“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?”
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