The Gremlin's Grampa

by Robert L. Fish

  “So what? I don’t see what’s bugging you?”

  “You don’t?”

  “No …” Dondero suddenly looked worried. “You mean, they might have had an accident on the way home?”

  “No, I don’t mean they might have had an accident on the way home! And what would their not drinking have to do with that!” Reardon asked savagely. He glared at Dondero. “Anyway, where’s brother Billy? Our hard-studying graduate student? Why isn’t he home burning the midnight oil? He couldn’t come with us to the nightclub because he had so much work to do—don’t tell me he was in an accident, too!”

  Dondero remained silent, non-understanding. Reardon frowned angrily into space for several moments, his mind exploring all possibilities. He grunted as one very large one occurred to him, and picked up the telephone, dialing the Hall of Justice. The phone was answered instantly.

  “Police department …”

  “Hello. This is Lieutenant Reardon again. I’m at Tom Bennett’s home on Seventeenth. Near Clayton. Do you have a car in service anywhere near here? Or even one out of service on something minor?”

  “Just a second, Lieutenant …” There was a brief pause; Reardon could see in his mind’s eye the policeman at headquarters swing around to study the big board, and then swing back. “Park Four is at the Medical Center on Parnassus. That’s the closest. He’s free.”

  “Well, that’s not far. Is the driver alone?”

  “No, sir. There’s another man with him. They were delivering a baby on an emergency, but they’ve handed the mother over …”

  “Well, get them on their way here in a hurry and then come back on the line. Do they know where Bennett lives?”

  “We have his address. I’ll give it to them if they don’t know it. Just a moment …” There was a brief pause and the voice came back on the line. “They’re on their way, Lieutenant. What else?”

  “Can you connect me with International Airport through your board?”

  “Yes, sir. Do you want Security there?”

  “Yes …” Reardon thought quickly. “Wait—no. We might as well save time. Connect me with the airport manager—the night manager at this hour, I imagine. And tell him to have his board cut Security there into the call. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir. Right away …”

  There was a long wait as the connections were made; it took several minutes but to Reardon it seemed at least an hour. Dondero had slumped to the arm of a chair and was lighting a cigarette, watching, his face expressionless, trying to understand what was in Reardon’s mind. Reardon frowned blackly at the wall and then straightened his face as a voice came on the line. Apparently it had been at least partially briefed.

  “This is the night manager, Lieutenant. My name is Warren. Our Security is also on the line. What can we do for you?”

  Reardon took a deep breath.

  “Mr. Warren, there’s a private pilot for an oil company, I believe, who flies out of your airport. The company’s hanger is there, I think. His name is Tim Bennett. Do you know him?”

  Security cut in. “I know him, Lieutenant. He’s Tom Bennett’s boy. By the way, my name is Cassell. Tim flies for Trans-State Oil. A twin-engine Beech. What about him?”

  “I think there’s a chance he’s on his way to the airport. It’s far from certain, but it’s a chance. I want to be sure he doesn’t take off in the next few minutes—not before I get to the airport, anyway. I’m at Tom Bennett’s home now. I’ll be leaving here in a very few minutes. I should be there between twenty minutes and a half hour from now.” Dondero shut his eyes, shuddering at the thought of accompanying the lieutenant at the speeds implied, and then opened them to help him hear the rest of the conversation. “Can you do that? Hold him up?”

  “We can try,” the night manager said cautiously.

  Security was more assured. “Of course we can do it, Lieutenant. I’ll go down there personally.”

  “Good, Mr. Cassell. Which hanger does Trans-State use?”

  “It’s right off the freeway,” the night manager said. “It’s two or three entrances before the main one leading to the passenger terminal itself. It’s quite clearly marked, once you get off the freeway and onto airport property proper.”

  Security was again of greater use.

  “Look, Lieutenant, it’s the second exit coming from town after you hit the end of the airport property. You’ll pass an overhead sign on the Bayshore Freeway saying “‘International Airport Two Miles’; it’s the exit after that, roughly half a mile. You turn off to the right, go over an overpass, and when you come down you’ll see a sign that says: Private Sector Three, and an arrow. Turn in the direction of the arrow and take your first left. I’ll see to it the gate is open in the fence. You’ll come out between two hangars. Trans-State is the one on the right. Got it?”

  “Got it.” Reardon glanced out the open door to see a patrol car pull up, it’s roof lights flashing. Two uniformed men came out quickly, holsters unlatched, ready for anything. Reardon spoke into the telephone. “Car’s here. I’ll be out as soon as I can make it.”

  He hung up and watched the men from the car pause momentarily on the porch, frowning at the broken window, and then they came into the house. They visibly relaxed to see both the lieutenant and the sergeant neither being attacked nor in any apparent imminent danger.

  “Hi, Lieutenant. Hello, Don. What happened to the window?”

  “No key,” Dondero said, as if that explained everything.

  Reardon took over. “Look, Max, you boys are going to stay here; we’re taking the car. I want you to do a full search of this house, from the cellar to the attic. All the closets, drawers—everything. The works.”

  “Looking for what, Lieutenant?”

  “First, a red plaid lumber jacket, probably with paint on it—blue paint. Then a woman’s wig, shoulder length, brown hair; then a set of falsies for a brassiere—not too big, I shouldn’t judge; she’s well built already. And then a beard and a fake mustache. And last but not least, a long, thin knife—a type of stiletto.” He glanced over at Dondero. “Some of it may be in the back of the sedan—or all of it, I suppose—but I have a feeling at least some of it is here in the house.”

  Dondero was staring at him in astonishment. “What on earth—?”

  “I’ll tell you about it on the way,” Reardon said, and smiled grimly. “It may take your mind off my driving …”

  Saturday—1:35 a.m.

  Dondero hung on for dear life as they rocketed down Seventeenth Street, crashing the light at Douglass, siren screaming, roof light whirling like mad. They swung into Market with screaming tires, narrowly missing a car trying desperately to get out of their way; at Fourteenth Reardon swung right again. Before him an ambulance pulled aside, giving room to this dangerous maniac, its own siren lost beneath the greater sound of that of the patrol car. Reardon headed for South Van Ness and the looping entrance there to the freeway. It was not until they had come into the sparse traffic on the overhead highway that Dondero allowed himself to relax a bit; he was sure his fingerprints were imbedded in the dashboard for all time to come. He reached for a cigarette with shaking hands and managed to light it. Reardon was hunched over the wheel like a racing driver, his jaw set. Dondero tossed the spent match from the window and rolled the glass up, cutting the sound of the siren down to a point where conversation was possible.

  “Now,” he said, turning to face Reardon, “what were you saying?”

  “I wasn’t saying, but I will.” Reardon swung the wheel slightly; they passed a cruising car as if it were standing still. Dondero swallowed, Reardon’s eyes were narrowed. “They’re a close-knit family, all right. But then, everybody told me that from the beginning …”

  Dondero frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what it says. Everybody told me what a pity it was that Tom Bennett’s youngest boy went bad—but it never occurred to me to ask in what way he went bad. Or why.”

  “I do
n’t know what you’re talking about, but I could have told you all about the boy.”

  “I’m sure.” Reardon’s voice was cold with anger at himself. “Fifty people could have told me about the boy if I’d thought to ask, but it didn’t occur to me until tonight, and then Records gave me the whole story. Hooked on drugs in high school by one of Sekara’s pushers, with the result that Tom blames his wife’s death on the boy and his habit. But more definite than that, the boy starts out stripping cars for the price of the habit, and when the price went up—as it does—the degree of crime necessary to raise the scratch also went up. Naturally. So now we have him for armed robbery with a minimum of five years facing him. And when he gets out—in three or four, with luck—we’ll have him up for murder next, probably.” His voice was expressionless. “That’s a good university they run up there at Q.”

  Dondero shook his head in bewilderment. “I still don’t see what one thing has to do with the other. You’ve got me confused, buddy.”

  Reardon kept his foot locked on the gas pedal, pressing it to the floor, screaming around the curves of the elevated highway, his tires barely missing the curbing most of the time. The little traffic there was at that hour of the morning fled to one side before the onslaught of the keening siren. He spoke as if he had not heard Dondero, as if speaking to himself.

  “When we pick up Bennett—which should be at the airport, because I’m sure he kept under the speed limit, not expecting trouble, and I’m sure we called Security there in time—anyway, when we pick him up, we’ll ask him some questions. For example: were the other three—Capp, Falcone and Martin—killed in order not to have the Sekara killing stand out? Or was it simply that morally, or at least morally in his mind, Tom Bennett was able to justify the death of all four as being equal contributors to a breakdown in the society he had spent his life working for? And which resulted, in the end, in his son’s going sour, and his wife’s death?”

  “Bennett?” Dondero stared at him. “Hell! Bennett was at headquarters at the time Falcone went out that window! And we were with him ourselves at that Belly-Button place when Sekara got shot!”

  “But Billy wasn’t with us. It’s like I tried to tell you before,” Reardon said softly, “they’re a close-knit family. They probably decided in a family council. One each. Tom Bennett did the Capp killing. The fright wig and the mustache and the lumber jacket were all the disguise he needed. He knew Capp’s routine. Hell! He’s been on that patrol beat for years. But he didn’t think about his shiny shoes. Who has the shiniest shoes in town? Especially down on the Embarcadero and Berry? A cop, my friend—a cop! He passes uniform inspection every day. And when Tom went back to the bar in his official capacity, you notice he didn’t take any chances of being studied too long by those who were witnesses to the killing inside at the time-he made it in and out fast and then whistled up a foot man and put him on watch inside. Is that natural? A sergeant moving traffic along while a patrolman watches a murdered body? I should have seen the discrepancy in that a long time ago, except that my mind was on other, more important things—”

  Dondero was listening intently now. “Such as?”

  “Such as that nice, ripe smell of booze that Tom Bennett practically blew in my face.” Reardon’s voice was bitter. “He wasn’t taking a nip in that gas station john—he was changing clothes. And rinsing his mouth out with whiskey.”

  “But, why?”

  “Because he was damned sure a stiff-necked bastard like me would report him, and when we check tomorrow, five will get you ten—no, make that nine will get you thirteen—that when Captain Tower had him on the carpet, he—Tom Bennett—was the one who suggested working with the brilliant Lieutenant Reardon on the case. It never hurts to know where you stand.” He shook his head in disgust, remembering. “Nor does it hurt to be assigned to find where a fake beard and mustache were bought, especially when you were the one who bought it.”

  Dondero was pale. “If you’re right, of course, it would mean—”

  “Yes,” Reardon said quietly, interrupting. “It means that Gabriella was the one who invented Gremlin’s Grampas, and who helped Pete Falcone out the window. It always was hard for me to believe that with all his experience, Falcone could possibly have been taken in by an impersonator like Georgie Jackson.”

  “Little Georgie sure fooled me.”

  “You weren’t up that close, and I doubt he could have fooled Falcone.” He shrugged. “In any event, he didn’t have to.”

  “What you’re saying, then, is that Tom took Capp, Gabriella handled Falcone, Tim killed Martin and Billy Bennett was the one who shot Sekara.”

  “That’s right. Our graduate student. Probably via bicycle, since the Bennetts only have the one car and that was in use by us. And they found some bicycle tracks, though that doesn’t prove anything by itself. Anyway, a bicycle isn’t a bad means of getting around if you don’t want to be seen—not in that particular neighborhood. Two minutes and he’d be in Golden Gate Park, and once he was in the park he could go where he wanted without being seen—or at least without being noticed. They probably had a meeting place set up—the park, in fact, would be ideal. At night you could hide a bike where it wouldn’t be noticed or found until morning, and the chances are whoever finds it tomorrow morning won’t even bother to report it. He’ll just thank his lucky stars, take it someplace and hock it, and buy himself some sticks with the bread.”

  Dondero stared ahead in thought. He leaned over and crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray and then leaned back again, his mind so occupied that their speed didn’t bother him. The lights of Daly City rose on the hills to their right; beyond the cutoff, Route 101—the Bayshore Freeway—extended almost trafficless. Reardon switched off the overhead rotating lamp and then bent down, disconnecting the siren. The silence was wonderful. Dondero cleared his throat. When he spoke he sounded extremely doubtful.

  “Those are pretty serious accusations, Jim. I hope you can prove them before you go out on a limb. Because for my money, all you seem to have is a lot of guesses, and pretty wild ones, too. So they didn’t put liquor in their Bloody Marys; so Billy wasn’t home when he said he would be. So what?”

  Reardon snorted angrily.

  “So what? Wild guesses? Hell!” He forced himself to simmer down. After all, if he couldn’t convince Dondero, who could he convince? “Maybe I’m telling it badly. Take it the way I did—start with the Sekara killing and then go back to the others and maybe it’ll make more sense.” He took a deep breath. They swerved with the road; to their left the shadow of Candlestick Park stood out against the night-lights of the naval shipyard. “All right. Yesterday I put Stan Lundahl and Tom Bennett on Sekara for protection, one shift on, one shift off. Tonight—the second night Stan’s on the job—somebody calls Sekara from the lobby of his apartment—somebody who’s been waiting patiently for him to come home—just after Stan leaves, and Sekara is obliging enough to open the downstairs door for him, and then unchain and open the door of his apartment for him, too. And gets shot three times for his trouble. Right?”

  Dondero could only nod silently. Reardon glanced over, saw the expression on the other’s face, and returned his attention to the road, satisfied.

  “All right. Now; what could this unknown person have said to John Sekara in order to get him to open those doors? This is your neighborhood Welcome Wagon and would you like to have a girl? Stan says no. This is your granddaughter, Little Red Riding Hood, and I brought a ham sandwich through the woods for you? Dubious. Open Sesame? Even more doubtful.” He dropped his sardonic tone. “No, sir. What that person had to say, was something like this: ‘This is Sergeant Lundahl. When I was upstairs with you in your apartment just now, I think I must have dropped my warrant card’—or words to that effect. Then Sekara would have opened those doors, but otherwise, never! Remember, he was a man who felt threatened. He was on his toes.” He smiled faintly, but there was no humor in his smile. “And who knew Lundahl by name? And knew he was protecti
on for Sekara? And on that shift? Damned few people—and Bennett was one of those few.”

  Dondero objected. “That’s still only circumstantial evidence.”

  “But damned strong circumstantial evidence! And then when I find paint on my pants—”

  “Paint on your pants?” Dondero was mystified.

  “That’s what I said,” Reardon said with satisfaction. “I thought at first I must have sat down on a make-up kit by accident in that dressing room at the Belly-Button, but I didn’t sit down and I knew it. But where I did sit down, though, was on the back seat in Tom Bennett’s car. Something either had been on that seat that had paint on it, or something was still on that seat with paint on it. Blue paint. And there’s more than enough on my pants for the lab to analyze. And nine will get you thirteen—to coin a phrase—that it matches with the paint from the railing on the Bay Bridge.” He glanced over. “And what will you say then, my friend?”

  Dondero sighed. He shook his head slowly, unhappily.

  “I’d say then, my friend, that your odds aren’t long enough.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Reardon said evenly, and lapsed into silence, tramping on the gas …

  Saturday—1:50 a.m.

  They turned from the freeway, slowing down abruptly; the patrol car swayed as they rounded the curve and bounced up onto the overpass ramp and then began to descend. Ahead of them the gate had been opened; they rolled through and turned as they had been directed, slowing down even more. They were on a macadam road, built more for wide-tired airplane tractors than for cars. The hangers loomed over them, monsters of shadow against the lights from the runways beyond. Reardon slowed down further, braking to a stop beside the end hanger, frowning at the silence and the darkness.

  Where was Cassell, the Security man? Somebody had opened the gate … With a muttered curse the stocky lieutenant climbed down and walked around to the apron before the hanger with Dondero hurrying to catch up. The large doors had been rolled aside; the space inside was vacant except for an empty jeep parked near the entrance. There was the sharp smell of fresh gasoline in the air. Reardon’s jaw clenched in anger; he turned, prepared to get back to the car and the radio-telephone there, when he heard a rustle from the depths of the hanger, a slight thrashing sound.