Reardon wondered what acid comment would have sprung to Jan’s lips at seeing the cutesy monstrosities, and then found himself wondering, instead, just how bad it would be to live in a place like this with Jan. The small lawns were not only well kept, but tended, apparently, by the developers, since the usual Saturday-afternoon crop of lawn cutters was absent, probably out on the golf course, Reardon thought. And what was so bad about that?
Since garages would obviously have jarred the sensibilities in that storybook decor, and since they also cost money, Sherwood Forest had done without them, with the result that the curbs of the curved roadways—all faithfully named for Robin Hood’s Merry Men—were well filled with automobiles, which at least gave decent cover to a tail; but other than a youngster in a stained T-shirt whistling his brains out as he worked on the guts of an old Rambler, there was no one in sight. Reardon passed the house Dondero pointed out as belonging to Gilchrist, scanning each car along the curb for some sign of the assigned tail, his frown deepening by the moment. He pulled to the curb and got down, walking back down the line of parked automobiles.
“Some tail!” he said bitterly. “He’s probably gone off for a beer. You sure that’s the house?”
“Positive,” Dondero said, and suddenly grinned, recognizing the youngster in the T-shirt. He led Reardon over. Under the grease and the whistle was a man much older than anyone would have suspected. The two paused as if asking directions, while Dondero did the introductions.
“Jim, this is Inspector Wallington.”
Reardon swallowed his embarrassment. “I owe you an apology, Inspector.”
Wallington, in turn, found himself looking at a man he suspected wouldn’t hang himself no matter how much rope he was given; the inspector also calculated that if the other man shot either himself or anyone else in the foot, it would be done with a purpose. He grinned. “I guess we both do.” He tipped his head the slightest amount. “He’s still inside. He can’t see us from there unless he comes out onto the stoop; his place is on the far side. And as far as the back goes, I’ve got a man there trimming bushes.”
“No chance he might have left before you got here? While your man was on this side?”
“No way,” Wallington said confidently. “He’s still there. He answered the door not five minutes ago.”
“Answered the door?” Reardon frowned.
“He has a visitor. A man.” Wallington saw the look on Reardon’s face and said quickly, “You said not to let him get out. You didn’t say anything about not letting anyone else in.”
“That’s because I’m stupid!” Reardon looked around. “Look, Inspector. You move closer to the house and stop anyone who comes out. Dondero, come on!” He saw the look on the inspector’s face and smiled grimly. “Don’t worry; there’ll be no shooting if we can help it. I want Gilchrist alive! Believe me!”
He trotted across the street with Dondero at his heels, his hand bringing his service revolver from his belt holster and dropping it into his jacket pocket. Dondero, wondering just what the other man had in mind, automatically did the same. At the doorway Reardon looked at Dondero.
“I’ll do the talking. Any backchat when I say ‘Police’ and we hit the door together. Hard!” He glanced at it. “We ought to go through it like cheese. Ready?”
Dondero nodded, his hand tightly holding the revolver in his side pocket. Reardon winked at him and raised the knocker, letting it fall. He could hear it reverberate inside the house, and stood back a bit, prepared to rush the door, clearing his throat in preparation for answering the expected inquiry. Instead, to his complete surprise, the door swung open without any questions and a friendly face appeared in the doorway. It was a face Reardon had seen before on a photograph of four men pretending to raise a helicopter by brute force. Gilchrist eyed the two of them evenly a moment and then smiled a friendly smile.
“If you’re selling anything, I’m afraid it’s not allowed in the development. Without permission, that is.”
“We’re not selling anything,” Reardon said, wondering if, after everything, he might still be wrong. “We’re police. May we come in?”
“Police?” The man looked more puzzled than startled, and once again Reardon had a cold feeling that he might be sixteen feet off base with Johnny Bench handling the ball. Gilchrist seemed like a man he could easily like; he realized why everyone who knew the man had stood up for him. “You want to come in?” Gilchrist said. “Sure. Come on.”
He turned and led the way into a large cathedral-ceilinged room, speaking over his shoulder a bit apologetically. “The place isn’t completely furnished yet. My girl is picking out the pieces and the pictures.…”
They came into the room. Reardon was not at all surprised to see Clarence Milligan sitting in an easy chair across the room. Any doubts he had as to the accuracy of his conclusions disappeared at once. Milligan came to his feet with a wide, friendly smile.
“Well, hello, Lieutenant! This is a pleasant surprise. I knew Will knew all the cops, but I didn’t know you were one of his friends.” His smile faded and went away. “How are you doing on the robbery?”
“We expect to make an arrest pretty soon,” Reardon said in the typical police-excuse tone, and held out his hand. “How have you been?”
“Not bad,” Milligan said, and shook hands firmly. It was a mistake on his part; with a sharp twist, Reardon had the young bank manager’s arm behind his back, his knees almost touching the rug as he doubled over in agony. A turn and the other arm had joined the first. Reardon snapped on handcuffs and jerked Milligan erect.
Gilchrist’s pleasant acceptance of his visitors of a moment before disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. He moved forward, glowering. “Hey! What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Dondero figured Reardon had finally gone mad, either over frustration because of Jan or from flying in airplanes and that they’d both undoubtedly end up guarding Candlestick Park off-season, assuming they weren’t hanged. Still, at the moment Reardon was his boss. He moved over in front of Gilchrist, brushing him back. His hand tilted the gun in his pocket threateningly.
“Relax!”
“Relax?” Gilchrist said angrily. “I’ll relax when he takes those handcuffs off of my friend!”
Reardon was paying Gilchrist no attention; instead he was frisking Milligan professionally. He found the gun he was searching for in a calf holster, amply hidden by the wide-flared modern slacks. He hefted it in his hand and looked at Gilchrist.
“You know,” he said almost conversationally, “for a supposedly smart man, you’re not very bright.” He raised the gun he had taken from Milligan. “Why do you think your pal Milligan came calling this afternoon? Carrying this? It was to kill you, Gilchrist. The same as he killed Max Glass and Al Grube last night in Arizona.”
It was clear that Gilchrist had not known of the murders. He opened his mouth a moment and then shut it. He seemed stunned. “Max dead? And Al?”
“That’s right,” Reardon said evenly. “Your real close pal here shot them and then burned down their cabin, trying to hide the fact. Although, as the sheriff down there said, the charge for murder by arson or by shooting is the same. But he did it, don’t worry.”
“But—”
“But, why?” Reardon looked at the other man almost pityingly. “Use your head. If Mullin hadn’t been killed—and his body found—the chances are you would all have gotten away with it. But once we had his body, it was only a matter of time before we’d have the whole story. But if not only Mullin, but also Glass, Grube, and you were disposed of, who would be left to ever accuse our nice Mr. Clarence Milligan of having engineered the thing from the start?” He shook his head and answered himself. “Nobody. And, frankly, without that accusation from you, he’d probably walk free. Everything else I’ve got is too circumstantial to even take to a jury. But your word isn’t.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Gilchrist cleared his throat. “What makes you think I’ll accuse
him now?”
Reardon stared in surprise. “After he killed two of your best friends? And was going to kill you?”
Gilchrist looked at the lieutenant a moment and then dropped his eyes. He half-turned, staring about the partially furnished apartment as if trying to visualize the enjoyment of it he had so carefully planned and now would never experience.
“Don’t say a word,” Milligan said suddenly, his voice harsh. “Don’t say a word, Will. They still haven’t a thing to take to any jury. A lot of wild guesses, but not one solid thing.”
Gilchrist looked at him a moment, sighed deeply, and then turned to Reardon, a broken man. “I’ll get my hat and coat.”
“All right,” Reardon said quietly, and dragged Milligan around. The young bank manager suddenly bent and sent his shoulder into Reardon, almost upsetting him. Reardon just managed to catch his balance; with a curse he cuffed the other into a chair. Dondero had swung around at the scuffle, his pistol straining the cloth of his jacket, facing Milligan.
“Freeze.” It was Gilchrist’s voice, coolly sardonic, and both Reardon and Dondero instantly knew they had been suckered. “You, whatever your name is. Take your hand out of your pocket holding your gun between your index finger and your thumb. Real slowly. That’s it; good. Now, drop it on the rug and kick it in my direction. Backward, with your heel. That’s right. Now you, Lieutenant. Same drill. Very slowly. Excellent. I like people who know how to obey orders. Now turn around slowly and move away from Clarence.”
The two detectives complied and with reason: Gilchrist was holding an army .45 automatic, and he looked as if he knew quite well how to use it.
“That’s the stuff, Will,” Milligan said enthusiastically, and started to struggle to his feet.
“Hold it there a second, Clarence, while I explain something to the lieutenant.” Gilchrist’s voice was calm, but it had the assurance of command. He looked at Reardon. “There are a few things you have to understand, Lieutenant. I couldn’t possibly sit by and let you arrest Clarence, no matter what. My conscience wouldn’t let me.”
He turned to face Milligan. “So long, Clarence,” he said. “You’re enough to make a man lose faith in friendship, you son of a bitch!” He raised his gun and slowly emptied the entire clip, one at a time, into Milligan. The first slug threw the body back against the new chair, ripping through to destroy the fabric; the rest merely made the already inert body twitch. When the final bullet had found its mark and with the echo of gunfire still ringing in the room, Gilchrist laid the gun down carefully on an end table, as if warding against scratching the polished surface.
“All right, Lieutenant,” he said quietly. “I’m ready.” He looked at Milligan’s torn body past the still-startled faces of the two detectives; his lips twisted in a sad imitation of a smile. “If you want, you can just leave the bastard here. I won’t be paying the next installment on the mortgage here, anyway.…”
Saturday—3:35 P.M.
“I was dumb, you see,” Reardon said in a conversational tone of voice, his eyes on the folded hands in his lap. He spoke as if the others in Captain Tower’s office were not there. “Actually, we were all stupid, because we all heard that young red-haired intern say the same thing—how he tossed the suitcase into the back seat of the Chevy when he went to treat Mullin. I was a little more stupid than the rest, I suppose, because I heard him say it first. And I heard him say it the most times.”
Dondero, part of the meeting, tried to make sense out of this, but couldn’t. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Reardon looked up from his fingers. “Don, do you have any idea of what a suitcase with a quarter of a million dollars in small bills would weigh? You don’t just toss it around like a breadbox—”
Dondero grinned. “As Jennings would say, ‘Hey, that’s good, Lieutenant—a box of bread.’” He straightened his face, aware suddenly of the brass in the room. “That’s right; it probably weighs a ton. What are you getting at? That the intern should represent the U.S. in weight-lifting at the next Olympics?”
“What I’m getting at,” Reardon said evenly to no one in particular, “is that there never was any money in that suitcase. And all five of them knew it.”
“All five?”
“Of course, five. The four of them and the bank manager, obviously. He was supposedly putting up the payroll when the robbery took place.” He shrugged, tired of the case, sorry in knowing that Gilchrist would go up for the maximum, surprised at his attitude toward the man, and wondering if maybe Jan was right and this really wasn’t where he should be. But he knew with some rest he’d be back in harness or miserable. “We kept talking about that old esprit de corps that would lead four men, none of them apparently broke, to hold up a bank. We figured it had to be to help one of them. What we forgot—or what I forgot, rather, since I was the one Holden told it to—was that that helicopter gun-crew in Vietnam had a different member until five months before they were all sent home; a man who was wounded and whose place was taken by Cracker Mullin. A man named Clarence Milligan. At least that’s what the Pentagon reports.”
There was silence in the room. Reardon sighed.
“We should have used our heads. Four men in the financial position of those four—would they really rob a bank? For money? No. But they wouldn’t mind pretending to rob a bank; they might even get a kick out of going through the motions just for an empty suitcase. A gag.” He looked down at his hands again, “One of those pranks ol’ Cracker loved so much.”
Captain Tower started to say something, but Dondero beat him to it.
“But—”
Reardon looked up at him. “Now, don’t ask me why,” he said, “or I’ll ask the captain to swap you for Jennings. They did it because their old pal Milligan asked them to. He was in a bind. He’d taken a lot of money from the bank and lost it on the horses and/or the pretty girls. So when he asked Gilchrist for old times’ sake to help him out by faking a robbery, Gilchrist got in touch with the others and in the end they all went along. Except, unfortunately for all of them, Mullin got carried away and shot Tom Wheaton, and the ‘prank’ suddenly changed dimensions.” He shook his head. “If only Gilchrist had made the Cracker carry an unloaded gun! But they were all used to loaded guns—”
Dondero stared. “So what? We’d still be stumped chasing a stolen payroll!”
“A payroll that didn’t exist,” Reardon said, looking up again. “That’s what we get paid for, isn’t it? Chasing things we don’t always catch? Now there are five men dead and another one lost. For what? An empty suitcase …”
Captain Tower decided the atmosphere needed changing. He said, “Can you prove any of this?”
“We don’t have to prove anything, Captain,” Reardon said. “We have Gilchrist’s confession. If he’d kept his mouth shut, both he and Milligan would undoubtedly have gotten away with it. But Gilchrist couldn’t let two friends of his be murdered without exacting the price from the man who did it. I think he’s quite a man.”
Chief Schley cleared his throat speaking for the first time. “I have the commissioners coming in to see me in about an hour. You say without the confession they would have gotten away with it. Why?”
“Why not?” Reardon asked wearily. “What could we prove? That the intern at Mary’s Help Hospital couldn’t toss a suitcase full of small bills into the back seat of an automobile? But supposing the robbers had divided the money between themselves before they made that call to the hospital? What else can we prove? That Milligan was in the same gun crew as the others before he got wounded and Mullin took over? So what? Was he supposed to remember one of them two or three years later, masked, and speaking only a few words? It’s true,” he added, remembering, “that we can state, according to Jennings’ report, that Milligan spent more time reading the Racing Form—surreptitiously—than the Wall Street Journal, but so what? It gave me the start to the answer, but without the confession Gilchrist gave—voluntarily, I might add—all we would have had on that last
would have been some vicious gossip by some jealous old ladies.” He looked across at the chief. “Sir, you’ve heard all we knew and all we found out. How could we have nailed either one of them without that confession?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Chief Schley said, and silence fell on the group.
“Well, that guy Milligan,” Dondero said at last to no one in particular, just to break the oppressive silence. “Close, but no cigar!”
“No cigar,” Reardon repeated, agreeing, and then suddenly and unexpectedly yawned.
Captain Tower came to his feet. He could see nothing further to be gained by extending the meeting, and since this was his office, Chief Schley bowed to the officeholder’s authority and also rose. Tower looked down at both Reardon and Dondero.
“You did a damn fine job, Jim,” he said, happy to be able to say it. “And you too, Don. Now, go home and get some rest. I don’t want to see either one of you back here for two days, hear? And that’s an order. No argument!”
Reardon looked up with bleary eyes. “Just one, Captain.”
The captain hated to be contradicted in front of the chief. “Yes? What?” His voice was hard.
“Make it three days,” Reardon said, “or get ready to dock me. Because that’s the soonest I’ll be back …”
CHAPTER 16
Bank Job Page 18