harbor police or some lucky patrolman on shore would pick Crocker up. Not that he could see any great hope for himself to do it, but at least on the water there was a chance. And Crocker, he felt, was his personal quarry.

The young man slowed the large engines once they had passed the Marina entrance; the partially muted motors contained their roar to a growl. The boat rocked in the rougher waters of the bay. The boy spoke without taking his eyes from the wall of mist they were penetrating.

“What’s he wanted for?”

“Murder. He ran a man down with a car. Purposely.” Reardon looked at the boy. “He’s armed, you know.”

“I know. I thought for a minute there he was going to take a shot at me back on the dock. That’s my girl’s boat he took; she’ll give me hell for not stopping him, as it is.” He seemed to realize the purpose behind the statement; his grin faded. “I spent my year in Vietnam. I’ve seen a gun.”

“I’m sure.”

The boy thought of something. “Does this character know the bay?”

“I have no idea. Why?”

“Does he know one foghorn from another?”

“I don’t know that either. Why?”

“Because if he doesn’t, he can get hurt.” The boy’s tone indicated he was more worried about the boat the other was riding than his personal safety. “You have to know the horns.”

“He could get hurt, all right.” Reardon stared out into the faintly yellow mist. His ears picked up and tried to separate the dozens of echoes filtering through the fog. “There must be a hundred boats out there, judging by their foghorns. I never saw that many on a clear day.”

“Those aren’t boats. Some are, but the majority aren’t.” The boy tilted his head. “Hear that real deep one? Lasts about two seconds and then waits about ten and then comes back? That’s the bridge, the north pier. And that quick one, higher — goes boop-boop, and then waits...” They waited. “There it goes. That one, off to our left. That’s the southeast part of Alcatraz. The northeast corner goes grummm—” He waited, counting. “—grummm. Like that.” The Alcatraz foghorns accommodated by not disagreeing with him. Boop-boop — Grummm-grummm...

Reardon glanced at him. “You don’t have a horn?”

“Speedboats usually don’t go out in weather like this. In fact, they aren’t supposed to.”

Reardon stared about him in growing hopelessness. The boy swung the wheel as the sound of a horn grew in intensity, coming in their direction. “Moving,” he said succinctly and eased up on the throttles. Through the wall of fog the rusted side of a medium-sized freighter could be seen rocking slowly by, Plimsoll line indicating the owners would soon go broke if they couldn’t book more cargo. The boy suddenly cut his engine to the faintest of purrs consistent with continued ignition. He listened intently. Reardon stared at him curiously.

“What is it?”

“I thought I heard a speedboat motor. Everything else on the bay in a fog comes and goes, except big ships. You can hear their screws, but it’s different. A speedboat...” He paused, bending forward slightly.

“Where are we?”

The boy looked properly surprised at this ignorance.

“Between Alcatraz and the Wharf.” He shook his head. “I told you.”

“I wasn’t listening,” Reardon said shortly.

The boy brought his speed up again, his ears sharp for the various sounds from the thick mist about them. Reardon realized again how completely lost he would have been had he been alone. It was like playing blindman’s buff in an area fifty times the size of municipal San Francisco, and with no limitations in movement as proscribed by paved streets. The young man suddenly cut his speed once again; the boat rocked in silence. Ahead of them Reardon heard a sound that repeated itself without pause; a pulsing that could not have been a foghorn. With time I suppose I could learn, he thought, and turned as the boy spoke. He was nodding in satisfaction.

“That’s Ann’s boat. That’s him.” He looked at Reardon. “What are you going to when we catch up with him?”

“If we catch up with him,” Reardon amended. He looked at the boy. “I don’t know. I know one thing; once he’s in sight I want you to give me the wheel. And you duck down. There have been enough people hurt in this affair as it is.” He saw a look of stubbornness come over the young features and his voice hardened. “That’s an order from a police lieutenant, so forget about any argument.”

He turned his head, staring out into the mist as the boy brought his speed up again, turning the wheel. They ran less than a minute before the young man cut his engines once again. A new sound came to them. “Yerba Buena Island,” the young man said. They swayed in a murky isolated pool of gray light, surrounded by the mysterious shifting yellowish walls. The sound of the other motorboat was louder; apparently Crocker was running blindly, not taking the precaution of stopping to listen as they were doing. He obviously felt himself safe from imminent pursuit by the police, whatever he felt about the possibility of eventual escape. The boy instantly brought up his speed, turning toward the sound.

“He’s not going very fast,” he said, “for which I don’t blame him, especially if he doesn’t know the bay.” He couldn’t help adding with a touch of pride, “I could catch him easily enough if he went top speed. Ann’s boat is all right, but it’s no racer.”

His hands handled the wheel with confidence, his head turning now and then to catch the nuances of the various foghorns assailing them from all sides. Reardon brought out his revolver, checked it automatically, and held it loosely in his lap. The young man paid no attention to it. Suddenly he frowned, looking at the other.

“Your man better watch himself—”

“What’s the matter?”

“There’s a ship’s horn coming right at him, and another of some sort not very far from him. Sounds like one of the ferries.”

“Ferries?” Reardon frowned. “I thought they’d all stopped running a long time ago.”

“I call them ferries; they’re barges, actually. Leslie Salt, for one; you’ve seen them I’m sure, blue and white. And Southern Pacific still brings freight cars over from Oakland, and we’re just about in their route.”

He opened his speed again; ahead of them the flat side of a long, low barge suddenly appeared through the mist. Freight cars lined up in rows on its deck; they looked like toys in the swirling light. The boy nodded at this confirmation of his judgment and swung the wheel sharply, paralleling the large flatbottom boat; the speedboat edged toward the prow. Several workmen standing on the front portion of the deck were visible now; he opened his engines wider, moving ahead, and then suddenly cut them completely. Through the fog ahead of them the familiar sound of the other motorboat could be heard between the loud hoots from the barge at their side. The small boat’s engine sound grew louder; then it came into view through the swirling vapor.

“That’s Ann’s boat,” the boy said softly. “He isn’t looking. He’s going to get run down...” He sounded very young at the moment, not at all like a Vietnam veteran.

Reardon watched tautly; in the noise of the foghorns it was useless to shout, but still he found himself bending forward, yelling at the top of his voice. It seemed impossible that Crocker did not note the danger he was in. The figures on the railroad barge were bending over the side of the boat, obviously screaming. One had run back and was shouting up to the wheelhouse. Confused by the din from every direction, the man in the speedboat looked up. He hesitated a moment, half out from behind the wheel as if in preparation to jump, but it was too late. The barge had reversed its engines, churning water in a mad attempt to stop, but its impetus carried it inexorably forward. The flat curve of the prow climbed the small speedboat almost gently, apologetically, crushing it, thrusting it and its passenger beneath it and coasting ahead a bit before the straining engines had their effect and slowly drew it back from the scene of the crash. Reardon looked at the boy.

“Try to get closer.”

The boy obeyed without question, easing his craft amid the wreckage that was beginning to come to the surface and bob about on the dark water. Reardon tucked his gun back into its holster and leaned over the side of the boat, searching. For a moment he thought the body might have been entangled beneath the barge, but then it rose slowly to the surface, face downward, as if it were searching the depths for something it had lost, like life.

“There he is...”

The body rose and fell limply with the waves; it looked like an untidy bundle of clothing loosely tied in the middle and tossed into the bay to be gotten rid of.

“Closer,” Reardon said. The boy was pale. “Closer...”

The stocky detective leaned over the side, gripping the sodden jacket collar, lifting, straining. The body came part way over the side of the boat, tilting it; the neck canted at a drunken angle. Reardon thought of Bob Cooke’s body lying against the curb on Indiana; he put the thought away and tugged. The body hung there inertly a moment, rocking with the boat, and then tumbled in loosely, pushing against Reardon in comradely fashion. The boy stared away pointedly. Reardon made his voice expressionless.

“Can you find your way back to the marina from here?”

“Sure. The horns; the ones on land.” He tilted his head. “That’s North Point. I know them. It won’t be hard.”

“Let’s go, then.”

In the fog they had drifted out of sight of the barge and its crew; Reardon could picture the curiosity of the men on board at the appearance and subsequent disappearance of a speedboat picking up the body and taking it away. Well, he’d call the harbor police once they got back to the patrol car.

The boy pushed the throttles and the huge engines responded instantly, burbling the water behind them with its twin exhausts, tilting them backward as the boat increased speed. Crocker’s body lolled against Reardon in an attitude of affectionate idiocy; the young red-haired lieutenant eased it to the floor boards behind him, his face grim. He turned back, his jaw tight. Around them foghorns tooted and blared and squeaked and bawled with varying rhythms, echoing hollowly in the mist; before them the fog eddied mysteriously as the boy turned the boat and headed back toward shore.

Thursday — 2:45 P.M.

Assistant Chief Boynton kept his eyes moving from one to another of the three men in his office, evaluating, checking, adding or subtracting from the running performance list he automatically kept in his head on all of his staff. It was a habit from the earliest days of command, and one he was able to indulge in without fear of detection, since his eyes were the merest of slits, closed against the blue smoke curling lazily from the cigar in his mouth.

“So he murdered Cooke,” he said, speaking around the cigar effortlessly. “I’ll accept that; because he attacked Morrison, he ran from the police, and he fired on a patrol car.” He modified his statement slightly. “That is, I’ll accept it as a provisional theory. I’d like to hear what you consider proof, Lieutenant.”

“Well—” Reardon paused and then added, almost as an afterthought, “—sir; my first doubts were caused, subconsciously I admit, by the fact that he said he drove there directly from a restaurant and called us immediately after the accident happened. Now, his car had left an oil slick further up the street and I’d seen it and my mind registered the fact. It also registered an oil slick caused by the Buick standing in one place that appeared on the photographs the APB boys took of the skid marks. So my mind refused the time element that Crocker tried to feed us. And later, in checking, we found — that’s Sergeant Dondero and myself — that Crocker had faked at least a fifteen-minute alibi at the restaurant. Or, anyway,” he added, “he tried to.”

“And you can prove this?” The assistant chief’s voice was almost toneless. He looked on the verge of falling asleep, but every man in the room was well aware that he was probably the most alert of them all.

“Yes, sir. Definitely. The counterman’s testimony will prove it.” He took a breath and went on, wondering briefly if the counterman’s built-in sense of time would be enough proof for a jury, and then remembered that no jury would hear the case. “Then later, sir, in looking over the car, I noticed that the registration showed he’d bought the Buick only a week before. It struck me as odd. I—”

Boynton interrupted. He didn’t seem to shift his head at all but it was instantly apparent he was addressing Captain Clark.

“Was this fact noted in the technical report on the car?”

“Yes, sir.” Captain Clark couldn’t help sounding a bit smug. Getting by one of the assistant chief’s sudden questions was a bit like finding yourself in the quiet waters after a rough stretch of rapids. “All the information on the registration was duplicated in the report.”

“But you drew no inference from the registration date?”

Captain Clark wondered if perhaps the white water had been fully passed. “No, sir.”

“I see. All right, Lieutenant. Go ahead.”

“I hadn’t seen the technical report at that time, sir. I just read it a few minutes before this meeting. At any rate, it struck me as a coincidence that a man would get hold of what I would call the perfect car for killing someone, and a few days later actually happen to kill someone. I said in the beginning of this case that I’m leery of all automobile accidental deaths, as a matter of principle. A car is a deadly weapon that anyone can license and use at will. At any rate, we checked out the purchase of the Buick and found that Crocker had traded in a Volkswagen on it. Now, I don’t know what you know about vintage cars—”

“Quite a bit,” the assistant chief said quietly. “What’s your point?”

“Well, sir, then you know he certainly wasn’t a car fancier, because nobody who likes cars for the sake of cars drives a VW. They’re strictly a convenience job, easy to get through traffic with, easy to park, and relatively cheap. So his buying a monster of a car thirty years old didn’t make sense, unless you thought of his wanting to kill someone with it. It’s perfect for that, whereas the VW is too small and fragile to do the job without the man driving it taking the chance of getting killed himself in the accident.”

Assistant Chief Boynton frowned. “I’m not sure I buy that bit,” he said slowly.

“Well, sir,” Reardon said, equally slowly, “when you take it by itself, maybe not; but when you add it as one more link in the chain of evidence, I don’t think there’s much doubt that it fits in.”

“Maybe.” Boynton was noncommittal. He wiped the ash from his cigar and replaced it in his mouth. “I suppose it’s possible. Go ahead.”

“Yes, sir. Well, there were two questions in my mind — and I’m sure in yours. The first one was, how could he know Cooke would be there, right where he wanted him for killing? And the second one — and the big one, of course — is, why did he do it?”

He looked about the room a moment, wondering if his logic would convince the others. Captain Tower was looking at him encouragingly; Captain Clark expressionlessly, and the assistant chief didn’t seem to be looking at him at all. He plunged ahead.

“I think he knew Cooke would be there because he had an appointment to meet him there. I know that means he must have known the man, even though we can’t prove it, but he must have. Cooke’s ship was at Pier 26, under the Bay Bridge; he was killed at Indiana and Eighteenth, a block or so from the Central Basin docks. That’s miles away, and south. He had left his ship to meet someone at the Fairmont; a girl. That’s in the opposite direction. Why did he go to Indiana and Eighteenth? What was he doing there?”

“And also, how did he get there?” That was Captain Tower.

“By cab, almost certainly. We’re looking for the driver who carried him; he might have said something in the cab. But no matter how he got there, he wouldn’t have gone without a reason. And the most logical reason would be to meet someone.”

“It’s logical,” Assistant Chief Boynton admitted. “That doesn’t make it factual. Any more than even if Crocker killed Cooke purposely, it necessarily means he knew him personally. He could be a professional gun.” For the second time he removed his cigar and opened his eyes wider. He used the cigar as a pointer in Reardon’s direction. “If you want to use logic, use logic. If you want to use facts, use facts. If you want to use guesswork, use guesswork.” He replaced his cigar as if relenting. His eyes assumed their half-slit condition. “For example: suppose Cooke went to Indiana and Eighteenth to meet John Paul Jones to discuss the possibility of switching from the Mandarin to the Serapis; and suppose that Crocker just happened to have the ill fortune to be coming down the street at that time? While John Paul Jones was unavoidably detained?”

“No, sir.” Reardon refused the bait. “As I said before, maybe one little thing can be put down to coincidence, and maybe a second, but all together they can’t be handled that simply. Crocker had an appointment with Bob Cooke. He waited for him — the oil slicks prove it — and he kept his appointment. By running Cooke down.”

Assistant Chief Boynton wasn’t perturbed in the least. He nodded equably, his cigar bobbing. “I merely asked a question. Now, suppose you tell us why.”

Reardon started to lean forward in his chair, and then forced himself to relax and lean back again. He avoided Captain Clark’s eye as he answered.

“Well, sir, he got suspicious by Merkel asking for a continuance of his case, which he certainly hadn’t expected. He knew we didn’t have enough to hold him, or we would have. But he also knew I wasn’t happy about the case, or somebody wasn’t happy, or he would have been released at once, which is what he had expected. So he obviously knew we would be digging like mad between Wednesday and Friday, when he had to be back in court. He had no idea we might discover he’d faked fifteen minutes of alibi at that coffeepot, or traded a VW for a big Buick, or even that we might discover the true motive for the killing—”

“Which you still haven’t,” the assistant chief said dryly.

“Which we still haven’t,” Reardon admitted. “But Crocker didn’t know we hadn’t, or wouldn’t. But despite all this, where was the first place he headed after he skipped?” He paused a moment, unconsciously seeking effect. “The first place he went was to the police garage to get the Buick!”

“So he needed wheels. So?”

The lieutenant was well aware that the assistant chief was needling him but he refused to be drawn in. He also knew the old man wanted the facts, despite his tone.

“He went to the police garage downstairs to get the Buick, not because he needed wheels, but because he needed the Buick. Specifically! Remember, it was a pretty dangerous gamble; for all he knew we’d found our proof and were looking for him; but he still comes here to the Hall of Justice. And he slugged Morrison from behind to get the car away, and that was even more of a gamble, because if he doesn’t take Morrison the first time, Morrison will eat him for breakfast and still want coffee. So we can only assume there was something in that car valuable enough for him to take those chances.”

Captain Clark came erect from his slumped position in his chair, suddenly realizing the implications of the other’s accusation. His face began to redden.

“Now, look here, Lieutenant! Are you implying—?”

“I’m not implying anything, Captain. I’m just saying he wanted something that was in that car!” Reardon’s voice was low and stubborn, refusing to be intimidated by the other’s rank. “And since the technical squad couldn’t find anything except dust and a few hairpins which I’m sure must be at least thirty years old, then whatever he was looking for is still there. Or was two hours ago when the tow truck brought it in.”

Clark was white-faced at this insubordination. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Captain, that I have Sergeants Lundahl and Dondero searching the wreck down in the garage at this moment,” Reardon said flatly. His hands were resting lightly on his knees in the posture of one ready to use them actively if need be, and damned to the consequences. “And I mean searching it!” He dropped his voice, relaxing once again. “Because it’s obvious the squad missed something.”

“What do you mean? They didn’t miss a thing! Do you think this is the first car the squad went over and searched? Or the second, or the thousandth?” Clark’s voice reached for heavy sarcasm but somehow failed to make it. He really didn’t sound too sure of himself; he sounded as if he knew something had slipped in his jurisdiction, but he didn’t know who, why, where or when. And didn’t like not knowing, but promised disaster to those who had put him in this position.

“Maybe this is the first car they ever searched where they were told they were wasting their time before they even started,” Captain Tower suggested dryly.

“Now, look here, Tower!” Captain Clark was on weak ground and he knew it. He also knew the slit eyes of Assistant Chief Boynton were recording the scene photographically. “There was nothing to indicate it was murder at the time—”

“Except the Lieutenant told me he thought it was murder; that the car had killed the man deliberately,” Captain Tower said imperturbably. “Your technical squad tackled the car on that basis — or were supposed to. Did you think Lieutenant Reardon made up the murder angle to make work for himself? Or for publicity?”

“I thought—”

“And does the squad check out cars on that basis in any event?”

Clark opened his mouth to retort, but paused as persistent but quiet rapping came on the door. The assistant chief raised his voice.

“Come in!”

The door opened to admit Dondero and Lundahl; with them came the sharp odor of gasoline. Dondero’s hands were still damp with the stuff. He carried a handkerchief wrapped about something; he brought it over and handed it to the lieutenant.

“Jack pot, Jim,” he said triumphantly, and swiftly changed his form of address in view of the assorted company in the room. “I mean, Lieutenant. I don’t know what’s in it because I didn’t take time to look, but we found it in the gas tank where you said it would probably be!”

Reardon’s face showed nothing of his elation. He placed the sodden handkerchief on the desk and folded back the edges. A gasoline-soaked bag of chamois was revealed; he tugged the cords loose that puckered the mouth and upended it, shaking. Ten large translucent rich blue stones rolled out. Assistant Chief Boynton’s eyes opened wide; he set his cigar aside and leaned forward, exhibiting emotion for the first time.

“Sapphires, by God!” He picked one up, rolled his chair back from his desk to afford him access to his drawer, drew out a jeweler’s lens and screwed it into his eye socket. “A beauty! These things are worth a fortune!”

The lens came out of his eye. “Where did you say you found it?”

“In the gasoline tank, sir.”

“Find anything else?”

“No, sir. He didn’t have any luggage with him. We figure he probably checked it at the bus terminal or someplace before going to the garage. But he had a passport in the glove compartment.” Dondero reached into his pocket, withdrawing it, adding it to the gems on the desk. “It’s in the name of Ralph Crocker Rolf, which could well be his real name. Crocker was probably his mother’s name. Passports aren’t all that easy to get with fake information.” He looked down at the green booklet. “It’s got a visa in it for Brazil, a tourist’s visa.”

Boynton’s eyes held the sergeant. “Recent?”

“Yes, sir. They have to be. They’re only good for ninety days.”

The assistant chief swung his chair; the cigar was replaced in his mouth, his eyes went back to their slitted condition. The blue stones glittered from the desktop.

Reardon thought a moment and then began speaking slowly.

“They may have been in it together; Cooke bringing in the stones from Asia — they may even be stolen; Interpol should be able to give us information on that — and Crocker disposing of them. And Crocker — Rolf — got greedy. Or maybe the two men never did meet. Maybe they both worked for the Syndicate, or even a third party, because they would require financing, and Crocker decided to do a double cross and take off for Brazil with the stones. In a hurry.” He thought about it a moment. “I think I like that theory better.”

He nodded. “In any event, it was simple. He waited until Cooke showed, ran him down, dropped the stones into the gas tank, and called us up. A one-minute job. He expected to be released at once, take his stones, and” — he made a horizontal motion with his hand flat — “off to Rio de Janeiro. With nobody the wiser.”

Assistant Chief Boynton swung his chair a bit and then came back. He spoke without removing his cigar.

“I’ll buy it,” he said quietly. “Just one question, though, Lieutenant. Just suppose that Buick didn’t have a leaky transmission?”

“Then there would have been one more murderer walking the streets free and clear,” Reardon said with equal quietness.

Nobody disagreed.

Chapter 15

Thursday — 6:15 P.M.

“You should have been there,” Dondero told the girls, grinning. He was leaning back on the couch in Reardon’s apartment, one arm lightly about Penny’s shoulders, a martini in his other hand, his dark eyes twinkling. He laughed aloud. “You know Clark, don’t you?”

Jan sipped and nodded. She was curled up in a chair across from the other two, her feet tucked beneath her, her shoes lined up neatly on the floor beside the chair. “Captain Clark? I’ve met him.”

“Well,” Dondero said, “you should have seen his face when Stan and I walked in with that bag of stones from the gas tank! He was supposed to have had the car searched, but what a search! The old man didn’t say anything — he wouldn’t in front of other people, especially not lowly types like sergeants — but I know him. It all went down in that little black book he carries in his head.” His grin widened; it was apparent that Clark was not his favorite captain in the Hall of Justice. “And the beauty of it is that Clark can’t even raise hell with the squad. The old man’s going to be watching him, and he knows it. If he tries to pass the buck down the line—”

He paused, stuck with the choice of removing his arm from Penny’s shoulders or setting down his drink. He elected to set the drink down a moment, long enough to draw his forefinger across his throat, and then picked his glass up again. Penny smiled at him, grateful for his choice of hands in his demonstration.

Reardon came in from the kitchen carrying another Mason jar of martinis. Jan looked at him with affection; she glanced at Dondero.

“You mean my boy is a hero?”

Her hero smiled down at her.

“They may even give me my own wastebasket. A private key to the men’s room isn’t beyond the possibilities. Heavens; my name may even be in the newspapers, delivered every morning with the milk.”

He paused, his grin fading abruptly. Jan saw the sharp change of expression.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs, and began replenishing their glasses from the jar, decanting with care. He waited until his chore was finished before continuing. “Something just crossed my mind and then disappeared again.”

“No!” Dondero shook his head with mock despair and then explained for the benefit of the girls. “Lieutenant Reardon’s subconscious works overtime. It won’t let him go until he remembers something he’s forgotten. And in the meantime we all suffer.” He grinned up at Reardon. “Jim, why don’t you take Harry Lorayne’s memory course?”

“Well,” Reardon said with a grin, “it worked once. I thought it might work again. But we won’t bother with it tonight. Tonight is for celebration — mad, drunken, orgy celebration.”

“Unless you have a meeting you’ve forgotten.” Jan smiled at him. “Is that what your brain is trying to tell you?”

“Not this time. And if it is, I’m purposely forgetting. Where would you girls like to eat as a start to the evening?”

There was a moment’s pause; then the two girls spoke at the same time.

“I never did get to eat sukiyaki Tuesday night—” They stopped together and looked at each other in surprise. Jan laughed; Penny smiled. “It looks like Little Tokyo,” Jan said.

“Which is fine with me,” Dondero said. “I didn’t get to eat at all that night. Because a cold cheese sandwich is not my idea of eating.”

“Little Tokyo it is. Drink up and we can get started. I’ll go in and change my shirt.” Reardon raised his glass as if in a toast. “That is, if I’ve got a clean shirt.”

He finished his drink with one swallow, winked at Jan and walked into the bedroom. He opened the dresser drawer and pulled out his last clean shirt, making a mental note to get to the laundry and pick up the batch he had there, and making a second note to remember the first mental note. And speaking of mental notes, what had struck him when he had mentioned having the newspaper delivered with the morning milk. Milk in the refrigerator? There was a bottle there, but so what? What on earth was he trying to remember?

He pulled off his turtleneck sweater and tossed it in the general direction of the closet holding his laundry bag, slipping into the clean shirt, buttoning it, tucking it into his trousers, reaching for a necktie. First it had been newspapers, now it was milk. James Reardon, he said to himself, you are slipping a cog!

Newspapers and milk... Or was it either one? Or both? Will you forget it! he commanded himself sternly. All you’ll do is spoil the evening for the others. He smiled. Maybe you’re thinking of having alexanders instead of martinis — is it possible? It was not; his smile faded. Milk, milk, milk! Why don’t you tie your tie and get down to the Little Tokyo before Mr. Sessue Noguchi runs out of gin and vermouth, Buddha forbid! He grinned and flipped the necktie over itself, feeding it back through the formed loop, drawing it tight.

Newspapers and milk... It sounded like a song title, the kind you heard at the hungry i. Newspapers and milk, satins and silk, and a one-way ticket to the psychiatric ward at San Francisco General. He started to grin again and then stopped short, frowning. Newspapers and milk? In hallways, waiting delivery! And when they were running down the corridor at Crocker’s apartment building, there were bottles in front of some of the doors, but his bottle was on the table, together with breakfast cereal. So what?

He dropped on the bed, frowning fiercely at the floor. What was he trying to tell himself? What was the connection? There had to be one, because his subconscious was generally a pretty good subconscious as such things went, not given to annoying him for no reason at all. There had to be a tie-up. What was it?

“Jimmy?” It was Jan, calling from the living room.

“Be there in a second.” He tried to review his thoughts, to marshal them into some sort of order, and then sat up straight. The pieces of the puzzle began to click into place, each one moving over to make room for the next; color began to emerge, and form, until the whole pattern lay revealed at last. Of course!

“Jim!”

“One minute, honey.”

He went over it in his mind for a second time, cleaning up small details, answering arguments he could hear from Captain Tower, not to mention the assistant chief. When he had it clear to the last dotted “i” he came to his feet, looked at himself thoughtfully for several seconds, and then walked into the other room, pulling his tie tight about his neck, wiggling it into a comfortable position. Jan looked at him sardonically and reached down, pulling her shoes into position for slipping into.

“And you complain about how long it takes me to dress!” She shook her head. “I thought you were washing and ironing your shirts, the time you took. I was going to offer to help, but I’m an architect, not a useful person.” She came to her feet. “Shall we be on our way? I’m slightly starved.”

Reardon considered her quietly.

“I’m afraid there’s going to be a slight change in plans.” His voice was without expression.

Jan studied his face a moment and decided not to argue. Instead, she dropped back into her chair, pulling her feet from her shoes, wriggling her toes. Penny had also started to rise; she sank back as well. Dondero stared at the lieutenant and then nodded in certain conviction.

“The subconscious has spoken!” He bowed, hands spread wide, and then straightened up, reaching for the Mason jar. He eyed its emptiness dolefully and put it back. “All right, Swami. Let’s get the seance over and go out to eat.”

“Fair enough.” Reardon went into the kitchen and came back with a full bottle of gin. “No vermouth, no ice. No time.”

“No martinis,” Dondero said equably. “No fish, no rice—”

He poured himself a drink and offered the bottle to the girls; they both refused. He placed the bottle on the floor and leaned back, prepared for another lecture from Lieutenant Reardon. The red-haired detective was standing at the low bookcase against one wall, leaning on it, putting his thoughts in order. The others waited patiently, with Dondero sipping straight gin with sudden appreciation for the potentialities of vermouthless martinis. At last Reardon looked up.

“Don — do you remember Crocker’s apartment this morning?”

Dondero nodded deeply and slowly, sipping his drink.

“Do you remember the milk we found on the kitchen table?”

“I found.” Dondero wanted things straight for the record.

“Do you remember milk bottles in the hall in front of some apartments? But not in front of his?”

“I don’t remember, but I’ll take your word for it.” He looked at the lieutenant. “Why?”

“Now,” Reardon said, not answering the other’s question, but fixing his eyes, “if Crocker took a powder as a result of my — or Merkel’s — asking for a continuance of his case, you’d think he’d take it right then. Or within the time it took him to realize the potential danger he was in. Wouldn’t you?”

Dondero considered it. He nodded. “Yes, I suppose so. Why?”

“Would you expect him to wait until the following day to figure out he’d better be on his way, because obviously we were looking for something to hang him with?”

“I suppose not. I know I wouldn’t.”

“And neither would I. Yet that’s exactly what he did. That milk shows he was there that morning, and that seems silly under the circumstances. And another thing — and an important one. He also waited until this morning to make his try for the Buick, yet he must have known it was far less dangerous trying for the car at night, when there isn’t a full complement of people in the Hall. Actually, at night quite often, when the night attendant steps out, the garage is completely unattended. Yet he waited until this morning to make his play.”

The girls were watching Reardon with curious frowns on their faces. Dondero summed it up for everyone.

“What are you trying to say? That the guy was a nut?”

“He was far from a nut. I’m just saying he didn’t leave because we asked for a continuance. That was my first thought, but I was wrong. No; he was all prepared to turn up in court tomorrow, convinced that nobody was after him. He fully expected to be released routinely, take his precious Buick, and be on his merry way.”

“So why didn’t he?”

“Because something made him change his mind.”

“But, what?”

Reardon turned to Penny.

“It was your telephone call to him, wasn’t it? It had to be, because you were there when Don and I were discussing it. You were the only one who knew what we had found and knew we were going there to take him in. You and Smokey, and I trust him. There’s no point in denying it, because a call from your number to his can be traced easily enough, knowing the time it was made.”

It wasn’t the truth, but Reardon was fairly sure that Penny Wilkinson wouldn’t know that fact. All color had disappeared from her face; her strong hands were locked on her empty martini glass so tightly they might have crushed the fragile glass. Dondero removed his arm from her shoulder, but only so he could turn and watch her better. One look at her face and whatever denial he had been preparing in her defense died on his lips. Jan sat in shocked silence, unbelieving.

“Actually, you had more than your share of luck,” Reardon said seriously, “because you made more than your share of mistakes.” His voice was quiet, noncommittal. He seemed to be trying to accustom both Dondero and Jan to the idea of the girl’s guilt. “You called him ‘Rolf’ when we were talking after we left the morgue the night before last. You said, ‘What will they do to this man Rolf?’ I thought you made a mistake in his name, except when we find his passport the name on it — the last name — is Rolf. Coincidence? Maybe. But I’ll bet when we take a look at your passport we’ll find a visa in it for Brazil, dated the same time that Rolf’s was.”

She was watching him, half hypnotized. Reardon went on calmly.

“And if you’ve hidden your passport, or figure to destroy it when you get the chance, forget it. Your ownership can be established through the State Department, and the visa is easy enough to verify through the Brazilian consulate. Application, photographs, signature — the works.” He paused, looking Penny in the eye without expression. “Do you want to tell us about it?”

Penny Wilkinson sat motionless, frozen, her large liquid eyes fixed on Reardon’s politely querying face. Her mouth was pressed tightly closed, her face bloodless, her knuckles white on the empty glass.

“All right,” Reardon said equably. “Let’s go on. When I first told you about the accident I said it happened at Indiana and Eighteenth. You know San Francisco, you live here. You knew it was miles in the wrong direction from Pier 26 where you docked, but you never mentioned that fact. Why not? I’ll tell you why not — because you could see I didn’t know where the ship was docked, and you hoped nobody would ever note the discrepancy. Because if someone did, it would make Crocker’s story look fishy, and that’s the last thing you wanted. Well?”

Penny continued to stare at him as if in a trance.

“All right,” Reardon said. “You don’t have to say a word. In fact, when we take you in, all your rights will be explained to you. But just so you know where you stand, let me tell you what you did, and how easy it will be to prove: You picked the stones up abroad, not Cooke. Where you picked them up won’t be hard to find out, because Interpol have experts on precious stones who will recognize those sapphires if they were stolen or spot where they came from very closely if they weren’t. Even if they weren’t stolen, it won’t affect your responsibility in Cooke’s death, and maybe even for Crocker’s death—”

For the first time Penny made a sound. Her breath was drawn in sharply; she gave a little cry. Her eyes widened more. Reardon stared at her.

“You didn’t know?”

She shook her head wordlessly, tears forming in her eyes, flooding them. Jan spoke up suddenly, filled to the bottom of her soul with an excess of policemanship.

“Jim! Don’t you know when a person is telling the truth? Or isn’t it important to you any more?”

“It’s important, but I also know there are some fine actors in this world, and Penny and Crocker are — or were — among the best. And a man named Bob Cooke is dead as a result. So save your sympathy for him.” He turned back to the girl. “Your boy friend tried to kill a few more people today when he panicked after your call. He tried to club a garage attendant to death, and then tried to run away in a speedboat in this fog. A railroad barge ran him down. He’s down in the morgue where Bob Cooke was. That was the net result of your telephone call after Don and I left your place this morning, if that pleases you.”

Jan’s voice was pleading. “Jim!”

“All right,” Reardon said heavily, still staring at Penny. “Let me finish my story — maybe it’ll help your lawyer plan your defense. Then everybody can be happy — except Bob Cooke, of course. You picked up the stones. The ship’s shop is closed in port by law, and you’re free, while Cooke often had to work. But while there was an advantage in being free in port outside of this country, the opposite was true when you got back here. Customs abroad — or even here — seldom bother passengers taking things out of a country. Many ports don’t even have Customs officials posted for people boarding ships. But bringing things into a country is a different story. Passengers and crew that leave the ship when it first docks, go through Customs rather vigorously, particularly in a port such as San Francisco where a campaign is on against smuggling—”

The thought crossed his mind how proud Captain Tower would be to hear he’d paid some attention to the lecture the other night before escaping. He came back to his story.

“So you needed someone who could carry the stones off for you. When Jan and I were watching you through binoculars when you first came into the bay, Jan thought you were slipping something to a deck officer, or else holding hands. We made a big joke out of it. But you probably were slipping him something — the stones. Because he worked later, and by the time he left the ship most of the Customs people had quit work, if not all of them. Ship’s officers, even dressed in civvies, usually walk off a ship without any trouble; the ones who live aboard during a port stay go back and forth without the slightest inconvenience, especially since they have no luggage. So Bob Cooke was your perfect sucker. He’d probably been after you for a date for a long time; with your looks it wouldn’t be very hard to handle him.”

Penny’s eyes broke from his; she stared down at her shoes. Dondero spoke at last, his eyes on her face, pain in his eyes. He was studying her beauty, but addressing his words to Reardon.

“I’ll take her in, Jim. I’ll take your car. You and Jan can use Jan’s. You go ahead with your date.”

“We’ll both take her—” Reardon stopped abruptly. He nodded. “All right, Don. The charges are smuggling and accessory to murder. You can have her held on an open charge until you get a warrant. You know how to handle it as well as I do.”

“Probably better. I’ve probably put the arm on more people in my time.” Dondero came to his feet, taking Penny by the arm gently, helping her to her feet. She rose like an automaton. “Penny?” She looked at him blindly. “Penny, let’s go.”

They left the room without a backward glance. There was silence for a few moments and then the sound of the street door being opened and closed. Reardon studied Jan’s face a minute. He walked over, bending down, picking the gin bottle up. He poured himself a drink. His eyes came up to Jan’s; she shook her head in misery. He started to put the bottle on the table when she spoke.

“Jim—”

He looked at her. She was holding out her glass, her face still unforgiving for his having had Penny arrested. Reardon sighed and poured her a drink. She took it in two quick gulps and looked at him somberly. The empty glass dangled from her fingers.

“Jim—”

“Yes?”

“I... I don’t want to stay here overnight...”

“All right.”

She bit her lip. “And I don’t think I want to eat at the Little Tokyo tonight, either.”

Reardon kept his voice equally grave. “All right. In fact, I know a better place to eat. If we aren’t too late. I’ll have to make a call though—”

He put down his glass and walked into the bedroom, picking up the telephone.

Chapter 16

Thursday — 10:00 P.M.

“The food was delicious,” Jan said, and set her napkin down beside her plate, smiling at their host.

“I’m glad you liked it.” Harry Thompson beamed. “I told the lieutenant there’s none better anywhere.” He was a tiny man, far different in appearance from the picture Reardon had formed from hearing his deep voice. His face was weather-beaten and crosshatched with tiny wrinkles; his ears stood at right angles from his head, and he had a ready laugh.

Jan glanced about the elegant, but deserted, dining room.

“I can imagine during a cruise, when everyone is in evening dress, and there are flowers on every table, and the lighting is softer, and there is music playing in the background, it must really be beautiful.”

There was an interruption before the chief purser could answer. A tall young uniformed officer came into the dining room, located their table and came over. He bent over the tiny officer, whispering in his ear. Thompson nodded and looked at Reardon.

“Telephone for you, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you.” Reardon came to his feet, putting his napkin aside. With a wink at the smaller man that was unseen by Jan, he smiled faintly. “And while I’m gone, you might tell Jan some of the interesting things you were telling me about the ship, yesterday. And the quality of the passengers, and things about cruises in general. I’m sure she’d enjoy hearing them.”

“With pleasure,” Thompson said with a broad smile. He came to his feet, holding Jan’s chair back. “We’ll probably be on the promenade deck when you’re through with your call. I’ll show your Jan the ship. Look for us up there.”

“Right,” Reardon said and followed the junior officer from the dining room, even forgiving him the sidelong, admiring glance at Jan. He picked up the telephone on the table outside of the purser’s office, not at all surprised to find Dondero on the line.

“Hello?”

“Jim? This is Don—”

“Just once I’d like to eat in peace. Do you mind?” He grinned.

Dondero disregarded the tone. “I figured you’d end up on the ship after Mr. Noguchi said you weren’t at the Little Tokyo...”

Reardon sighed. “And I figured you had figured it when they told me I had a telephone call. Who else knows how to dial? What’s up?”

Dondero took a deep breath, plunging in.

“It’s Penny. Penny Wilkinson. She told me the whole story on the way downtown. We—” He cleared his throat. “Well, we stopped for a drink, as a matter of fact. And she let her hair down.”

“Oh.”

It wasn’t the standard method of interrogating a prisoner, but if it got results, it accomplished everything Reardon was interested in. And it had been his feeling that the girl would talk to Dondero if they were alone; it was his reason for permitting the sergeant to take her in by herself. He cleared his throat and spoke into the telephone softly.

“I hope you warned her and explained her rights to her.”

“Just like it says on the card,” Dondero said. There was a moment’s hesitation. “But she wanted to talk, and she wanted to talk to me — and, well, I wanted her to talk to me. I let her. And I believe what she says.” This last was said almost defiantly.

“I’m not arguing with you,” Reardon said patiently. “Where are you?”

“Not in a bar. We’re at the Hall of Justice. I’m in my pigpen on the fourth floor; she’s in a cell on the fifth floor.”

He made it sound as if it were Reardon’s fault. Reardon took a deep breath, disregarding the tone. “So what did she say?”

“She says this Crocker was just supposed to pick up the stones, and that’s all. He wasn’t supposed to touch Cooke, let alone kill him. She says the boy had a crush on her. It was only his third trip with her and he said he’d be only too happy to do her a little favor — like taking something off the ship for her. He knew it was a bit of smuggling, but he didn’t know what the contraband was, and he couldn’t have cared less. She told him it was perfume, and she’s sure he believed her.”

“But?”

“But I guess Crocker wasn’t as trusting. Apparently he preferred no witnesses to even one well-meaning witness.”

“Did Cooke and Crocker know each other, did she say?”

“Penny says no. Under his full name — Ralph Crocker Rolf, or rather, Ralph C. Rolf — Crocker used to travel with her quite a bit in the old days, but not since Cooke has been on the ship. He’d buy the stones — with dough from a group on the East Coast, Mafia I guess, though she didn’t say — and she’d take them off. Usually she waited until everyone was off the dock to leave the ship. But this was the biggest haul they’d ever attempted, and they also knew this was one haul they weren’t going to turn in to the wheels in New York. So they figured an infatuated deck officer would have less trouble. And it almost worked.” Dondero paused, thinking. “This guy Crocker figured about everything, I guess,” he added. “Penny says that’s the kind of guy he was. He wasn’t the type to take chances.”

Reardon nodded at the telephone.

“Which is why he didn’t run after he killed Bob Cooke,” he said. “It would have been taking a chance he didn’t feel was necessary. Some kid coming home from a movie might have seen and remembered a big, old Buick in the neighborhood — the kind George Raft drove in the midnight television movie. Or some longshoreman working the Central Basin docks might have lived in the Mission district and hiked home to save dough, and seen the works. And of course he might have broken a headlight or left black paint from the fender on the body. A hundred things could have tripped him up. But he was smart — he called the police.” He smiled humorlessly. “Which is what we try to teach them: Always Call the Police.” He wiped the smile away. “Still, even the smart ones get the wind up. He should have left the Buick in the garage and taken a powder, period. We’d never have given the car a second thought. He might even have picked it up at the city auction six months from now.”

“He couldn’t,” Dondero said softly. “The group in the East didn’t know Cooke had taken the stones off the ship. They never heard of Cooke. All they knew was that Crocker had got himself in a temporary jam with a car accident, and should be free and clear in a few days. But after that, they expected him to catch the first plane to Kennedy and deliver the goods. Of course,” he added, explanatorily, “Penny and he had their tickets and visas for Mexico City and then Brazil. Crocker had to move fast, and he certainly wasn’t going to go without the stones. Not after killing to get them. And he also certainly wasn’t going to make excuses to the boys back East that the stones were in a Police Garage, and how they got there.”

“True,” Reardon conceded and smiled.

Dondero frowned. “What got me was why Penny reported Cooke as a missing person. Why not let him remain on a slab as an Unknown and stay out of it herself?” He didn’t wait for the lieutenant to even hazard a guess. “I asked her, and she said this was Crocker’s idea. Crocker called her from that phone booth on Indiana — probably before he called the police — and paged her at the Fairmont bar after he killed Cooke. He told her what he’d done. She was — well, what’s the word? Shocked? Anyway, she wasn’t happy. She says so and I believe her. Anyway, Crocker told her Cooke had no identification on him. He’d searched him when he took the stones off him—”

“I love that bit about how he was too squeamish to touch the body!” Reardon said with disgust. “Go on.”

“Yeah. Like he stayed off the Freeway because heavy traffic bothered him! Anyway, Crocker thought they might hold him at the Hall pending identification of the Unknown, but where the victim was identified — and had no known connection with him — then he figured to be released like at once.”

“And he was right,” Reardon conceded. “He was smart.”

“Except he’s on a slab in a morgue,” Dondero said. “And except he should have bought a car that didn’t leak oil.” He sighed. “Well, I’m off to home and another cold cheese sandwich, I guess. I don’t feel like a big meal tonight.” A thought occurred to him. “How’s the food on the S.S. Mandarin?”

Reardon took pity on him. The truth would have only been an added irritant to Sergeant Dondero’s evening.

“Pretty bad,” he said untruthfully. “Even worse than the Navy.”

“Well, in that case I’ll be happy with my sandwich.” Dondero tried to sound brave, to take a light tone. “I may even grow to like them.” He seemed reluctant to hang up. “Jim—”

“Yes?”

“You know, I believe Penny when she says she didn’t know anything about the killing. I believe her when she says Crocker was just supposed to pick up the stones from Cooke and let him go his way. Otherwise, why would she have been waiting for him at the bar on top of the Fairmont? If she knew Crocker was going to knock the boy off?”

“It’s a point,” Reardon admitted.

“Jim—”

“I’m still here.”

“Well — what do you think? I mean, what do you really think? If she beats this accessory rap, which is crap for my money, the smuggling thing shouldn’t put her away too long, should it?”

Reardon thought a few moments before answering. He didn’t quite know what to say. “I think it’s up to the courts to believe her story or not, Don. Not to you or me.”

“That’s what I figured.” Dondero’s voice had strengthened as if Jim Reardon had given him encouragement. “I hope they take it easy on her.” There was a brief pause, and then his voice lost its bravado. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you? I mean, for a cop to talk this way.”

Reardon thought of Jan somewhere on one of the decks overhead, leaning on the polished railing, studying the lights of the enchanted city studding the sharp hills of San Francisco and Sausalito and Marin County and Berkeley and Oakland, admiring the wondrous sweep of the cabled bridges spanning the bay now that the fog had swept away, leaving the beauty of clear skies and soft breezes tinting the evening with the ultimate in loveliness. He thought that at this moment, beautiful and epitomizing freedom, she must somehow resemble Penny Wilkinson as she looked on the same deck of the same ship only two days before. And he wondered what he would do if it were Jan in that fifth floor cell at the Hall of Justice, instead of the girl Dondero had chosen.

“Jim?”

“No,” Reardon said slowly. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Don. No crazier than anyone else, at any rate.” He waited a few moments for Dondero to say something, but the other man remained silent. “I’ll see you in the morning,” Reardon added and hung up.

He stared at the tile floor a few moments, thinking, and started up the stairs toward the upper deck.

Thursday — 10:45 P.M.

Two figures could be discerned near the aft rail of the promenade deck, leaning on it facing away from the city, staring at the empty, mesh-covered swimming pool. Reardon put aside his conversation with Sergeant Dondero and walked the length of the planked deck, enjoying the sharp salt tang to the air. It was hard to believe that only a few hours before the bay had been a swirling sea of fog, dangerous to the extent of death, mysterious to the extent of fear.

Jan was waiting to say something as soon as he had come up.

“Jim!”

Reardon pulled his thoughts back from death, from dark waters hiding slowly rising bodies through bobbing wreckage. “Yes?”

“Mr. Thompson has convinced me!”

“Oh, he has?” Reardon got into the spirit of the thing. “Good!”

Jan considered him a bit uncertainly. “You don’t even know what he convinced me of.”

Reardon grinned and put an arm about her shoulders.

“I can imagine. Honey, there are lots better ways to spend a vacation. I was in the Navy and I know.”

“James Reardon, what are you talking about?” Jan stared at him. “Mr. Thompson has convinced me that a cruise is exactly what we need for our vacation! And on the Mandarin! He says if we don’t have time we can take it as far as Hawaii and take one of the sister ships back.” She looked around, adoringly. “Oh, Jim, it’s lovely! You should see the staterooms, and the little movie theater they have, and the cardroom in the lounge, and the library! And they have a little shop where you can buy—”

“I know all about the shop.” Reardon turned to a snidely smiling Mr. Thompson. His voice was dangerous. “Helpful Harry, eh? You want a friend at the police, eh? You double-crosser!”

“Maybe I exaggerated a bit to the young lady,” Thompson conceded. He shrugged. “Anyway, with passengers along like you and Jan, I might enjoy a trip for a change. What’s your beef? Do you expect me to fight that idea?” He looked at Reardon with twinkling eyes. “Anyway, what do you have against cruises? You’re not a purser.”

“No, but—”

“And Jan says you were in the Navy; and you’ve got to admit being a passenger on the S.S. Mandarin has to beat that a mile.” He smiled knowingly. “Do me a favor and don’t argue. I know.”

“You know!” Reardon shook his head in disgust. He turned to Jan. “When we were looking at this bucket through the glasses from my window, I thought a trip with you on a ship like this would be lovely, indeed — except for one thing—”

Jan looked up at him, queryingly. Reardon looked at Harry Thompson.

“You know!” he repeated. He put his arm about Jan and smiled at her upturned little face with a touch of embarrassment. “What neither one of you know — is that I get seasick...!”

Content

Robert L. Pike
Reardon

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16