“Nothing else. I was looking down, like. I seen his shoes. By accident, like. They were real shiny.”
“Did you see him stab the man in the chair?”
“I seen they were having some sort of ruckus and I turned away. I don’t want no grief; I stay away from that kind of stuff. My wife knows there’s trouble in any tavern I’m in, she won’t like me dropping in no taverns, and I don’t want that. I been retired six years now and she ain’t stopped me yet, but that don’t mean she won’t. I didn’t see nothing of any stabbing. I keep my nose clean.”
Reardon sighed and turned back to the bartender. Alfred Sullivan had been listening to this exchange with his little head tilted to one side, birdlike. His head straightened up, alert, as Reardon continued with the questioning.
“All right, let’s go on. What happened after the stabbing?”
“Well,” Sullivan said, “this guy pulls the knife out of Mr. Capp and walks over to the door, see. Quick, like, and sort of crouched over, like maybe he was wondering did anybody see him, but of course everybody seen him. He—”
“I didn’ see nothin’.”
Sullivan disregarded the interruption. “He stands there for just a minute—a second, I mean—holding up the knife like he’s threatening anybody tries to get in his way, or maybe anyone who follows him. But nobody’s nutty enough to do that, and besides it happened so quick nobody had a chance. Then he ducks out the door and slams it behind him. I come out from behind the bar and first I check Mr. Capp, of course, and then I open the door to see maybe I can see where he goes—”
Dondero interrupted, frowning, his pencil poised over his notebook. “How come you didn’t call a doctor, or an ambulance?”
Alfred Sullivan shook his small head positively. “Man, I may not look it, but I did thirty-two months in the Pacific in the big one, jumping islands. With the medics. I don’t know lots of things, but one thing I know for sure is when a guy is dead.”
Reardon sighed and mentally shook his head. And I wonder, he thought, how many people in this world have died needlessly because the first man who checked them out knew for sure when a guy was dead? Still, he had to admit from the position of the body and the fact that it obviously hadn’t moved since it took the tablecloth half down with it—at least without the help of the young doctor—that it was quite possible that Jerry Capp had, indeed, been dead at the time. In any event, he was certainly dead now. He returned to his questioning.
“The report had it you didn’t hear or see a car. What about that?”
“If he had a car, he didn’t have it around here. Maybe over on Berry, or even around the corner on Second. I didn’t see one or hear one start up. Anyways,” he added explanatorily, “the cops have been getting tough on cars parking around this side of the Embarcadero. They usually park eight feet off the curb and louse up traffic.”
As if that would stop a premeditated killer, Reardon thought, and then paused a second to reconsider. It might not stop a man from killing, but if he had cased the place thoroughly enough to properly plan a murder he certainly wouldn’t take a chance on running out of the scene of a murder to find a cop ticketing his car.
“Go on, Alfred.”
“Right. So I come outside and start looking for a cop, and I go down Berry and I see this patrol car in this gas station and the sergeant he comes back with me, and that’s the story.”
“So where do you figure the killer disappeared to?”
Alfred Sullivan frowned. He unconsciously picked up a towel and started to swab the bar; a few passes and he realized what he was doing and tossed the towel aside. He leaned over the bar, pointing to a wall.
“They’s an alley next to the bar this side, cuts over to King, runs parallel to the Embarcadero, but they’s a couple of other alleys runs off it partway down. He could have ducked down there and ended up anyplace. And of course he could have made it across the street before I got outside and got around them trucks and them containers—or even onto one of the piers, though they ain’t working neither Forty-two or Forty-four right now.”
“Yeah.” Reardon thought a moment. The young doctor was sitting idly at a table awaiting transportation back to the Hall of Justice; the man working with Wilkins was dismantling his camera equipment. Wilkins had a pad out and was sketching on it; a tape measure, stretching from the side of the sprawled body to the nearest wall, was fastidiously located so as to avoid the hardening blood trails. Looking at the Technical men at work gave Reardon an idea. He turned back to Alfred Sullivan. “Did the man touch anything while he was in here that you saw? The chair? The table? He wasn’t wearing gloves, was he?”
“Jeez, let me think …”
“Yes,” said the man with the spectacles, and pushed them into place. “He was wearing gloves. He had on a new pair of cotton work gloves. I didn’t even think of it, you see them so often on the docks. His were new. White. They don’t stay that way very long hustling crates,” he added sadly.
“I suppose not.” Reardon tried to think of other questions but none came. He looked from Sullivan to the three men at the end of the bar, and then—not demanding but asking, friend to friend—he said, “Damn it, somebody had to finger him, or the chances are they did. Didn’t anybody come in here while Capp was here? Other than the regulars?”
There was a small shrug from Alfred Sullivan. “Like I said, Mr. Capp comes in every Wednesday around this time. Anybody could have known.”
“But he could have missed a Wednesday, too, and nobody would have died of surprise. If I was going to—” He broke off. There was no sense in discussing the case in detail. “Did anyone come in here when Capp was here, anyone who didn’t usually come in here?”
There were several moments’ silence, as if everyone was too embarrassed at not having any definite clue to give the stocky lieutenant. Then the old man with the scarf and the blue eyes spoke up.
“They was that girl,” he said slowly.
“Girl?”
The ex-pug came to life, his eyes brightening. It must have been the way he looked when he recalled the few triumphs of his ring life. “Yeah,” he said. “Her I remember. She was somethin’!”
Reardon looked at Alfred Sullivan. “What girl?”
Sullivan shrugged. “Some dame comes in I never seen before. We don’t get many dames in here, except maybe sometimes a guy brings his old lady in for a brew. That’s why we got the tables, see? Anyway—”
“Sadie comes in,” the ex-pug said, objecting to the flatness of the statement.
“Who’s Sadie?”
“A barfly hangs around,” Sullivan said. “Too old to work a house, goes with sailors. Anyway, it wasn’t Sadie, and I don’t figure she’s a dame anyway. Sadie was here earlier, but anyhow, this dame comes in—young, good-looking chick—asks how to get to Pacific and I tell her to hang onto the Embarcadero and she goes out. That’s all they was to it. And she don’t even look over at Mr. Capp.”
“What did she look like?”
“I told you. Young, good-looking, big chest, brown hair. But hell, she wasn’t here more than a minute, if that. Less.”
“That’s the best description you can give?”
“Mister,” Sullivan said, shaking his head, “that’s all the description I can give. That’s all the description there was. Hell, I wouldn’t know her if I seen her on the street tomorrow. She wasn’t here but a couple of seconds.”
“Yeah.” Reardon thought a moment more and then motioned Dondero to the far end of the bar, out of earshot of the others. He lowered his voice. “This is a goddam waste of time, Don. You stick around. Get the names and any other dope you can on the guys who were here who ducked out—any that these people remember. Maybe one of them saw more than these four did; maybe one of them even knows who the girl is. This isn’t the neighborhood for girls to stop and ask directions. I’ll send a few men down to help you; I want to go through any ashcans in those alleys, all of them, hear? Any he might have reached through any of the alleys.
”
“Looking for the knife?”
“Looking for the knife, naturally, but also looking for a red plaid lumber jacket, and a hunting cap. Or a fake beard and mustache. Or the sunglasses.” He thought a minute. “You might also hit any basements he might have gone into—”
Dondero looked at him in surprise. “You think after killing a guy, this guy would waste time ducking into a basement or a warehouse to stash away a pair of gloves or a fake brush? If it was fake, that is?”
“He might just duck into a basement or a warehouse to stash himself away,” Reardon said drily. “And I want a check on those containers across the street. And even if they’re not working those piers, maybe they have a watchman on deck who might have been taking the air—” He knew it was doubtful in that fog, but it had to be done. “Hell, Don, you know what I want.”
“I know.” Dondero nodded and tucked his notebook away. “Will do.”
Reardon glanced at his watch. “I’m going back and talk to Captain Tower. Maybe if you get done, you can get a lift back with the ambulance when it gets here. If it gets here at all tonight, that is.”
“Oh gosh, gee-whiz, and thanks, mister,” Dondero said sarcastically. “I finally get a chance to ride with Mr. Capp, the big shot. In the back seat with him, too, I’ll bet.”
“If you’re lucky,” Reardon said equably, and headed back to his car.
Buy The Gremlin’s Grampa Now!
About the Author
Robert L. Fish, the youngest of three children, was born on August 21, 1912, in Cleveland, Ohio. He attended the local schools in Cleveland and went to Case University (now Case Western Reserve), from which he graduated with a degree in mechanical engineering. He married Mamie Kates, also from Cleveland, and together they have two daughters. Fish worked as a civil engineer, traveling and moving throughout the United States. In 1953 he was asked to set up a plastics factory in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He and his family moved to Brazil, where they remained for nine years. He played golf and bridge in the little spare time he had. One rainy weekend in the late 1950s, when the weather prohibited him from playing golf, he sat down and wrote a short story that he submitted to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. When the story was accepted, Fish continued to write short stories. In 1962 he returned to the United States; he took one year to write full time and then returned to engineering and writing. His first novel, The Fugitive, won an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery. When his health prevented him from pursuing both careers, Fish retired from engineering and spent his time writing. His published works include more than forty books and countless short stories. Mute Witness was made into a movie starring Steve McQueen.
Fish died February 23, 1981, at his home in Connecticut. Each year at the annual Mystery Writers of America dinner, a memorial award is presented in his name for the best first short story. This is a fitting tribute, as Fish was always eager to assist young writers with their craft.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1970 by Robert L. Fish
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1269-0
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