He turned into the Embarcadero, increasing his speed. A motorcycle policeman cut over toward him, recognized the car and driver, and turned away.
“But if Crocker killed Cooke deliberately,” Dondero said after some thought, “and he picked a spot for it where nobody was anywhere near, why does he stick around? Why call the cops? It’s dead enough down there. Why doesn’t he simply blow?”
Reardon smiled a cold smile and shook his head.
“Don, you were in Traffic—you ought to know the answer to that. You know the percentage of guys who get away with hit-and-run. Damned few; and it’s the one crime we can keep accurate statistics on. It’s like shooting a policeman; it’s one of the things we never let go of. But a man who sticks around after an accident and even calls the police—well, the court is usually sympathetic if he hasn’t been drinking. He may get a lecture, and if he was speeding a little he may lose his license for a while, but if he has any kind of story, the chances are he walks out a few minutes after he walks in. And he’s clean. Forever. Nobody after him.”
“And now?”
“Now Mr. Crocker is in a crock. All because he had an oil seal that leaked and because a cat had eyes that reflected light …”
Dondero frowned. “You make it sound right, but it’s still circumstantial as hell. To repeat, why the hell did he kill the guy?”
“I have no idea,” Reardon said flatly. “None. But I’m sure he had a good reason.” His voice hardened. “Maybe he’ll be nice and co-operative when we see him, and tell us. Do you suppose?” He increased his speed, swinging into Folsom. Ahead, as he turned, he could see Pier 26; he shook his head again at his stupidity, returning his attention to the road and the job at hand. The past was behind him; ahead of him was a smart and dangerous killer.
They came to Second Street and the wheel turned again. He drew to the curb and switched off the ignition. He reached beneath the front seat with his keys, unlocking a small compartment, withdrawing a service revolver and a belt holster. He clipped it in place beneath his jacket and glanced at Dondero; the sergeant looked surprised that he should even be questioned about being armed. He patted his hip.
The two men climbed down from the car and walked to the entrance of the apartment building. Reardon looked up; ten stories of weathered yellow brick stared back at him impersonally with fifty streaked glass eyes. None of them looked particularly friendly. He put his hand on the front door, twisting it, looking at Dondero with an expressionless face.
“Let’s not do this for the old Gipper,” he said evenly. “Let’s do his one for good old, stupid Lieutenant Jimmy Reardon, shall we, Don?”
“And for Penny Wilkinson,” Dondero added grimly and pushed through the door at the lieutenant’s side into the lobby.
CHAPTER 13
Thursday—10:25 A.M.
The lobby of the Martinique Apartments had the standard stippled brown plaster walls enclosing a space no larger than was necessary for two tenants to bump into each other—with disastrous results if either happened to be encumbered by a baby carriage, a shopping cart, or even an inebriated mate. The mailboxes were embedded in one wall, a line of brass gap-toothed mouths; a mailman was busily stuffing the hungry maws with fourth-class fare. He stood aside politely to allow Reardon to run his fingers down the list of names; the finger passed Crocker, Apartment 304, without the slightest hesitation, and stopped at 1002. The finger then moved over casually to press the button beside the name and number. There was no response. With a philosophic shrug he appeared to press it again, but pressed 1003 instead. He was instantly rewarded with a shrill buzzing and smiled at the mailman pleasantly to indicate his success. The mailman looked at him as if he were crazy to even want to get into a building like that, and went back to his vital task of distributing junk mail.
The two plain-clothes detectives pushed into the first-floor corridor and walked to the central area of the hallway, which housed the elevator and an incinerator alongside a dismal air shaft. The two entered the elevator and rode the small box-like contraption jerkily to the third floor, accompanied by the odors of cooking long dead. They waited while the elevator door laboriously creaked open and then moved quietly but quickly to Crocker’s apartment. Reardon pressed the tiny button beside the doorframe and waited, his face a mask. He waited a moment and then pressed the bell once again and rapped on the door panel with his knuckles, more from impatience than from any hope of evoking a response.
“Nobody home,” Dondero suggested inanely.
“I guess not.” Reardon reached into his pocket, bringing out a bunch of keys, studying them a moment, and then selecting one. Dondero frowned unhappily.
“We ought to get a search warrant if we’re going in, Jim. I go along with your ideas about Crocker and Cooke, either because you’ve got me convinced or hypnotized, but Captain Tower is rough on this sort of thing. He says it’s stuff like this that some lawyer uses to get a guy off who’s guilty as hell. You know that. Let’s go get a warrant. It won’t take all that long.”
“A warrant?” Reardon was testing the keys, one by one, selecting the ones that were of the same make as the lock. “I’ve heard tell of those. A piece of paper, aren’t they? With a lot of writing on them? I mean, printing?” He tried the next key in line; the lock turned easily. He withdrew the key and eased the door open, looking back over his shoulder. “Are you coming? Be my guest.”
“But suppose he comes back?”
“What do you mean, suppose he comes back? What do you think we came here for? Breakfast? If he comes back, marvelous! If he doesn’t come back, I’ll get somebody to sit here and wait for him until he does come back!” He shook his head in amazement, looking at the husky sergeant. “What a question! I think love has addled your brains. What if he comes back!”
He walked into the apartment. Dondero followed, chastened into silence, closing the door behind him. There was a slightly musty smell to the place, as if the windows had been closed too long. Still, Reardon admitted, with the rain and fog, who wanted to open windows? He looked about the room. It was scantily provided with cheap plywood furniture upholstered in colorful and durable plastic, the few prints on the dun-colored walls were in dime-store black wooden frames, the rug was no thicker than a crepe suzette; everything clearly advertised the apartment as being rented furnished. Reardon grimaced at the decor and turned to Dondero.
“You take the kitchen and in here. I’ll take the bedroom and bath.”
“What are we looking for?”
“How should I know? Look for anything that ties in with Cooke, or with ships, or with”—he shrugged—“with murder, if that makes any sense. Look for anything out of the ordinary.”
“Right.”
Dondero didn’t sound happy about being in a private residence without a search warrant, but he knew better than to argue at this stage. He also knew that Lieutenant Jim Reardon took his chances, but he also took his own raps. He walked into the kitchen while Reardon headed for the bedroom. A quart of milk stood on the kitchen table together with an empty bowl and a box of breakfast cereal. He opened the refrigerator, studying the contents when he heard his superior’s voice raised urgently.
“Don!”
Dondero closed the refrigerator and came hurrying into the dingy hallway to the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway, looking around, fully expecting a corpse, at the least. The room looked normal enough to him.
“What’s the matter?”
Reardon didn’t even bother to answer; he merely waved his hand around. Dondero took a second look and instantly understood.
“He’s skipped!”
“It looks like it.”
The dresser drawers were open and empty except for some shelf paper some tenant sometime in the distant past had used for lining. The closet pole was bare, denuded of suits or even hangers, although a few wire hangers were on the floor. Reardon looked around a few minutes and then walked back to the hallway and went into the bathroom. The medicine chest door was open;
the glass shelves within were also empty. Reardon sighed. Dondero walked farther into the room, bent down, and picked something out of the wastebasket.
“Jim—look here.” He held an empty cardboard box. Reardon took it.
“They’re 44s. So he’s armed. Great.”
He left the bathroom, walking to the kitchen. He opened a door or two to the kitchen cabinets and shook his head. Other than a few cans of food and some plastic dishes, they exhibited nothing unexpected. The refrigerator had a plastic bag full of ice cubes, a cucumber, three bottles of some sort of soft drink, and that was all. Reardon slammed the door shut.
“But why would he skip?” Dondero was frowning at him. “He’s supposed to be in court tomorrow!”
“I hope nobody holds their breath until he gets there.” Reardon’s voice was scathing in his self-blame. “He skipped because I had to be a big brain and a big shot and ask Merkel to get us a continuance—as if that made the slightest goddamn difference! Crocker knew damned well something was fishy when I did that; he had the deal figured out just right. He should have been released at once; that’s why he didn’t bother having a lawyer with him in court. A lawyer might make the court look at something twice. He figured to walk out the door free and clear, and when Merkel asked for an extension—and got it—he knew it wasn’t normal. So he figured he’d slipped up somewhere. He didn’t know where, but I have a feeling prudence is a large part of Mr. Crocker’s make-up. So he simply blew.”
“But what could you have done?”
“I should have let him walk out with a lecture by the judge. He would still have been liable for a murder charge when I had the goods on him. And he would still be around in the meantime. But, no! I had to ask for a continuance!”
Dondero knew better than to commiserate with Jim Reardon at a time like this. The best thing to do was to change the subject, and he hurried to do it.
“You going to get the technical boys down here?”
“Looking for what? Bedbugs? Cockroaches? Secret passageways? I can picture Captain Clark if I did. I can hear him like it was yesterday.” He stalked over to the telephone and raised it, listening. “Well, at least he skipped out on a phone bill too. Thank God.” He dialed a familiar number and waited impatiently. The phone was answered almost at once.
“San Francisco Police Department. Sergeant Holland speaking.”
“Bill? This is Jim Reardon. I want to put out an all-points on a man named Ralph Crocker. He—” He paused, thinking. “Is Stan Lundahl there?”
“One moment, Lieutenant.” There was a brief pause; Reardon could see the sergeant’s finger going down the assignment list. “Yes, sir. He should be in the building somewheres.”
“Fine. He can give you a detailed description of the man.”
“Yes, sir. What’s this man wanted for?”
“Murder. Hell probably be using either public transportation or taxis. Or he may be across the bay by now halfway to Seattle, because we don’t know when he blew. Get hold of the taxi dispatchers and see if any of the drivers in town remember him. You can check the airport too. He should be carrying at least one suitcase, maybe two. I’m at his apartment and I’m going to talk to the superintendent and the neighbors. They may have some ideas, but I doubt it.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant didn’t hang up, a sign he had something further to add. There was a moment’s pause as he apparently asked someone to contact Lundahl; then he went on. “Lieutenant—Morrison down in the garage has been trying to get hold of you for the last couple of minutes. He rang your office and then us—”
“Switch me over to him.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a click and another telephone began to ring. It rang for a full minute before it was finally answered.
“Yeah?”
“Morrison? This is Lieutenant Reardon. You wanted me?”
“I sure did, Lieutenant. That character’s been giving me a real hard time. He’s got some sort of paper, but I’m no lawyer. It looks like one of them forms you buy in a stationery store; legal-looking and all that, but I don’t know. I’d feel a lot better if you come downstairs and give it your personal okay.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“About this character,” Morrison said, his tone of voice clearly expecting to be understood. He remembered something else, and disappointment entered his voice. “And another thing, he don’t want to sell the car under no circumstances. I told him about the transmission seal, but he couldn’t care less. He just wants to drive it away, and he’s got this paper—”
Reardon finally woke up. “Morrison! Is there a man there trying to take out that Buick?”
“That’s what I been trying to tell you, Lieutenant,” Morrison said, deservedly aggrieved. “He’s got this here paper—”
“Keep quiet! Listen! That’s Ralph Crocker; that man is wanted for murder. There’s an all-points out on him. Grab him and hang onto him. I’m not in the building, but I’ll be there in damned few minutes!”
He hung up and moved swiftly to the door. Dondero, who had heard and understood, was ahead of him, holding the door open. They forewent the elevator in favor of speed and clattered down the bare staircase, pivoting around the landings and the floor areas, hitting the first floor on the double, bursting through the lobby doors into the street. Behind them the mailman paused in his labors and frowned a moment before returning to feeding “Resident” envelopes to the poor inhabitants of the building. Whatever had those hard-looking characters running, he wanted no part of it.
Reardon was at the wheel and had the engine roaring in seconds; the car left the curb with an impulsive leap as Dondero slammed the door behind him and leaned forward, bracing himself with his huge hands against the padded dashboard, prepared for anything.
They shot down Harrison at full speed, not speaking to each other. The high beams were on, a warning signal in the dark mistiness of the day; both of Reardon’s thick thumbs pressed tightly on the horn ring even as his strong hands handled the wildly twisting wheel, flashing past stop lights with no regard for cross traffic, blaring the klaxon in warning, swerving past slower traffic, urging more speed from the car. He swung into Seventh, going contrary to the one-way traffic, nearly hitting a Greyhound bus, skidding past it into the entrance to the police garage, sluing to a stop blocking the ramp, the tires squealing in protest. Dondreo opened his eyes, sweating, and got down from the car a split second after his superior.
The two men ran down the ramp, guns in hand.
“Don—you take this aisle! I’ll take the other one.”
They separated and pounded down the broad spaces separating the neat rows of parked cars, dashing toward the highly lighted area in front of the garage office. Even as he ran Reardon knew something was wrong. Their noisy entrance had evoked no response of any kind. He passed the spot where the Buick had stood the afternoon before. It was empty; only a glistening pool of oil marked where it had stood. Reardon kept running toward the office area, arriving just as Dondero came in from the other aisle. The two men paused, panting, catching their breath, staring at Morrison sprawled on the oil-stained concrete, his head looking oddly lumpy with blood edging from it. A stained wrench lay beside him.
Reardon drew several deep breaths to steady his voice.
“Don, you get help for Morrison. And then wait to hear from me. Stay in Communications.”
He turned and ran back the way he came, stowing his revolver in his belt holster as he ran, cursing the luck that had permitted Crocker to hit the garage when nobody but Morrison was around. An automobile horn echoed hollowly from the garage entrance, blaring its protest against the blockage of the passageway by the Charger. Reardon trotted up the ramp, catching his breath, passing the Charger to see who wanted to get in. It was a ten-car from Southern, with a sergeant named Pilcher at the wheel. Beside him sat a cadet. Reardon knew Pilcher and liked him. Luck, he thought, and about time too! He paused at the side of the patrol car, drawing in deep draughts of a
ir, finally getting control of his speaking.
“Sergeant, is your car in good order?”
“Yes, sir.” Pilcher understood the reason for the question. “I’m here because we’re to check out at eleven this morning.”
“Well, today you’re in for overtime,” Reardon said decisively, and opened the door beside the young cadet. “Out. The keys are in the Charger; park it in the lot.” He took the youngster’s place in the front seat, closing the door behind him, reaching for the microphone, pressing the button on it. “Hello? Communications? This is Lieutenant Reardon. I’m at the entrance to the police garage in the Hall of Justice. I’m in Southern Six; it’s a ten-car with Sergeant Pilcher. This Crocker—the one we just put an all-points on—just attacked Morrison and took his car out of the garage. It’s a black Buick, 1940. Repeat, 1940. He can’t be far away. I want you to advise all patrol cars near here to start closing in on this area, and have them call me direct with their positions. Clear?”
“Clear. Even the ones out-of-service?”
“Unless it’s more important than murder,” Reardon said dryly.
“How about the bike men? They only have two-way; you’ll have to handle them through us.”
“Good enough.”
“The footmen call in every two hours, you know; the foot sergeants every hour. We can give them the description too.”
“You can, but a footman, by the time he calls in—Crocker will be long gone from there. I’m cutting off. Let the cars call me direct.”
“Right.”
Pilcher looked across at him. He was a gray-haired man in his fifties with steady blue eyes and hands on the wheel like hams. He had six citations and Reardon knew he had been lucky to run into him. Pilcher studied the younger man. “Where to, Lieutenant?”
“No place for now. Let’s wait around until we start getting some calls.”
There was a small burst of static from the speaker; a disembodied voice came on.
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