Reardon walked from the room before outright mutiny could be registered; he came to the end of the long corridor, turned a corner and entered an anteroom whose secretary was missing at the moment. Probably, he thought, having coffee or teasing her hair. What had happened to the beauty of the day? He rapped on the door; Captain Tower’s deep voice answered.
“Come in!”
Reardon turned the knob, entered and closed the door behind him. Captain Tower was standing at the window, staring out over the city to the distant hills of Oakland, brown under the strong autumn sun. Reardon wondered at the expression on his superior’s face; it was solemn, even, he thought, a bit worried. Over Bennett? It was odd for the captain to be anything but completely self-assured, especially where men in the department were concerned. Reardon cleared his throat.
“Good morning, Captain. You wanted to see me?”
Captain Tower swung around. “Good morning, Jim.”
“About Bennett, Captain—”
Captain Tower held up one of his huge hands, cutting off the lieutenant’s comments. “Jim, they found a body caught in a painter’s safety net under the Bay Bridge this morning, a few hundred yards past the tunnel on Yerba Buena Island—”
“I know. I heard Dondero talking about it.” Reardon pulled a chair close to the desk and sat down, wondering; the captain also seated himself and picked up the stub of his cigar, smoldering in an ashtray, but instead of smoking it, he merely rolled it in his thick fingers, staring at it gravely, as if it might contain some badly wanted answers.
“Yes,” he said at last. “Well, identification just came through a few minutes ago; from his fingerprints, because there weren’t any papers on him and all the labels in his clothes were gone. But even without the fingerprints we’d have made him just from his face. It was Ray Martin. Number three on my list. He handled all the gambling for the mob. But you know all that.” His eyes went to the list; Reardon noticed it now lay on top of the glass instead of beneath it. “Number three … It’s too much for coincidence this time.” His eyes came up, looking at Reardon flatly. “It’s one more for you, Jim. They all have to be tied together, part of the same deal.”
“I’d agree, sir.” Reardon nodded and then frowned. “But what’s your idea, Captain? A mob housecleaning?”
“I don’t have any thoughts. It sounds like a mob affair, but it certainly doesn’t look like the way they work. On the other hand, maybe they’re working differently these days. There’s no law says they have to mow people down with machine guns like they did in the old days.” His fingers drummed on the desk. “What about that so-called suicide of Pete Falcone last night?”
“Well,” Reardon said, “there was a girl with him when he jumped—in his apartment, I mean. My guess is she helped him jump, probably without his even asking her to. And I agree with you, Captain; I never heard of the Syndicate using women for muscle.” He smiled faintly. “Although with Women’s Liberation, you can’t tell these days. Maybe they demanded equal rights.” His smile faded. “Well, it’s one more thing to look into. What was the story on Martin?”
“I’ll see you get a copy of the autopsy report,” Captain Tower said. “There’s no sense on going into half-details when the report will give you the full story. And I’ll send along the patrol car’s report on how he was found and all that—as soon as I get it myself, that is. The painters called the troopers at the toll plaza; they’re state, of course, and it takes a while to get a report out of them.”
“Yes, sir.” Reardon paused and then looked up, frowning. “Captain, one more question—what about John Sekara? He’s number four on that list of yours.”
“What about him?”
“Well—” Reardon hesitated a moment. “I mean, do we give him protection? If we’re right, and I’m fairly sure we are, then somebody’s decided to wipe out the bunch. Is crime prevention part of our job where a hood like Sekara is concerned?”
Captain Tower crushed out his cigar stub and frowned across the desk.
“It’s a good question. You’d think the mob could furnish protection as good as ours, if not better. On the other hand, if this is a housecleaning, then any protection he got from the Syndicate might be somewhat less than satisfactory. From his standpoint, that is. But to answer your question as to whether crime prevention is part of our job where hoods are concerned, the answer is crime prevention is part of our jobs, period.” He smiled coldly. “Still, I’d talk to the man before I furnished him any protection. Maybe he doesn’t agree with our theory; maybe he feels safe. Or maybe he would prefer not to be seen tagging around with a cop on his heels. He might feel it would damage his image.”
“Well, let’s hope so,” Reardon said, and came to his feet. A thought came to him. “Captain, what about Bennett?”
“I’ve taken him off his car for a while, at least until we can see if his drinking is really a problem.” He shook his head. “Tom Bennett never was a drinker, not even a social one. It’s a pity … At any rate, you’ll be needing all the hands you can get, and Tom is one of the better ones. Don’t underrate him.”
“No, sir. I won’t.”
“Good. All right, get to it and let me know what’s happening.”
“Yes, sir.”
Reardon left the office and returned to his own. He sat down and swiveled his chair, facing the city across Harrison Street, subconsciously wondering as always how San Francisco always seemed to be so clean, even in its slum areas, all neatly painted in bright pastels. It was a happy city, he thought, and wondered why there was so much unhappiness there. He put the concept away, at least for the moment, and tried to concentrate on the three deaths he was assigned to solve.
Every one was a freak in one way or another—the knifing of Capp probably the least freakish of them all, but still … That getup with the beard and mustache and shades … Then the Falcone deal, with the girl wiping the glasses for no reason at all, and cleaning any fingerprints from the windowsill, almost as if to point up that the death of Falcone was a murder and not a suicide and let nobody make any mistake! Weird … And the removal of all the identifying labels and papers from Martin’s clothing, when there wasn’t the faintest possibility of concealing his identity for five seconds. Although, to be honest, if the body had fallen into the bay and not been washed up for a week or two, possibly the identification wouldn’t have been so simple. Still, the captain had said it had been dropped a few hundred yards from the tunnel mouth, and that was a long way from water, so the body would have struck on land if it hadn’t been for the net, and identification would have been routine. Also weird. No attempt to make it look like a suicide, even granting that hitting the net was just bad luck on the part of the killer. No car, and who—even a suicide—would walk that far across the bridge to jump? Miles and more miles. And who would walk on the lower level, which was limited to vehicular traffic? No; somebody brought the body there and tossed it over, just like that, and they either didn’t care—or wanted everyone to know—that the question of possible suicide didn’t enter into it. As in Falcone’s case …
All very screwy, Reardon thought, and all pointing more and more away from the mob. It was all very well to kid about Women’s Lib and all that, but the fact was that the mob didn’t use women for muscle. To do so would have required imagination, and that was the one commodity the Syndicate lacked in profusion. Still, all three of the victims had only one thing in common that was apparent, and that was their connection with the mob, so it was a little early to toss that one aside. He frowned. Someone hankering to take over? All at the same time? And one of them a woman? Stop trying to figure it out without facts, Reardon, he told himself sternly, and reached for the telephone.
He dialed, spoke, hung up and waited. In a few minutes Dondero appeared, followed by Bennett. Reardon motioned both the sergeants to chairs.
“Don, what about that alley search last night?”
Dondero sat down and dragged out a cigarette, lighting it and tossing the match toward the waste
basket. It missed. He shook his head.
“James, mon lieutenant, we went through every ashcan in the neighborhood, and the result was nothing. Zero. Zilch. I did find out that we’re living in a wasteful age, but I knew that before. People throw out things in better condition than some of the stuff I had to wear or eat when I was a kid—and I wouldn’t call the Embarcadero at Berry the swankest neighborhood in the world. You know, Jim, you can get a pretty good idea of people from studying their garbage. I’m surprised sociologists haven’t thought of that before. Now, you take that area—” He suddenly seemed to realize that the sociological aspect of his report wasn’t exactly what the lieutenant wanted. He brushed ash from his cigarette into an ashtray and went on. “Anyway, you know the place, a couple of bars, mostly warehouses, a couple of old flophouses, a couple of diners open days, closed nights, mostly. Anyway, we went through everything, basements, stairwells, the works. I’m surprised none of those old tenements fell down on us.”
“How about across the Embarcadero?”
“Ferguson checked all the containers for at least three blocks each way—nothing. There were a couple of truck drivers sleeping on the pullman in their cabs, and all we got out of them in the way of information was to be told go away and let them sleep.”
“Ships?”
“The Pacific Rancher is at Pier Forty-Two and the Hawaiian Banker at Forty-Four. The Rancher had a watchman on deck at the time, but he says he was aft punching clocks. The Banker, nobody.”
Reardon frowned. “So if he didn’t cross the Embarcadero—and it seems to me he’d be taking a big chance of being seen crossing, and also he’d be trapping himself if he was chased that side of the street—where did he disappear to?”
Dondero held up a hand. “Don’t get excited. Who said he disappeared? He walked out and nobody saw him afterwards, that’s all. He didn’t exactly go up in a puff of smoke.” He puffed furiously on his cigarette a moment, thinking. “Let’s say you’re right, and he’d stick to the south side of the Embarcadero. Then we have to assume he went down one of those alleys. And if he did, he could have come out almost anyplace. They got a maze there. The city fathers forgot about that end of the Embarcadero, I fear me, James, when they were handing out slum clearance funds.”
“Or he could have gone down Berry itself—”
“Or he could have gone up in a puff of smoke,” Dondero said. “I know I ruled it out before, but I could be wrong.” He sighed mightily and took a drag on his cigarette. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that we didn’t find anything to help.”
“Great.” Reardon tapped his fingers restlessly on the blotter of his desk. He looked at Bennett and then swung his chair to face Dondero. “Incidentally, you might be interested to know that man they found dead in that painter’s net on the Bay Bridge was Ray Martin—”
There was an intake of breath from Bennett. Dondero’s eyebrows shot up.
“The same Raymond Martin I’m thinking of?”
“That’s the one,” Reardon said without expression. “And while we’re on the subject, I’m sure you must have heard that Pete Falcone either dove, or was helped to dive, out of his apartment window last night. While you were sifting garbage,” he added.
“There really wasn’t so much garbage as there was trash,” Dondero said, bringing the thing into perspective, and went on, returning to the subject. “I heard about Falcone when I checked out last night, but Ray Martin, too?” Dondero suddenly smiled. It was a puckish grin. “Now, if only Johnny Sekara decides to go swimming too soon after lunch wearing a concrete tank suit, let’s say—we could probably knock down overtime in the police department by a good half, at least.” His smile turned to a wicked grimace. “Hey, incidentally, where was Captain Tower last night? Maybe we can wind this case up quick, like.”
Reardon was forced to smile.
“Captain Tower can do a lot of things, but I can’t see him jamming himself into an evening gown and batting his eyes at a guy in a bar. He has trouble jamming himself into a suit—”
“He doesn’t have any trouble batting guys,” Dondero said. “Maybe not eyes, but guys.”
“—but I’m afraid we’re going to have to look elsewhere.” Reardon acted as if he hadn’t even heard the interruption. “I think we ought to have a chat with Mr. John Sekara, maybe. Possibly he has some ideas as to why all of his old co-workers are suddenly getting themselves killed. Because I sure as hell don’t. After all, they all worked for the same outfit, one way or another.”
“It’ll be a pleasure to speak with the man,” Dondero said with enthusiasm, and crushed out his cigarette. “When do we see him? With any luck, maybe we’ll be too late.”
“We’ll see him pretty soon.” Reardon came to his feet. “Right now I’ve got a personal job to do.” He paused. “Incidentally, Sergeant Bennett is going to be working with us on this.” He waited for some comment from Dondero, but the sergeant knew when to keep quiet. “While I’m gone, I’d suggest you bring him up to date on the Capp killing. I know he was there, but show him the reports. And I’d also suggest you both bring yourselves up to date on the others. Stan should have his report in on Falcone. I haven’t seen it yet myself, but it should be in that pile of garbage over there.” He pointed to his desk.
“Don’t mention that word.” Dondero shuddered.
“Sorry. And the autopsy report on Martin will be up soon, and the report from the state trooper who was called by those painters. Bone up on those. Maybe you’ll be able to tell me who did it by the time I get back.”
“I’ll be very happy to solve the case for you while you’re away, Lieutenant,” Dondero said magnanimously. “When will you be back?”
“A couple of hours at the most,” Reardon said quietly, and moved to the door.
“More than ample time,” Dondero said expansively. “Have a good time. Don’t rush.” And he reached for the pile of papers on the lieutenant’s desk with a slight flourish.
CHAPTER 8
Thursday—10:05 a.m.
Lieutenant Reardon waited for traffic on Bryant to abate a bit—for without his Charger beneath him he was far from foolhardy—and then crossed the street, walking diagonally. He reached the opposite curb and continued two blocks down the street to a drugstore on the corner of Morris, enjoying the pleasant weather. The call he was about to make was one he greatly preferred not to go through the switchboard of the Hall of Justice.
He pushed through the double doors into the crowded interior—crowded not by customers, but by displays and counters filled with everything from hardware to toys to magazine racks to jewelry to automotive repair kits. And where is the drugstore of my youth? he thought; if I came in here in some dire emergency requiring instant succor in the form of—say—aspirin, would they be able to locate it? Probably not, he thought with a sense of foreboding, and managed to get through an aisle without causing a towering pyramid of strained baby food to topple on him. He slid into a telephone booth at the far end of the long room, dropped his coin and dialed the unlisted number from memory.
There was the sound of prolonged ringing at the other end of the line before the receiver was finally raised, but Reardon had expected that. Any hour before noon was sure to result in similar delay from that number. There was the sound of a prodigious yawn and then at last the voice came on. It was sonorous, polite but slightly bored; it was also quite obviously still fighting sleep.
“Dial-a-Prayer,” the voice said evenly. “O Lord, in Thy mercy please forgive the poor sinner who doth phone Thy servant at this hour as he is trying to get in a few hours sack time—”
“Porky!”
“This is a recording,” the voice said chidingly. “Please do not interrupt. As I was saying—”
“I heard what you were saying. Look, Porky, this is—”
“I know who you are, Mr. R. You are the voice of my conscience, intent upon wakening me. What can I do for you, since you obviously won’t let me sleep?”
“I want a wor
d with you. In person. Name the place.”
There was a tragic sigh of resignation.
“And knowing your lack of patience in these matters,” Porky said, “I assume you want it like right now, if not sooner. Ah, me! Well, how about Marty’s Oyster House? In half an hour, say? They’ll be open by then, and I’ll be able to appear in something more formal than pajamas. Does that sound satisfactory?”
“Its a deal,” Reardon said. “First one there reserves a booth.”
“And last one there’s a rotten egg,” Porky said, pleased to be able to contribute, and hung up.
Thursday—10:30 a.m.
As is so often necessary in this age of inflated living standards, aided and abetted by appetites whetted on TV commercials, Porky Frank was a man who pursued more than one occupation. His main endeavor was running a small but honest book; to supplement his income and allow him to live as he wished—which was high off the hog—and also to use up the information that came his way, sometimes even without his seeking, Porky Frank moonlighted as a stool pigeon.
The movies have done much to distort the proper image of a stool pigeon, leaving people with the impression that all stool pigeons are small, scrawny, skulking little men who always look over their shoulders in fear and speak from the sides of their mouths with prison-trained ventriloquism. Nothing could be further from the truth. Small skulking fear-stricken people would be hard put to pick up the time of day, let alone any information valuable to third parties. People who pass on vital facts always lower their voices when small, skulking characters are around. Porky Frank was a prime example of how wrong the movies are in their portrayal of stool pigeons.
Porky—nee Paul—was a medium-sized, outgoing young man with enough ebullience to gain him the lead in a Noel Coward play. He enjoyed life to its hilt, and had no objection to others sharing his joy. He had been born and raised in Manhattan and had entered both of his professions there; nor had he left his native heath because the heat was getting too great, but precisely because it wasn’t great enough. Porky, since childhood, had felt there was something subversive about snow and as an adult he frequently pointed to Russia as an example. Once his success and the scope of his acquaintanceship had expanded sufficiently to allow him to transfer the base of his operation, he had done so with pleasure, selecting San Francisco as the city in which his talents could best be exercized without the need to bundle to the ears against frost six months of the year. He had come to Lieutenant Reardon’s attention well recommended by a close friend, a New York City equivalent-in-rank policeman from the 52nd Precinct. Reardon, to date, had never had cause to regret the introduction, and many times good reason to appreciate it.
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