The Gremlin's Grampa

by Robert L. Fish

  “Of course.” She came to her feet and padded into the kitchen; the tight rope belt pulled in her waist, exaggerating her figure. Reardon loked after her appreciatively. There was the sound of the refrigerator door opening and then closing; a few moments and Jan was back, carefully balancing the glass. He took it gratefully and sipped it while Jan sank back into her soft chair, tucking her feet under her again. Her eyes came back to his face. “Was it bad?”

  “It was bad for John Sekara. Somebody shot him dead.”

  “I know. I heard when we were in the nightclub. I mean, will it be bad for you?”

  He shrugged and finished the buttermilk, turning to set down the glass. There was a sudden gasp from Jan.

  “Oh, Jim!”

  “What?”

  “You sat in something!”

  He twisted, looking down. “I’m just a natural-born slob,” he said. “I must have sat in some greasepaint down at that stupid nightclub, tonight.” He suddenly grinned, a rueful grin. “That’s the story of my life, these days. Paint on my pants and egg on my face.”

  Jan cocked her head to one side. “It sounds like a song.”

  “Maybe I’ll give up being a cop and write songs for a living,” he said, and walked into the bedroom to undress. He came out a few minutes later in his pajamas and robe and stood before Jan, smiling down at her, relaxed as always to be home with her. “How would you like that?”

  “How would I like what?”

  “That’s what I like about you,” he said approvingly, “your remarkable memory. I said, how would you like me to give up being a cop and write songs for a living?”

  “How would you like it?”

  “Well,” Reardon said, “I couldn’t do any worse than I’m doing right now. Actually, though, right now I think I’d like to be a mattress tester.” He yawned deeply. “Ah, me! I’m tired.” His eyes suddenly came alive, twinkling. “Do you remember that ancient story about the man who was enticed to bed by a widow, and once he was in bed with the woman he asked if he could enjoy a husband’s privileges, and she eagerly said yes. And then he said, ‘In that case, madame, good night!’ And rolled over and went to sleep?”

  “No,” Jan said curiously. “How does it go?” She laughed. “All right, I’ll let you rest tonight, but I really shouldn’t, since you aren’t my husband.” She pretended to think. “Maybe subconsciously that’s why I don’t want to get married.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Well,” Jan said firmly, “I would. However, we can discuss that when you are less tired. I’m going to brush my teeth. You go to bed.”

  “In a minute. Right now I’m too tired to sleep.”

  He dropped down onto the sofa, leaning back against the cushions, yawned cavernously and half closed his eyes to slits, letting his thoughts wander where they would. It was a common way he used to relax himself when things built up too tightly. Four murders, each with at least eighty-eight jillion clues—or what should have been clues—and none of them leading anywhere to speak of. Or, rather, leading everywhere to speak of, mostly in opposite directions. Four well-known and well-disliked mobsters killed, with witnesses all over the place, with no attempt made in any case to hide the fact of murder, and with enough motive on each to provide a dozen suspects. That was the trouble, of course; if they had all been preachers of the gospel instead of hoods, it might be easier to narrow the suspects down. Or maybe not, he thought idly; motive, like beauty, is strictly in the eye of the beholder.

  Still, there had to be something in common when four men such as Capp, Falcone, Martin and Sekara get killed, even though each was killed by a different method. Were they even killed by the same person? And if so, was it a man or a woman? It was pretty sad at this stage of an investigation when even those simple questions were difficult, if not impossible, to answer. The fact is, he tried to convince himself, that every murder leaves its mark somewhere, if one could only recognize it. The simplicity of each killing in this case was one of the things making it so difficult to solve. Take tonight, for example …

  The building where John Sekara had died so few hours before now formed before his half-closed eyes, the shaded windows of the dead man’s apartment strangely making him think of the closed eyes of its ex-occupant, now undoubtedly undergoing the final indignity of an autopsy. Tomorrow Captain Tower might well put him on the carpet for not having more men on Sekara, but disregarding the fact that he didn’t have the men to spare, there was also the fact that unless they had had men staked out front and back of every place Sekara went—including his home—for the period he was there, Mr. John Sekara would have caught it. As he did. Maybe in those pleasant days when man’s sole weapon was a club, or a rock, other men could furnish someone with reliable protection, but today it was foolish to even think of it. About all any protecting agency could do today was to make it a trifle more difficult for the killer to achieve his objective, but they certainly couldn’t guarantee their client’s life, or even well-being.

  Especially in a case such as this. What could Stan have done? It was really a rather clever idea, when you stopped to think about it. Anyone could probably get into anyone else’s apartment simply by waiting for a guest to leave and then immediately calling on the house phone saying you were old Uncle Charlie and you’d forgotten your false teeth upstairs. Your voice wouldn’t betray you, that was certain. With the inadequacy of the cheap apparatus they used in today’s apartments, Reardon thought, it’s a holy wonder anyone understands the words, let alone recognizes the voice.

  He frowned suddenly, and repeated the last thought to himself, hearing the words in his mind. It’s a holy wonder anyone understands the words, let alone recognizes the voice. It’s a wonder anyone understands the words. It’s a wonder anyone understands the words …

  He sat erect, eyes wide, sleep forgotten. The old familiar tingle of his nerve ends, advising him he was on to something hot, came back; he had been waiting for it a long, long time. He hunched over, his hands clasped before him, concentrating fiercely, going over other facts. Was it possible? Everything in this world is possible, he told himself almost harshly; and most of it is probable. And where bad news and crime were concerned, too much of it was certain.

  He grimaced at the rug without seeing it, tracing the facts once again. Now, what was it that old man in that bar down on the Embarcadero had said? The one with the scarf wrapped around his jaw five or six times? He had said—

  “Jim.”

  He held up his hand abruptly and unconsciously to prevent any immediate interruption in his flow of thoughts. The old man with the scarf had said—and now in his fierce concentration he could almost hear the thin, reedy voice—“The guy with the lumber jacket, his shoes were real shiny … I was looking down, like … I seen his shoes. By accident, like … They was real shiny …”

  Reardon growled deep in his throat. He could have kicked himself down the stairs and then up again. How had he overlooked that vital statement all this time? Sheer stupidity, that was all. But the girl who had come in, asking directions.… Reardon suddenly frowned. No, that wasn’t possible; the time element didn’t permit. Or the witnesses. So suppose she actually was asking directions? The gas station was around the corner; maybe she hadn’t seen it. Or maybe it had been closed; there wasn’t much action for a gas station that hour of the night in that neighborhood … In any event, there wouldn’t have been any need for anyone to finger Capp, so forget the girl …

  “Jim!”

  He sighed and looked up, aware that he couldn’t put off Jan’s interruption forever, and that it might be better to answer it and get it over with before he went back to figuring out his case.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  Jan was staring at him. “What is what? I’ve been trying to talk to you for the past five minutes, and you just sit there and look as if you were in a trance. I don’t like it when you go off like that.” Her voice softened. “And leave me behind …”

  Reardon smiled gr
imly. “I had a sudden rush of brains to the head. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does I don’t like to discourage it.” He saw the change of expression on her face and nodded soberly. “Yes, I don’t think there’s much doubt. There’ll be a lot of chasing around to pick up evidence, but I think I finally see what it’s all about.”

  “And what’s it all about?”

  He stared at her, his mind far away, and then came back to earth. “What?”

  “I said, what’s it all about?”

  “Did you ever hear of the Esquadrão de Morte in Brazil? The so-called Death Squad?”

  “No. Who are they? Jim? Jim?”

  But she was talking to the raised hand again. Jan sighed and curled up in her chair again, watching her man across the room frown fiercely at the rug, his hands clenched together again.

  And that beard and mustache and sunglasses that had never turned up—well, he would give thirteen to that nine, now, that he could put his fingers on them fairly quickly. That list on Captain Tower’s desk … How long had it been there, and how many times had the newspapers used it as the basis for either an article, or an editorial?

  But that wasn’t evidence. What was evidence were things that had happened, or things people had said, like that old man with the scarf. For example, what had that bartender, the other one down at the Cranston Hotel who was always polishing glasses—what was it he had said? Well, among other things, he said—“Mr. Falcone don’t pick up no pigs,” not a vital statement, but he had also said—

  “Jim—I’m going to bed …”

  “Good night—”

  What else had that bartender said? Well, among the other things he had said, “She didn’t barely drink it herself.” They had been speaking of the weird Gremlin’s Grampa. And the glass upstars in Falcone’s apartment with that oddball mixture had been more than half full. Christ! Where had he been when it was raining intelligence? Outside with a fork? Where had his eyes and ears been this past week? Obviously with something called a Gremlin’s Grampa—an idiocy—just as he was meant to be. A smoke screen! Any bartender in town could have told him no such thing existed, or could exist, but he had believed it—had, in fact, even convinced the man behind the bar at the Cranston that the drink existed. And had told Jan it was an important clue. Well, it was—pointing directly to his own stupidity.

  And, putting the matter aside of the Gremlin’s Grampa, there was still the matter of the paint on his pants. Well, that paint wasn’t egg on his face now!

  He sighed and came to his feet, untying the cord of his robe, moving to a closet for clean trousers, and then paused, going instead to the bedroom, and picking up his old ones. He studied them awhile; Jan, watching from the bed, could not make out his expression; he seemed almost an automaton. He dropped them once again in a heap and went back to the living room, picking up the telephone and dialing a familiar number. The phone rang several times before it was answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Don? This is Jim Reardon—”

  There was a deep sigh. “I was afraid of that. Don’t you ever sleep? Try hot milk—”

  “Don, pull on your pants. I’ll be by to pick you up in ten minutes. Be ready.”

  “My pants are on and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, but whatever fun you have in mind will have to wait. I’m watching the late-late-late show, I think. It’s The Mark of Zorro in the original, with Doug Fairbanks. They don’t know he’s Zorro, see, not even his old man; he keeps waving this handkerchief full of perfume, and he’s got this mustache looks like he’s been drinking grape juice—”

  The only reason Reardon let him ramble was because he hadn’t been listening; his mind was still building his case. He came out of his dream world to find Dondero still talking.

  “Keep quiet. Ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dondero said hopelessly, and then brightened. “What’s it all about? More killings?”

  “You’re a ghoul. Let’s hope not,” Reardon said soberly.

  “If you’re pulling rank, then I hope not, too,” Dondero said. “What about Tom Bennett?”

  “We’ll stop for him after I pick you up.”

  “I’m going to quit this job,” Dondero said conversationally. “I’m going to get a job with regular hours, or try for that fireman’s job again—” He paused and then subsided; he was speaking to a dial tone. With a sigh he hung up.

  Reardon glanced at his watch, frowned at the telephone a moment as he tried to put his thoughts in order, and came to a decision. He dialed again, this time to the Hall of Justice. There was a brief wait while his credentials were established, and then he was speaking with Records. The night man on duty listened to the lieutenant’s request without any particular surprise; surprise was one of the things that had to be sacrificed if one wanted to work for the police department. He disappeared to rummage in a file, returned at last with a folder, opened it and began to read. Reardon nodded in satisfaction as he received the facts stored in the folder.

  “Good,” he said quietly, when the recital was finished. “It’s what I finally figured, but I suppose I should have checked it a long time ago. In any event, thanks a lot.”

  “Anytime, Lieutenant,” the night man said. He hadn’t a clue as to what the lieutenant needed the information for, or even what he had been talking about, but he did know lieutenants were higher than sergeants in the table of organization. “Anyways, it’s dead down here nights. A call breaks up the monotony.”

  “Don’t knock monotony,” Reardon said fervently, and hung up. He slipped from his robe and pajamas and hurriedly began to dress. Ten minutes to pick up Don and another ten at least to get to Tom’s, and then—he dismissed the thought and sat down again to draw on his shoes. In the bedroom Jan listened quietly to the sounds from the lighted living room. When the front door closed softly behind him, she rolled over in bed, staring at the rectangle of light outlining the open doorway to the outer room, wondering, as always, when he’d be back. Or if he’d be back. Or if it really made much difference whether one worried about a husband or a boyfriend, so long as one worried about a person they loved …

  CHAPTER 15

  Saturday—1:00 a.m.

  The Bennett house was dark. Reardon descended and walked quickly up onto the porch, while Dondero, in the car, watched. Reardon pressed the bell; he could hear it ringing faintly from the kitchen, but no one came to the door. Dondero, in the car, frowned, and then called out, his voice soft in the night air.

  “Jim—he dropped me off after he dropped you off. It must be a good forty minutes ago, I’d say. They should be home by now.”

  Reardon didn’t answer. He pressed the bell again, his face showing strain and worry. He could hear the bell, but there was still no response, no movement from within. In the still of the night the bell sounded plaintive, audible now even to the man in the car. Reardon turned and called quietly.

  “Don, come up here!”

  There was an urgency in the lieutenant’s low tone that had Dondero out of the car in a hurry. He walked quickly up the sidewalk and took the porch steps two at a time, wondering what was up.

  “What is it, Jim?”

  “Do you have any picks with you? Or a spider?”

  “You didn’t say to—”

  “Damn it!” Reardon said fiercely, “just answer me! Can you get in or do we break the goddam door down?”

  Dondero didn’t waste time answering. He pushed the door once, to get an idea of its strength, and then slipped off his jacket. He bunched it around his fist and crashed it through the window beside the door, reached carefully past the shards to unlatch it, and then pushed the sash up, wondering at the time just how much noise it took to get any of the Bennett neighbors to call the police, or at least show enough interest to turn on a light. A moment later and he had crawled through and opened the door to admit the lieutenant, after which he started switching on lights, going through the house, an unknown fear of what he might find accompanying him. Reardon was righ
t behind him, breathing heavily.

  The living room was as they had left it; the tray with their drink glasses on it still lay on top of the television set, the stain of tomato juice looking like blood trails inside the glasses. The ashtrays were still full, untouched. In the dining room the table was as they had left it, still cluttered with the unremoved silverware left when the birthday party was so abruptly abandoned, the crumbs still unbrushed from the tablecloth. The kitchen sink was loaded with dishes, the half-consumed birthday cake still occupied the counter beneath the cupboards, a fly buzzing about it, unconcerned at the late hour.

  Reardon opened the door to a broom closet and closed it.

  “Look in the basement,” he called, and started for the stairs on the double. He came to the top landing, hitting the light switches as he went; the hallway was clear. Four rooms and two baths adjoined the hall, as well as several closets. Each in turn was hastily inspected and hurriedly abandoned for the next; all were deserted. Reardon checked out dresser drawers; each seemed to be in order, their contents neatly arranged. As far as he could see nothing seemed to be missing, but not knowing what each drawer normally contained, made it impossible to be certain whether anything had been removed or not. He shook his head and went downstairs again.

  Dondero was standing in the living room, looking relieved.

  “Nothing funny in the basement,” he said. “Phew! From the way you’ve been acting, I figured you expected to find the place spattered with blood from floor to ceiling. They probably just stopped on the way home for a drink—”

  “But that’s just the point, don’t you see?” Reardon said harshly. “Damn it, don’t you understand?”

  “What’s the point?”

  “They don’t drink!” He walked over to the tray of cocktails and raised one of the glasses. He sniffed. “Bloody Mary be damned! Tim fixed the drinks and the ones the family had were straight tomato juice!”