“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.”
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“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 gi
ve 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?”
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