In the front seat, Mike Holland tried to remember, in recent months—or even years, for that matter—whom he might have so enraged as to account for being picked up and treated in this manner. From his personal life? But he had never been a mixer, had never had trouble of any kind with his neighbors, and had spent nineteen out of twenty evenings watching television, with an occasional night out for the movies to break the monotony. And it certainly could be nothing connected with women. Before Katie’s death Mike had felt no need even to look at another woman, and since her death, he had felt no desire to.
From his professional life? Well, in Communications one scarcely played any role in an important case serious enough to warrant revenge; and his days in Homicide were so far back that Mike doubted these two were more than kids in those days. Besides, even when he was in Homicide, as Mike Holland himself would have been the first to admit, he had never done anything startling; it was one of the reasons he was still a sergeant when he had been retired that afternoon after over forty years of service. The sad fact was that nobody whom the other men called “Pop”—some damn near as old as he was—had ever done anything he could recall that could possibly result in such demonstrated enmity. So what in the name of sweet Mary and Jesus could be the reason for picking him up?
The bearded man rolled down the window on his side of the car, tossed out his cigar, and rolled the window back in place. He leaned his wrist against the glass, trying to read the time by the light of a passing lamppost. He finally managed to see the watch hands and looked up at the driver with a frown.
“Let’s get a little more speed out of this wagon, shall we, Harry?”
“Let’s not get picked up for speeding,” the little man said, and then added hastily, “That’s what you told me, remember?”
The bearded man accepted this recognition of his leadership.
“I know what I told you,” he said with a touch of impatience. “Now I’m suggesting we don’t get stopped for loitering, or for obstructing traffic. Move it!”
“Right.” The thin man speeded the car up again. He glanced over at their prisoner. “He’s bleeding all over the car,” he said conversationally.
“So let him bleed,” the bearded man said indifferently. “It’s his blood. And his car.” He leaned back, the revolver dangling indolently from one finger, his other hand stroking his full beard thoughtfully. His eyes were fixed on the blood welling from the cut on Mike Holland’s neck, but his thoughts were already on step two of his daring scheme.
CHAPTER 2
Friday—9:20 P.M.
Lieutenant James Reardon, nursing a brand of cognac he normally would never have considered ordering, primarily for economic reasons, sat back in his chair at the head table and thought that if noise made an affair a success, then the party being thrown for the retirement of Sergeant Michael Patrick Holland had to be the achievement of the year. Some clown on the entertainment committee—as Reardon recalled, that had been the responsibility of Burglary—had managed to locate a jukebox, and the lieutenant only hoped they hadn’t swiped it. In fact, he wished they hadn’t found it at all; but they had, and they had dragged it into the sacrosanct precincts of the back room of Marty’s Oyster House, and some other clown had fed the monster a fistful of quarters, and if the thing had a volume control, nobody had located it. Or, more likely, nobody had even bothered to look for it. At the moment, fortunately, the machine was delivering itself of a Hawaiian love song, so the racket was less deafening, although the difference in decibels was easily made up for by the loud guffawing of a group from Traffic who were over at the temporary bar probably telling Polish traffic jokes, if there were such things.
Lieutenant Reardon was in the Homicide Division of the San Francisco police, and as a general rule enjoyed his work very much. He was a stocky athletic-looking man in his early thirties, with thick russet hair, a rugged yet remarkably sensitive face, and with sharp intelligent gray eyes. At the moment a deep groove between those eyes outlined a frown. Where the devil was Pop Holland? Reardon was not worried that the meal would be spoiled because the guest of honor was late; Marty’s Oyster House, whose front dining room boasted the finest cuisine in all San Francisco, had a standard dinner for affairs held in the back room, apparently designed to discourage people from ever holding an affair there again. But what might well happen, the lieutenant knew, was not a question of whether the rubber chicken with plastic peas was up—or down—to standard; the problem was that any further tardiness was apt to result in the guests being too far gone with liquor to partake of the fare. Which, thinking about it, might not be such a tragedy at that.
There was movement at his side and he looked up to see his good friend and co-worker Sergeant Dondero pulling up a chair beside him. Dondero, two years younger than Reardon, was one inch shorter and thirty pounds heavier, an increase in weight he claimed came about when he stopped smoking in a bet with Stan Lundahl, also of the department. It was a bet Dondero had won, to his intense sorrow. Reardon smiled, pleased to see the other.
“I thought you were still on vacation, Don. When did you get back?”
“This afternoon. Think I’d miss Pop’s retirement party? With free booze?” Dondero smiled at Reardon affectionately. “How’s the old married man?”
Reardon’s smile faded. “We didn’t get married.”
Dondero’s smile changed to a puzzled frown. “What do you mean, you didn’t get married?”
“What does it sound like? We didn’t get married, that’s all.”
“But you phoned me from Tahoe! You said you were up there with Jan, you were going to get married—”
“I know what I said. But Jan changed her mind.”
“Changed her mind? Why?” Dondero sounded more put out about it than his friend.
“Skip it,” Reardon said wearily. “It’s a long story and one I’d rather not go into right now.”
“But—”
Reardon’s eyes hardened. “Let’s drop it?”
“But—oh, sure, if you insist,” Dondero said, and then brightened. “Hey, maybe if I talk to Jan? You know she always pays more attention to me than she does to you—” He saw the look on Reardon’s face and grinned. “I was just joking, pal.”
“Very funny!”
“We can’t hit zingers all the time,” Dondero said, and looked around the room. “Where’s Pop?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“The story of your life,” Dondero said sadly, “and a pretty sad confession for a so-called detective.” He studied the room again, and frowned. “It’s not like Pop to be late, especially for his own party.” He looked about the room for a third time and was struck by a sudden thought. “Hey! If all the cops in town are here, who’s minding the store?”
“They aren’t all here,” Reardon said sourly. “Pop isn’t.”
“Well, outside of him—”
Reardon shrugged, his good humor returning. “Maybe all the crooks are having an affair of their own over on the other side of town.”
“Well,” Dondero said expressively, “if they are, I hope for their sake the service is better than it is here. How do you get a drink in this dump? And who in their right mind ever picked this place for the dinner, anyway?” He came to his feet, shaking his head. “A guy could die of thirst. Hold the fort while I raid the bar. Another for you?”
“Remy Martin.”
“In a water glass,” Dondero said, and moved away.
Reardon looked after him. He felt like he’d like to take it in a water glass. After all, the very least the chairman of the dinner committee ought to be able to do was to get his fair share of the liquor allocation, or anyway before Traffic drank it all up. He studied the crowded room with a faint air of proprietorship, although now that Dondero had reminded him, he wondered why indeed he had selected Marty’s Oyster House for the festivities. If he thought the waiters at Marty’s would change their habits merely because a cop was being honored, he should have known better. Possib
ly if a cop was being dishonored? Probably not even then. The waiters at Marty’s operated on the principle that, right or wrong, the customer was always neglectable.
As if to refute that uncharitable thought, a waiter pushed through to his side. For a moment Reardon wondered if he should apologize to the aproned figure, but he was saved the necessity because the waiter was busy making a circular motion with one hand, as if he were cranking some imaginary object, while his other hand, curled, was pressed tightly against his ear. It was the time-honored charade to indicate someone was wanted on the telephone, and even as Reardon came to his feet he wondered how the ancient pantomime had ever managed to survive. What it actually looked like, he thought, was that the waiter wanted him to come to the kitchen and listen to the meat grinder.
A sudden thought came and he moved with greater alacrity, a broad smile beginning to change his face. Jan, of course! Calling to apologize, probably, although he was magnanimous enough to realize no apology was necessary. He started to follow the waiter and almost ran down Dondero, carefully balancing a drink in each hand. Dondero paused to proffer one, but Reardon shook his head.
“Later,” he said, raising his voice over the din. “There’s a phone call for me.”
Dondero noted the fatuous grin. “Jan?”
“Probably. I hope,” Reardon said, and raised crossed fingers.
“Then I’ll tag along. You’ll need moral support. And with me there you won’t say anything you’ll be sorry for afterward.”
“And you’re also nosey.”
“That, too,” Dondero said agreeably, and followed along, balancing the drinks carefully.
The waiter paused at the entrance to a corridor leading from the hall, to make sure his trail-blazing had not been in vain, saw Reardon and Dondero close behind, and led the way to a small unmarked door at the end of the narrow hallway. The waiter opened the door, closed it after their entrance, and then hurried back to take his place once again near the thick of the crowd. After all, one could hardly ignore customers unless one were near at hand, could one? Obviously not.
Inside the office Reardon was pleasantly surprised to find that Marty, no fool, had soundproofed the room and that the bedlam of the back room had disappeared as soon as the door had been closed. “That’s better,” he said with grateful relief, and raised the receiver from the desk blotter, making no attempt to hide the eagerness in his voice. “Jan?”
A strange masculine voice was on the line. “Lieutenant Reardon?”
Reardon swallowed his disappointment. “Speaking.” Another possible explanation for the call suddenly occurred to him, an explanation equally disturbing. “Is this in regard to Pop Holland? Is something wrong with him?”
“I don’t know about wrong,” the voice said apologetically, “but I’m afraid Sergeant Holland won’t be able to make your party tonight. I’m extending his regrets for him.” There was a strange touch of amusement in the even, semicultured voice.
“What? Who is this?”
“Just call me a friend—”
“Well, listen, friend,” Reardon said, in no mood for mysteries at the moment. “Put Mike Holland on the line, will you?”
“I’m afraid that’s not allowed,” the voice said with false regret. “You see, he’s been kidnapped.”
Reardon shook his head in annoyance. These gagsters could be a pain in the butt at times.
“Look, friend,” he said with a patience he was far from feeling, “just put Mike on the phone, will you?”
“You’re not paying attention,” the other man said reprovingly. “You’re not keeping your ears open. I said, Mike Holland is being held captive, and therefore is unable to appear at your little wing-ding—”
Reardon took a deep breath. He had about had it.
“Now look, chum,” he said firmly. “Fun’s fun, but this isn’t any college fraternity initiation we’re holding here. I’ve got forty-eight characters getting stewed to the ears, waiting for Pop to show up. And we all have lots of vital things to do tomorrow—like golf, for instance, or even go to work for the less fortunate—and we’d all like to get home in reasonable time to sober up. So will you please tell Mike Holland to quit fooling around and get his butt over here? Right now?”
“You still refuse to understand,” the voice said, and there was the slightest touch of disappointment in the tone, as if in sincere regret for Reardon’s thick-headedness. “I am quite serious. I said that Sergeant Michael Holland has been kidnapped. By us. I mean it. He has been abducted. Spirited off. Snatched, if you prefer the vernacular.”
Reardon opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. He looked at the phone in a slightly dazed manner and tried again.
“Just what in hell are you talking about?”
“What an oddly neutral response!” the man said, and sounded quite sincere. He sighed. “Still, I suppose it’s understandable. You’re probably half in the bag yourself, by this time. I knew we shouldn’t have delayed this call, but poor old Sergeant Holland insisted on telling us the story of his life. As he saw it, of course.”
Reardon gritted his teeth. “Look, pal! What sort of a gag is this?”
“My, you are stubborn, aren’t you? Here—possibly this will help to convince you.” There was a slight pause; then in a muffled but clearly recognizable tone, Reardon heard, “… listen, you dumb baboons! I told you before, I’m a police officer! I don’t know who you think you got, but I’m a cop! Can’t you get it through your thick skulls? Now who in the name of sweet Mary and Jesus is going to give a plugged dime for an old cop …?” The voice returned. “Recognize it? I’m sure you do. Taped just moments ago.” The voice turned sardonically apologetic. “The fidelity isn’t all one might wish, but it’s a new recorder and I expect it will take a little time to get used to it.”
Reardon realized that Dondero was standing beside him, drinks in hand, staring at him with an odd expression on his face. He cupped the mouthpiece without removing the receiver from his ear.
“Get on another phone and trace this call!”
Dondero didn’t waste precious time asking questions, he put the drinks on the desk hastily, slopping good liquor on the blotter, and hurried from the room, dragging the thick door closed behind him. Reardon returned to his call, trying to sound the same.
“I’m not sure I got everything you were trying to say, chum. You were saying about Pop Holland …?”
There was a delicious laugh from the telephone.
“Lieutenant, you are delightful! Not subtle, not particularly bright, but delightful! Your delay in answering was obvious, not to mention the fact that the tone changes slightly when one puts his hand over the mouthpiece and speaks. So I can only assume you were relaying the situation to a confederate, and asking him to trace the call, no doubt.” The laugh was repeated, delicate, refined, sardonic. “You know, you’re not as familiar with Marty’s Oyster House as you should be. They have only the one telephone, and you’re using it. The one on the maître d’s desk is an extension, you know. And the nearest other telephone is a block away, and I’m afraid when your friend gets to it, he’ll find it out of order. A pity, but we had to do it. On the other hand, we own no shares in A.T.&T. And, of course, I’ll be long gone from this booth before your friend can locate any other means of tracing me.”
Reardon stared at the instrument, feeling helpless. There wasn’t even a squad car around for its radio; it had been decided it would look better for the public if the patrol cars were left where they belonged, either in service or in the garage, and not around Marty’s, looking like a raid.
“What do you want?”
“Oh, that?” The man sounded surprised that it had taken Reardon so long to come to the point. “Well, we didn’t want all you dedicated public servants to waste an entire evening waiting for Sergeant Holland, when he won’t be able to attend. Much better you should all be out on the streets protecting us citizens from those nasty criminals, you know …”
; “You bastard!”
“Language,” said the other man, and laughed genially.
Reardon brought his temper under control. One day, he promised himself, he’d get his hands on this joker, and that would be time enough either for language or reprisals.
“All right,” he said tightly. “What do you want?”
“I just told you—”
“For Pop Holland!”
“Oh, that! Well, you’ll receive a tape in the morning mail, Lieutenant, addressed to you. It seems to be the modern method of relaying demands. The tape will explain our requirements quite clearly. And now, I’m afraid I can’t stay on the line much longer. Your friend might know of a telephone in the neighborhood that I don’t.”
“Hold on a second—”
“And one more thing …” The voice turned cold, deadly serious. “Let’s keep the newspapers out of this. Or any other medium. That’s if you care for Holland’s health.”
“Don’t hang up—”
“I’m afraid I must. So good-bye. Or, better, au revoir.” There was the briefest of pauses, then a faint laugh, the caller’s good humor restored. “And, of course, considering your banquet—bon appetit.”
There was a quiet click as the other man placed the receiver in its cradle gently. Reardon pumped the button furiously, and then forced himself to refrain from attacking the instrument long enough to permit the telephone to respond with a dial tone. He dialed for the operator quickly, and waited. And waited and waited and waited. At long last the distant ringing stopped and a bored voice came on the line.
“This is your operator. May I help you?”
Reardon managed to bite back his first furious comment.
“Yes! This is the Police Department. We want to have a call traced.”
“One moment. I’ll connect you with the supervisor …”
“Wait …!” Too late! God, Reardon thought savagely, glaring at the instrument, where do they dredge up some of these zombies, anyway? There was another prolonged bout of ringing somewhere in limbo, while Reardon fumed helplessly. Then, when he was on the verge of ripping the instrument from the wall and stomping on it, the receiver at the other end was finally lifted.
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