Reardon

by Robert L. Fish

  “What time is it?”

  “Quarter to eight on a lovely, foggy, rainy typical California day. What more do you want? And what’s the matter with your voice? You getting laryngitis?”

  “No, it’s just—”

  Behind Reardon a throaty voice spoke. There was a smile in it.

  “You don’t have to whisper. I’m awake. Who is it?”

  He cupped the receiver, smiling over his shoulder. “It’s Don. He wants me to pick him up at Penny’s.” He saw her eyebrows go up mischievously and shook his head with a grin. “I hate to disappoint you sex-starved match-making women, but he’s home and he slept home. He’s just going over there for breakfast.” He turned back to the telephone. “No, I’m all right. Just a frog in my throat. When do you want to be picked up?”

  “Yeah, you sound a lot better now,” Dondero conceded. “Pick me up, say, in an hour? There’s a cab stand on the corner—this hour shouldn’t be any problem getting one. I’ll be over at Penny’s in fifteen minutes, tops.”

  “And if there aren’t any cabs, you can always trot, eh?”

  “The word is jog,” Dondero said and grinned.

  Jan was sitting up in bed, twisting to reach up and release the window shade over the bed. It slid up a foot; beyond it the drizzle tapped the glass. The building next door was scarcely visible in the foggy morning. San Francisco, I still love you, she thought and turned to him.

  “Go ahead,” she said with a smile. “I’ll catch a cab down to the office.”

  She saw his attention drawn to her full, lush breasts and slid back under the covers, making a face at him.

  Reardon brought his attention back to the telephone with an effort.

  “I’ll tell you what, Don,” he said. “Make that an hour and a half instead of an hour, and you have a ride. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Great,” Dondero said happily. “And thanks.” He put the receiver back in its cradle.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Jan said seriously. “I could have caught a cab down to the office. You don’t have to drive me downtown and then come all the way back.”

  “Who’s going to drive you downtown?” Reardon asked, sounding amazed at the weird suggestion. He reached up and pulled the shade down again, and then slid under the covers, putting his strong arms around her, drawing her willing body tightly against his, putting his head down to kiss first her breasts, then her throat, and finally locking his mouth on hers in growing need. The kiss finally broke. Jan rubbed herself against him, and then opened her eyes. They twinkled up at him impishly.

  “An hour and a half?” she asked. “Mmmmm!”

  Thursday—9:20 A.M.

  Lieutenant Reardon parked the Charger on the sharp hill, took the necessary precautions to keep the car in place with the automatic movements of any San Francisco driver, and slipped from the seat with a whistle on his lips. The drizzle had stopped, at least momentarily, replaced by damp fog. He crossed the street and trotted up the many steps of the tall, Victorian-style house, feeling at peace with the world and himself. The usual roller-coaster view of Fort Mason disappeared after less than a block, buried in the whitish mist below. He knew that when Judge Jorgensen opened Municipal Court the following day, he was going to have to do a lot of explaining to a lot of people, but that was the following day. Today was today and had started off wonderfully, despite the weather.

  Penny answered his second ring and gave him a brief smile that—while it couldn’t have been called exceptionally gay—really wasn’t too bad under the circumstances.

  “Don’s in the kitchen,” she said, leading him into the apartment and closing the door behind him. “That’s where I eat.”

  “Where else?” Reardon asked, surprised.

  She smiled again. “Let me have your jacket. It’s muggy. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or something more substantial, like breakfast?”

  “To tell you the truth,” Reardon said with a grin, “I’m starving. I’ll take you up on that.” He slipped out of his jacket. Wilkins’ report almost fell out, but he stuffed it back in place and handed the jacket over. Penny hung it neatly on a hanger in the closet and led the way to the kitchen. Dondero was just gulping the last of his coffee.

  “I’m ready.”

  “I’m not,” Reardon said and pulled a chair to the table. He smiled at the sergeant. “I’m going to have something to eat.”

  “Oh. Fine,” Dondero said vaguely.

  Penny stood at the stove. “Eggs with bacon or ham? Or both?”

  “Bacon, please. And some toast and coffee.” Reardon leaned back in the hard, wooden chair, smiling genially at nothing in the world, but nothing out of it either. “It’s a lovely, beautiful day,” he said to no one in particular.

  “For ducks, maybe,” Dondero said and shook his head. “This happiness routine—what came over you since I called you?”

  “I tried to tell you before—I got hungry. That always drives away the demons. No room for two problems at the same time in my tiny brain.” He reached over and picked up a piece of buttered toast from the edge of Dondero’s plate. “May I? You seem to be finished. If not I’ll pay you back in a minute.”

  “I’m done. Go ahead.”

  “Thank you,” Reardon said politely and began munching.

  “And what do we do this morning? Once you get through stuffing yourself, that is.”

  “A good question,” Reardon conceded graciously. “I thought we might go down to the ship and look at pictures. With any luck in selecting the proper hour, we might manage to stay for lunch.”

  “You’re going to get fat, eating all the time,” Dondero warned.

  “You mean, then nobody’ll love me?” He raised the piece of toast to his mouth and then paused; apparently from nowhere a black ball of fur had projected itself into his lap and was curiously stretching its twitching nose in the direction of the toast. Reardon pulled his hand back from the curious sniffing. “Smokey will still love me, won’t you, boy? Skinny or fat?” He pulled his hand even farther away. “I just got through bumming this toast myself. Go bum your own.”

  Smokey had no intention of bumming his own from anyone else, but he was willing to forego the whole issue of toast just to be with his friend; besides, toast was something to be sniffed at, not to be eaten. He stretched himself out on Reardon’s chest as he had the day before, reaching up with one paw to touch the face above him, his large liquid eyes fixed solemnly on the gray eyes staring into his.

  “Smokey, my friend,” Reardon said, speaking through toast, “you are a beautiful cat.” He glanced across to Dondero. “Don, take a look at this cat.”

  “I’m looking,” Dondero said. Despite his attempt to sound unimpressed, a touch of jealousy could be heard in his voice. Reardon looked at him quizzically a moment and brought his eyes back to Smokey’s serious face.

  “What eyes!” He suddenly frowned. “Damn! They still make me think of something …” He closed his own eyes a moment in concentration and then opened them suddenly, sitting erect. The brusque movement was not to Smokey’s liking; he considered it ill mannered in a friend. He leaped to the floor and stalked off, highly insulted. Dondero took one look at his superior’s face and knew that whatever had been hidden in Reardon’s mind had worked itself loose and come to the surface.

  “What is it, Jim?”

  “Don! In the closet, my jacket! It’s got Wilkins’ report in it; bring it in, will you?” Dondero came to his feet swiftly, moving to the hallway. Reardon raised his voice, calling after him. “Bring the jacket too.” He got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Penny. Forget the eggs. We won’t have time.”

  She looked at him, surprised. “But the bacon’s almost—”

  “I’m really sorry, but I won’t have time to eat.”

  Dondero came in with the jacket; Reardon laid the report on the table while he pulled on his jacket. He slipped the rubber band from the report and leafed through the photographs until he had the one showing the end of the tape bei
ng held to the edge of the skid marks. He put it down and found the one with a general view of the street. What he was looking for was faint, but it was there, and he was sure under the magic of modern laboratory techniques it could be made sufficiently plain to convince a jury, let alone Captain Tower. Dondero was staring at him.

  “What’s the matter, Jim? What is it?”

  Reardon looked at him with quiet triumph.

  “So I’m crazy, am I? Do you remember when I told you I knew something but I didn’t know what it was I knew? Well, I do now. My friend Smokey’s eyes brought it all back. I finally remembered. Oil slicks!”

  “Oil slicks? What’s the cat’s eyes got to do with oil slicks?”

  “They shine a certain way in light. That Buick is a fine car for its age, but it has a leaky transmission seal. Leave it in one place for fifteen minutes and it leaves a nice puddle underneath. I saw one when I first pulled into Indiana night before last, just after I crossed Eighteenth Street into the block where it happened; I remember I swerved to miss it, automatically. I saw one again in this picture showing the skid marks being measured; and I saw one a third time in the garage when I was looking the car over. Morrison even mentioned it. I just didn’t connect them in my stupid brain until right now!”

  Penny had turned the fire off on the stove and had joined them at the table. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s complicated, but the man who killed Bob Cooke is going to pay for it.” He turned back to Dondero. “Remember that fifteen minutes Crocker rigged at the restaurant? Well, he wasn’t driving around blindly; he was parked on Indiana, where that first oil slick was. His lights were out and he was waiting for Bob Cooke. He knew Cooke would come down that street!”

  “But how did he know it? How could he know it?” Dondero still wasn’t too happy with the theory. “And how could he know the man would step off the curb? He’d have had a pretty lousy alibi if he had to chase Cooke up onto the sidewalk to get him. Well?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” Reardon said grimly. “That’ll be the first question we ask Mr. Crocker when we see him. Which we are going to do right now.”

  “But I thought we were going to the ship to look at pictures?”

  Reardon shook his head decisively. “Not now. Maybe later. Maybe this afternoon. But that oil slick should be enough by itself to put Mr. Crocker in the box.” He thought a moment. “I’ll call Thompson and set it up for after lunch. I have a feeling that Captain Tower may want more than an oil slick for my two days of vacation.” He smiled grimly, turned the report over to the telephone number he had marked down the previous day, and looked at Penny. “Where’s the phone?”

  “Right back of you.” She still didn’t seem to fully understand what he had been saying or talking about. She dried her hands nervously on her apron and wiped her hair back from her forehead with the back of one hand. “Do you mean that man killed Bob? Purposely?”

  “That’s what I mean, Penny.” She looked so forlorn that he put a hand out and touched her arm. Dondero moved to her side. “Yes,” Reardon went on softly, “he killed Bob Cooke on purpose, and now I’m sure I can prove it.”

  “But why would he do it? Why?” Penny bit her lip; her dark eyes were beginning to mist dangerously. She shook her head, angry at her display of emotion, and then looked at Reardon in misery. “But why?”

  “I don’t know,” Reardon said evenly. “But well find out. And he’ll pay for it.” He turned away, referring to the number on the report, dialing it. There was a brief wait and then an answer. “Hello? Is the chief purser, Mr. Thompson, there?”

  “One minute, please …”

  Reardon glanced at Penny sympathetically; Dondero was holding her hand. The lieutenant looked down at the floor, putting his thoughts in order; then Thompson was on the line.

  “Hello? Chief purser here.”

  “Mr. Thompson? This is Lieutenant Reardon—”

  “Harry to you, Lieutenant.” His voice had lost the tenseness with which Harry Thompson always faced potential telephone messages from passengers. “I might need police protection someday and I’d like to be on a first-name basis when that day comes. May it never! What can I do for you?”

  “I just wanted to tell you I can’t make it to the ship this morning, but I still want to see those pictures, so I’ll definitely get out there sometime this afternoon. What dock did you say you were at? I marked it down, but it’s on my desk at the office.”

  “Pier 26.”

  “That’s at the Central Basin docks, isn’t it?”

  At the other end of the line Thompson’s bushy eyebrows rose in amazement.

  “Good Lord, no! We’re far enough from the bright lights and civilization as it is. What are you trying to wish on us? The Central Basin docks? They’re halfway to San Mateo, if not Bakersfield. No; we’re between Harrison and Bryant—on the Embarcadero, needless to say.”

  “What!”

  Thompson was mystified at the other’s tone. “That’s right; Harrison and Bryant. Why? Aren’t we supposed to be here? My God, don’t tell the captain!”

  Reardon was not amused. “Harrison and Bryant … My God, but I’m stupid!”

  “You’re stupid because we’re down here? Maybe,” Thompson conceded, “but I claim we’re even more stupid, because we’re smack dab under the Bay Bridge, and if the thing falls down, we’re in for it. No place to duck.”

  “Sorry,” Reardon said, in no mood for lightness at the moment. “I’ve got to run. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  “Make it late and try to stay for dinner,” Thompson suggested. “Bring the girl friend of yours. I’m tired of eating alone or with the chief engineer. He’s a noisy eater and he also always smells of diesel fuel.”

  “Well see,” Reardon said abruptly and hung up. The smile that normally would have been on his face after a conversation with Harry Thompson was conspicuously absent. His eyes moved to Dondero’s questioning face. “Don—let’s go!”

  “Sure,” Dondero said. He gave Penny’s fingers a slight squeeze of reassurance; Reardon nodded to Penny and walked quickly down the hallway with the sergeant immediately behind him. He trotted down the steps and across the street; he slid into the Charger, started the engine, and was backing up before Dondero had the door completely closed. When he spoke his voice was bitter with self-denunciation.

  “God, but I’m stupid! They ought to put me on a beat, but a beat where nobody might ask any questions requiring intelligent answers. We’re going to solve this case and put Mr. Crocker where he belongs—which is in the gas chamber at San Quentin—but it won’t be because of any great stroke of genius on my part. His lawyer could sue me on the basis of being luckier than I deserve!”

  “What’s eating you?”

  Reardon glanced at his companion a moment and then brought his eyes back to the road. He stepped on the gas; Dondero braced himself as he listened. He’d driven with Lieutenant Reardon when the lieutenant was in one of these moods before, and he knew it would be hectic. And with the heavy fog and the damp streets and the intermittent drizzle, it was quite apt to be something even more.

  “We couldn’t figure out how he knew Cooke would be there, just in the right place at the right time to be hit and killed,” Reardon said bitterly. “Well, that’s because we didn’t use our heads. It was just too simple, and that’s what stumped us. We figured Cooke had to be walking up from the Central Basin docks. Well, the ship he worked on is docked at Pier 26. That’s under the Bay Bridge, miles away.”

  “I could have told you where Pier 26 is,” Dondero said.

  “I’m sure you could.” Reardon continued to marvel at his own idiocy. “So could about twenty million other people, if I’d had brains enough to ask them. But I was so damned sure, I just automatically assumed it was the closest point to where Cooke was killed. So I didn’t ask any logical questions and, naturally, didn’t get any useful answers.”

  Dondero still didn’t get it. “So what difference does it make
where the ship was—and is—docked?”

  Reardon risked a quick turn of his head to see if Dondero was serious.

  “What do you mean, what difference does it make? What was Cooke doing over at Indiana and Eighteenth? He had a date with Penny at the Fairmont, and it’s nowhere near his route. It’s the opposite direction. There’s only one possible reason for him to be there: he had a meeting set up with Crocker!”

  He swung the car into Van Ness, heading for the bay and the Embarcadero as being the quickest way to the Martinique Apartments at that hour.

  “Crocker was waiting on the corner with his lights out. He’d set up a time alibi to explain the time he had to wait for Cooke to get there. It must have been like shooting carp in a rain barrel. When Cooke showed—and now that we know what the score is we’ll find the cab that took him there, or near there, because he certainly didn’t walk—Crocker probably flashed his lights to show where he was, and began edging the car slowly forward. So Cooke started to cross the street toward the car, and that big Buick picked up speed in a hurry! And wham!” His jaw tightened at the thought. “Our friend Crocker then backs up slowly, drives at twenty-five miles an hour down the street, and jams on his brakes as hard as he can, swerving the wheels. He then pulls Mr. Cooke back from whereever he was, arranges him neatly against the curb, and comes screaming hysterically to the police for help!”

  Dondero frowned. “But if the Mandarin is docked at the foot of Harrison and Crocker lives in a hotel off Folsom, just a couple of blocks away, why go all the way down to Indiana to set up the meet?”

  “Because it’s generally conceded to be poor planning, killing somebody on your own doorstep,” Reardon said sardonically. “And besides, Harrison carries a lot of traffic; it isn’t deserted like Indiana. True, if he could have arranged it in front of witnesses it might have helped him, but if it didn’t go exactly right he’d be hanging himself.”