Reardon

by Robert L. Fish

  “I thought—”

  “And does the squad check out cars on that basis in any event?”

  Clark opened his mouth to retort, but paused as persistent but quiet rapping came on the door. The assistant chief raised his voice.

  “Come in!”

  The door opened to admit Dondero and Lundahl; with them came the sharp odor of gasoline. Dondero’s hands were still damp with the stuff. He carried a handkerchief wrapped about something; he brought it over and handed it to the lieutenant.

  “Jack pot, Jim,” he said triumphantly, and swiftly changed his form of address in view of the assorted company in the room. “I mean, Lieutenant. I don’t know what’s in it because I didn’t take time to look, but we found it in the gas tank where you said it would probably be!”

  Reardon’s face showed nothing of his elation. He placed the sodden handkerchief on the desk and folded back the edges. A gasoline-soaked bag of chamois was revealed; he tugged the cords loose that puckered the mouth and upended it, shaking. Ten large translucent rich blue stones rolled out. Assistant Chief Boynton’s eyes opened wide; he set his cigar aside and leaned forward, exhibiting emotion for the first time.

  “Sapphires, by God!” He picked one up, rolled his chair back from his desk to afford him access to his drawer, drew out a jeweler’s lens and screwed it into his eye socket. “A beauty! These things are worth a fortune!”

  The lens came out of his eye. “Where did you say you found it?”

  “In the gasoline tank, sir.”

  “Find anything else?”

  “No, sir. He didn’t have any luggage with him. We figure he probably checked it at the bus terminal or someplace before going to the garage. But he had a passport in the glove compartment.” Dondero reached into his pocket, withdrawing it, adding it to the gems on the desk. “It’s in the name of Ralph Crocker Rolf, which could well be his real name. Crocker was probably his mother’s name. Passports aren’t all that easy to get with fake information.” He looked down at the green booklet. “It’s got a visa in it for Brazil, a tourist’s visa.”

  Boynton’s eyes held the sergeant. “Recent?”

  “Yes, sir. They have to be. They’re only good for ninety days.”

  The assistant chief swung his chair; the cigar was replaced in his mouth, his eyes went back to their slitted condition. The blue stones glittered from the desktop.

  Reardon thought a moment and then began speaking slowly.

  “They may have been in it together; Cooke bringing in the stones from Asia—they may even be stolen; Interpol should be able to give us information on that—and Crocker disposing of them. And Crocker—Rolf—got greedy. Or maybe the two men never did meet. Maybe they both worked for the Syndicate, or even a third party, because they would require financing, and Crocker decided to do a double cross and take off for Brazil with the stones. In a hurry.” He thought about it a moment. “I think I like that theory better.”

  He nodded. “In any event, it was simple. He waited until Cooke showed, ran him down, dropped the stones into the gas tank, and called us up. A one-minute job. He expected to be released at once, take his stones, and”—he made a horizontal motion with his hand flat—“off to Rio de Janeiro. With nobody the wiser.”

  Assistant Chief Boynton swung his chair a bit and then came back. He spoke without removing his cigar.

  “I’ll buy it,” he said quietly. “Just one question, though, Lieutenant. Just suppose that Buick didn’t have a leaky transmission?”

  “Then there would have been one more murderer walking the streets free and clear,” Reardon said with equal quietness.

  Nobody disagreed.

  CHAPTER 15

  Thursday—6:15 P.M.

  “You should have been there,” Dondero told the girls, grinning. He was leaning back on the couch in Reardon’s apartment, one arm lightly about Penny’s shoulders, a martini in his other hand, his dark eyes twinkling. He laughed aloud. “You know Clark, don’t you?”

  Jan sipped and nodded. She was curled up in a chair across from the other two, her feet tucked beneath her, her shoes lined up neatly on the floor beside the chair. “Captain Clark? I’ve met him.”

  “Well,” Dondero said, “you should have seen his face when Stan and I walked in with that bag of stones from the gas tank! He was supposed to have had the car searched, but what a search! The old man didn’t say anything—he wouldn’t in front of other people, especially not lowly types like sergeants—but I know him. It all went down in that little black book he carries in his head.” His grin widened; it was apparent that Clark was not his favorite captain in the Hall of Justice. “And the beauty of it is that Clark can’t even raise hell with the squad. The old man’s going to be watching him, and he knows it. If he tries to pass the buck down the line—”

  He paused, stuck with the choice of removing his arm from Penny’s shoulders or setting down his drink. He elected to set the drink down a moment, long enough to draw his forefinger across his throat, and then picked his glass up again. Penny smiled at him, grateful for his choice of hands in his demonstration.

  Reardon came in from the kitchen carrying another Mason jar of martinis. Jan looked at him with affection; she glanced at Dondero.

  “You mean my boy is a hero?”

  Her hero smiled down at her.

  “They may even give me my own wastebasket. A private key to the men’s room isn’t beyond the possibilities. Heavens; my name may even be in the newspapers, delivered every morning with the milk.”

  He paused, his grin fading abruptly. Jan saw the sharp change of expression.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs, and began replenishing their glasses from the jar, decanting with care. He waited until his chore was finished before continuing. “Something just crossed my mind and then disappeared again.”

  “No!” Dondero shook his head with mock despair and then explained for the benefit of the girls. “Lieutenant Reardon’s subconscious works overtime. It won’t let him go until he remembers something he’s forgotten. And in the meantime we all suffer.” He grinned up at Reardon. “Jim, why don’t you take Harry Lorayne’s memory course?”

  “Well,” Reardon said with a grin, “it worked once. I thought it might work again. But we won’t bother with it tonight. Tonight is for celebration—mad, drunken, orgy celebration.”

  “Unless you have a meeting you’ve forgotten.” Jan smiled at him. “Is that what your brain is trying to tell you?”

  “Not this time. And if it is, I’m purposely forgetting. Where would you girls like to eat as a start to the evening?”

  There was a moment’s pause; then the two girls spoke at the same time.

  “I never did get to eat sukiyaki Tuesday night—” They stopped together and looked at each other in surprise. Jan laughed; Penny smiled. “It looks like Little Tokyo,” Jan said.

  “Which is fine with me,” Dondero said. “I didn’t get to eat at all that night. Because a cold cheese sandwich is not my idea of eating.”

  “Little Tokyo it is. Drink up and we can get started. I’ll go in and change my shirt.” Reardon raised his glass as if in a toast. “That is, if I’ve got a clean shirt.”

  He finished his drink with one swallow, winked at Jan and walked into the bedroom. He opened the dresser drawer and pulled out his last clean shirt, making a mental note to get to the laundry and pick up the batch he had there, and making a second note to remember the first mental note. And speaking of mental notes, what had struck him when he had mentioned having the newspaper delivered with the morning milk. Milk in the refrigerator? There was a bottle there, but so what? What on earth was he trying to remember?

  He pulled off his turtleneck sweater and tossed it in the general direction of the closet holding his laundry bag, slipping into the clean shirt, buttoning it, tucking it into his trousers, reaching for a necktie. First it had been newspapers, now it was milk. James Reardon,
he said to himself, you are slipping a cog!

  Newspapers and milk … Or was it either one? Or both? Will you forget it! he commanded himself sternly. All you’ll do is spoil the evening for the others. He smiled. Maybe you’re thinking of having alexanders instead of martinis—is it possible? It was not; his smile faded. Milk, milk, milk! Why don’t you tie your tie and get down to the Little Tokyo before Mr. Sessue Noguchi runs out of gin and vermouth, Buddha forbid! He grinned and flipped the necktie over itself, feeding it back through the formed loop, drawing it tight.

  Newspapers and milk … It sounded like a song title, the kind you heard at the hungry i. Newspapers and milk, satins and silk, and a one-way ticket to the psychiatric ward at San Francisco General. He started to grin again and then stopped short, frowning. Newspapers and milk? In hallways, waiting delivery! And when they were running down the corridor at Crocker’s apartment building, there were bottles in front of some of the doors, but his bottle was on the table, together with breakfast cereal. So what?

  He dropped on the bed, frowning fiercely at the floor. What was he trying to tell himself? What was the connection? There had to be one, because his subconscious was generally a pretty good subconscious as such things went, not given to annoying him for no reason at all. There had to be a tie-up. What was it?

  “Jimmy?” It was Jan, calling from the living room.

  “Be there in a second.” He tried to review his thoughts, to marshal them into some sort of order, and then sat up straight. The pieces of the puzzle began to click into place, each one moving over to make room for the next; color began to emerge, and form, until the whole pattern lay revealed at last. Of course!

  “Jim!”

  “One minute, honey.”

  He went over it in his mind for a second time, cleaning up small details, answering arguments he could hear from Captain Tower, not to mention the assistant chief. When he had it clear to the last dotted “i” he came to his feet, looked at himself thoughtfully for several seconds, and then walked into the other room, pulling his tie tight about his neck, wiggling it into a comfortable position. Jan looked at him sardonically and reached down, pulling her shoes into position for slipping into.

  “And you complain about how long it takes me to dress!” She shook her head. “I thought you were washing and ironing your shirts, the time you took. I was going to offer to help, but I’m an architect, not a useful person.” She came to her feet. “Shall we be on our way? I’m slightly starved.”

  Reardon considered her quietly.

  “I’m afraid there’s going to be a slight change in plans.” His voice was without expression.

  Jan studied his face a moment and decided not to argue. Instead, she dropped back into her chair, pulling her feet from her shoes, wriggling her toes. Penny had also started to rise; she sank back as well. Dondero stared at the lieutenant and then nodded in certain conviction.

  “The subconscious has spoken!” He bowed, hands spread wide, and then straightened up, reaching for the Mason jar. He eyed its emptiness dolefully and put it back. “All right, Swami. Let’s get the seance over and go out to eat.”

  “Fair enough.” Reardon went into the kitchen and came back with a full bottle of gin. “No vermouth, no ice. No time.”

  “No martinis,” Dondero said equably. “No fish, no rice—”

  He poured himself a drink and offered the bottle to the girls; they both refused. He placed the bottle on the floor and leaned back, prepared for another lecture from Lieutenant Reardon. The red-haired detective was standing at the low bookcase against one wall, leaning on it, putting his thoughts in order. The others waited patiently, with Dondero sipping straight gin with sudden appreciation for the potentialities of vermouthless martinis. At last Reardon looked up.

  “Don—do you remember Crocker’s apartment this morning?”

  Dondero nodded deeply and slowly, sipping his drink.

  “Do you remember the milk we found on the kitchen table?”

  “I found.” Dondero wanted things straight for the record.

  “Do you remember milk bottles in the hall in front of some apartments? But not in front of his?”

  “I don’t remember, but I’ll take your word for it.” He looked at the lieutenant. “Why?”

  “Now,” Reardon said, not answering the other’s question, but fixing his eyes, “if Crocker took a powder as a result of my—or Merkel’s—asking for a continuance of his case, you’d think he’d take it right then. Or within the time it took him to realize the potential danger he was in. Wouldn’t you?”

  Dondero considered it. He nodded. “Yes, I suppose so. Why?”

  “Would you expect him to wait until the following day to figure out he’d better be on his way, because obviously we were looking for something to hang him with?”

  “I suppose not. I know I wouldn’t.”

  “And neither would I. Yet that’s exactly what he did. That milk shows he was there that morning, and that seems silly under the circumstances. And another thing—and an important one. He also waited until this morning to make his try for the Buick, yet he must have known it was far less dangerous trying for the car at night, when there isn’t a full complement of people in the Hall. Actually, at night quite often, when the night attendant steps out, the garage is completely unattended. Yet he waited until this morning to make his play.”

  The girls were watching Reardon with curious frowns on their faces. Dondero summed it up for everyone.

  “What are you trying to say? That the guy was a nut?”

  “He was far from a nut. I’m just saying he didn’t leave because we asked for a continuance. That was my first thought, but I was wrong. No; he was all prepared to turn up in court tomorrow, convinced that nobody was after him. He fully expected to be released routinely, take his precious Buick, and be on his merry way.”

  “So why didn’t he?”

  “Because something made him change his mind.”

  “But, what?”

  Reardon turned to Penny.

  “It was your telephone call to him, wasn’t it? It had to be, because you were there when Don and I were discussing it. You were the only one who knew what we had found and knew we were going there to take him in. You and Smokey, and I trust him. There’s no point in denying it, because a call from your number to his can be traced easily enough, knowing the time it was made.”

  It wasn’t the truth, but Reardon was fairly sure that Penny Wilkinson wouldn’t know that fact. All color had disappeared from her face; her strong hands were locked on her empty martini glass so tightly they might have crushed the fragile glass. Dondero removed his arm from her shoulder, but only so he could turn and watch her better. One look at her face and whatever denial he had been preparing in her defense died on his lips. Jan sat in shocked silence, unbelieving.

  “Actually, you had more than your share of luck,” Reardon said seriously, “because you made more than your share of mistakes.” His voice was quiet, noncommittal. He seemed to be trying to accustom both Dondero and Jan to the idea of the girl’s guilt. “You called him ‘Rolf’ when we were talking after we left the morgue the night before last. You said, ‘What will they do to this man Rolf?’ I thought you made a mistake in his name, except when we find his passport the name on it—the last name—is Rolf. Coincidence? Maybe. But I’ll bet when we take a look at your passport we’ll find a visa in it for Brazil, dated the same time that Rolf’s was.”

  She was watching him, half hypnotized. Reardon went on calmly.

  “And if you’ve hidden your passport, or figure to destroy it when you get the chance, forget it. Your ownership can be established through the State Department, and the visa is easy enough to verify through the Brazilian consulate. Application, photographs, signature—the works.” He paused, looking Penny in the eye without expression. “Do you want to tell us about it?”

  Penny Wilkinson sat motionless, frozen, her large liquid eyes fixed on Reardon’s politely querying face. Her mo
uth was pressed tightly closed, her face bloodless, her knuckles white on the empty glass.

  “All right,” Reardon said equably. “Let’s go on. When I first told you about the accident I said it happened at Indiana and Eighteenth. You know San Francisco, you live here. You knew it was miles in the wrong direction from Pier 26 where you docked, but you never mentioned that fact. Why not? I’ll tell you why not—because you could see I didn’t know where the ship was docked, and you hoped nobody would ever note the discrepancy. Because if someone did, it would make Crocker’s story look fishy, and that’s the last thing you wanted. Well?”

  Penny continued to stare at him as if in a trance.

  “All right,” Reardon said. “You don’t have to say a word. In fact, when we take you in, all your rights will be explained to you. But just so you know where you stand, let me tell you what you did, and how easy it will be to prove: You picked the stones up abroad, not Cooke. Where you picked them up won’t be hard to find out, because Interpol have experts on precious stones who will recognize those sapphires if they were stolen or spot where they came from very closely if they weren’t. Even if they weren’t stolen, it won’t affect your responsibility in Cooke’s death, and maybe even for Crocker’s death—”

  For the first time Penny made a sound. Her breath was drawn in sharply; she gave a little cry. Her eyes widened more. Reardon stared at her.

  “You didn’t know?”

  She shook her head wordlessly, tears forming in her eyes, flooding them. Jan spoke up suddenly, filled to the bottom of her soul with an excess of policemanship.

  “Jim! Don’t you know when a person is telling the truth? Or isn’t it important to you any more?”

  “It’s important, but I also know there are some fine actors in this world, and Penny and Crocker are—or were—among the best. And a man named Bob Cooke is dead as a result. So save your sympathy for him.” He turned back to the girl. “Your boy friend tried to kill a few more people today when he panicked after your call. He tried to club a garage attendant to death, and then tried to run away in a speedboat in this fog. A railroad barge ran him down. He’s down in the morgue where Bob Cooke was. That was the net result of your telephone call after Don and I left your place this morning, if that pleases you.”