Bank Job

by Robert L. Fish

  “I didn’t mean that at all,” Reardon said wearily, and suddenly found himself yawning. He brought the monstrous yawn under control, realizing he was tired, and added a bit lamely, “I just thought you might have heard something in one context, for example, and that maybe you didn’t connect it up, but now that you know there’s been a kidnapping, maybe—”

  “You’re getting yourself in deeper,” Porky said sternly, but his previous honest umbrage had largely disappeared. “You’re tired, Mr. R. You need rest. But I understand what you mean. And, no, I haven’t heard a thing.” He paused, and then added, “And before you can say it, yes, I shall listen closely from now on.”

  “That’s all I was trying to say,” Reardon said, and yawned again.

  “That’s what I thought was all you were trying to say,” Porky said forgivingly, and pushed aside his half-eaten tuna-salad sandwich, looking at it with a curious frown. “You know, they’re not as short on bat wings and mice hair as they think, or else they’ve developed some marvelous substitutes.” He drank the last of his ale, dabbed at his lips neatly, and tucked his napkin into his ale mug. He shoved the whole affair away from him and lit a cigarette, prepared to get down to business. “All right. Where did this snatch take place? And when?”

  “We think it took place outside his house, in the driveway, late this afternoon,” Reardon said quietly. “I was out there with Dondero a while ago, and we got inside the house. Nothing there to indicate nothing; everything looked the way it usually did, I suppose. I was never there before. As for the time, Pop was due at a dinner we were throwing him for his retirement, and he never showed up. In his bedroom there was the stiff cardboard you get with a new shirt, and pins, from the cuffs, you know—”

  “Or just to stab you,” Porky interjected, but he was listening closely.

  Reardon paid him no attention.

  “They were on top of the bedspread, so we gather he came home from the Hall, changed clothes, went outside, and that’s when they picked him up. His car is gone, so of course they might have snatched him any time after he left the house, but it would be a lot easier to grab him there, before he got started, than it would be after he was in town, with the lights and the people around and everything.”

  “He might have put on the new shirt this morning.”

  “Doubtful,” Reardon said. “He told the boys he was going home to clean up before the dinner. And his evening paper was in the house, and he’s the only one who could have brought it in.” He shook his head. “No, the chances are they picked him up when he came out to get into the car. That would be the easiest deal. No neighbor home on the side of the driveway, and it’s pretty quiet out there. That’s when I figure they pulled it.”

  “They?”

  “They, he, them, or her for all I know,” Reardon said wearily. “Anyway, we were waiting for Pop to show up for the dinner, and I got this call. We were at Marty’s, in the back room—”

  He recounted the events of the evening, beginning with the call from the kidnapper, while Porky listened intently. When Reardon had finished, surprised in his tired state at the amount of detail he had been able to recall—and even more surprised to find himself relating all this to a man in the other’s profession—Porky nodded.

  “I see. What did this character sound like? High voice? Low voice? Did he sound as if he were trying to disguise his voice? Sound as if he were speaking through cloth, or with a wad of something in his cheek? Although all that does,” Porky said in all honesty, “is make you sound like yourself, only muffled.” He thought a moment “You know, I’ll bet if you clench your jaw real tight, and then start to choke yourself, you could actually change your voice considerably. You could also, of course, fracture your larynx if you weren’t careful, or if you got carried away, but that would be the chance you’d take.”

  Reardon started to smile and found it turning into a yawn. He tried to remember the nuances of the voice on the phone.

  “He sounded—well, educated, but not overly educated, if you know what I mean. He wasn’t a dese, dem, and dose guy, but he wasn’t the head of the speech department at Berkeley, either. His tone? Medium, I’d say, not deep and not tenor. A little above middle baritone, I suppose you could call it.”

  “Great. That brings it down to about ninety-nine per cent of the male population.”

  “I know, but that’s the way it is. And he didn’t make any attempt to conceal or disguise his voice. He spoke clearly and with no long pauses. And one more thing,” Reardon said. He didn’t know what made him say it, but suddenly he knew he was right. “Speaking of voices, Mike was in pain when they taped that bit of him talking.”

  Porky looked at him. “In pain?”

  “That’s right.” Reardon waved a hand. “Oh, I don’t mean he said ‘ouch’ or anything like that, but I’m sure they hurt him somewhere along the line. He sounded—I don’t know—strained …”

  “Well,” Porky said reasonably, “a man gets picked up and kidnapped on an empty stomach—although if he missed a dinner in the back room of Marty’s, that’s nothing to complain about—he’d sound a bit strained, don’t you think?”

  “This was something different,” Reardon said stubbornly. He ran his fingers through his hair without being conscious of doing so. “We hear it in the voices of men we see who are shot, or stabbed, or in a bad accident. Before they’ve been taken care of, while they’re waiting for the ambulance, for example. They can be talking about anything else in the world, how it happened, how it wasn’t their fault, anything—but underneath their tone is something that says they know they’ve been hurt, and one part of their brain hangs onto that fact while the rest comes out as usual. Or tries to.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Porky said, and rapped the table with one knuckle piously, scattering ashes from his cigarette. He brushed them away. “May my own tones remain pear-shaped and pain-free! But, to get back to business, how does the tone of Mike Holland’s voice on a tape help to identify the man you spoke to on the telephone?”

  “I don’t know. What I’m trying to say is I have a feeling the guy was getting a kick out of playing that tape, and the reason he was getting a kick out of it was precisely because Mike was in pain when they taped it, if you know what I mean.”

  “You mean the guy was a mean bastard,” Porky said quietly.

  “Yeah,” Reardon said, and wondered why he had pushed the matter. “I guess that’s what I mean.”

  “Well, it was a good assumption he wasn’t an angel to begin with,” Porky said logically.

  “I suppose so,” Reardon said, and yawned. He finished up with a shudder and glanced at his watch. “Well, that’s about it, I guess. Keep your ears open. My guess is there’ll be a pretty good reward for any information leading to the et cetera, et cetera.” He yawned again and shook his head. “I’m about ready to fall asleep on my feet.”

  “In a moment,” Porky said. “Let’s see if we can’t make us a few assumptions before we break up for the evening.” His tone indicated that if he couldn’t take a young fortune from Sawicki shooting pool, but had to devote his energies to detecting instead, he might as well do a proper job of it. He brushed ash from his cigarette and leaned back, one hand fondling his empty ale mug. “One—whoever spoke to you on the telephone knew the dinner was being held at Marty’s. How?”

  “It wasn’t any secret.”

  Porky shook his head, unimpressed by the argument.

  “It isn’t any secret that Molly’s Future can’t run in mud for a damn, but I know lots of people who don’t know it. Or I hope they don’t know it. For instance, I didn’t know you were running the dinner, or I’d have asked for an invite.” Porky drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. “He also knew about the dinner far enough ahead of time to check out the place and find out they only had the one telephone. Did you know that? I didn’t, and I eat there about as often as you do. Item three—or is it two? No matter—he also knew you were in charge of the affair, bu
t he had never met you in person—”

  Reardon’s eyebrows went up. “Sherlock Holmes stuff?”

  Porky waved it away. “You’re tired, Mr. R. If he’d have met you, or even spoken to you in person at some time, it’s doubtful he would have called you direct. Why take a chance you might recognize his voice? All he had to do was speak with someone else. Right?”

  Reardon thought, not for the first time, that Porky Frank would have made a very fine police officer in the Detective branch. He also thought, again not for the first time, that Porky Frank would have been vastly amused at the concept.

  “Right. Still, the affair was scarcely a secret. The newspapers even mentioned it.”

  Porky’s eyebrows rose in respect. “The newspapers?”

  “Well, at least the man who writes the ‘View from Nob Hill’ column in the Express, whoever he is.”

  “Doesn’t he have a name?”

  “If he does, he doesn’t use it to sign his column. Anyway, he had a big spread about how here we are, the good citizens of San Francisco, with insufficient police protection as it is; and there they are, the police, screaming for more money all the time, just to feed their wee ones; but still we cops can afford to waste our time and money on a retirement dinner for a cop who should be made to work, instead of being put out to pasture when he’s capable of doing a day’s work, and not allowed to feed at the public trough, et cetera, et cetera. A typical anti-cop blast. You know the sort of thing.”

  “You seemed to have memorized it by heart,” Porky said shrewdly. “Did he mention you by name? He must have.”

  “He did. He said that people like Lieutenant James Reardon ought to be doing some useful work on the many unsolved murders in our town, work for which he’s overpaid, instead of chasing around to restaurants, comparing menus and prices, and tasting the soup to make sure nobody left out the salt.”

  Porky grinned. “The man has a point. Did you speak with him in person?”

  “No, his secretary called. But the column didn’t mean anything. As a matter of fact, there was an editorial in the same issue that practically disagreed with everything the columnist said.” Reardon shrugged. “It didn’t bother me. You know newspapers.”

  “Fortunately,” Porky said, “I don’t. Anyway, that sort of publicity doesn’t sound like bait for any kidnapper unless, of course, they mean to hold this Holland for the gold watch I assume you meant to give him. Anyway, don’t worry about it. Who reads the newspapers?”

  “I’m not worried, and lots of people read newspapers,” Reardon said, and smiled. “If you don’t read the papers, how are you going to know when World War Three starts?”

  “If W.W. Three isn’t running in the fourth at Aqueduct,” Porky said loftily, “it’s going to miss me. Which is more than I’m going to do for it.” He settled back. “All right. This dinner was mentioned in this ‘View from Nob Hill’ column. And the column accused you of soup-detecting. But did he specifically say that you were in charge of arrangements? After all, soup-checking is a chore often left to a minor subordinate on the committee.”

  Reardon’s smile faded. He tried to think. “I don’t remember.”

  “Well,” Porky said, “it’s easy enough to check on. Since you seem to be an Express fan, we’ll leave that bit of detection to you. And if your being in charge of the dinner wasn’t in the article, who else might have known?”

  Reardon thought a moment and then realized how ridiculous the question was.

  “Well, hell! The whole department knew. I said it wasn’t any secret. It was on the bulletin board; they had to send their checks to me. So their families knew, and their kids—”

  “And their uncles and their cousins who are numbered in the dozens. Well, maybe. Still, I find it hard to picture everyone sitting around the fireplace of an evening saying to each other, ‘Say, did you hear the big news? Mr. R is in charge of the dinner for Mike Holland!’”

  Reardon frowned. “Just what point are you trying to make?”

  “I’m not trying to make a point. I’m trying to hand you what is known, in detective parlance, as a clue.”

  Reardon’s frown deepened. “You mean you think someone in the department might have …?”

  “I don’t mean anything of the kind,” Porky said sternly. “On the other hand,” he added, thinking about it, “I don’t rule it out, either. Cops have been known to be naughty before. But in this case I honestly don’t see a cop snatching another cop. If Holland had forty years on the force, he’d have recognized the man, and some of that would have come out in that tape. No, let’s scratch cops.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. However, let us go on. You say the man on the telephone told you you would receive a tape in the mail tomorrow morning with further instructions. Right?”

  “Demands, he said.”

  “Same thing. But,” Porky said quietly, fixing Reardon with a steady look, “in that case he must have mailed the tape even before he picked up your good sergeant.”

  Reardon stared. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Porky said calmly, “let’s face the dismal facts about the U.S. mails. This Mike Holland was snatched, according to you, either late in the afternoon or early in the evening. After delivery of the afternoon paper, at any rate. Correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the taping of Sergeant Holland’s pain-filled voice had to be even later than that, right?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Well, let me ask you a question. Since when have you been able to mail a package—or a letter, for that matter—late one evening and have it delivered in the next morning’s mail? Or even the next afternoon’s mail? Probably not since 1930, if you want an honest answer. If then. Certainly not today.”

  Reardon shook his head at his own stupidity. Porky was completely right.

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “I don’t know where it leaves you,” Porky said, “but it leaves me with the distinct idea that all packages being delivered tomorrow at the Hall of Justice addressed to you ought to get a more-than-usual consideration. Together with their bearers, of course.”

  He shot one of his neatly linked cuffs and glanced at the wafer-thin gold watch that was revealed.

  “Well, time marches on, to coin a phrase, and you look more tired by the moment. In any event, that’s about all the clues I can offer at the moment. I suggest you write them down.”

  Reardon smiled. “Too tired.”

  “A minor difficulty,” Porky said. He took a thin gold pen from his pocket, wrote “Newspaper” and “Mailman” on the corner of a napkin, tore it off, and leaned across the table, tucking it into the breast pocket of Reardon’s jacket. “When you get home, put this under the pillow, and the Napkin Fairy may give you the solution before morning. And do not feel badly that the clues I revealed were not spotted by you. After all,” he said in a kindly tone, “you’re tired, and this is the shank of the evening for me.”

  “And where are you going now?”

  “I go to listen, as per instructions, mon Capitaine—I wonder how you say Lieutenant?—and not, unfortunately, back to Sawicki’s,” Porky said sadly, and sighed at the memory of that open table.

  Saturday—2:50 A.M.

  Lieutenant Reardon pulled his Charger into an empty space before the rococo Victorian edifice on the corner of Chestnut and Hyde that contained, among other equally spartan warrens, his own bachelor quarters. He was too weary even to be amazed that a parking space was available practically before his door; most times he was sure the residents of El Cerrito came all the way over here to park, simply to deny him the space. When in a more charitable mood he conceded their real reason was there was no space available nearer.

  He swung the wheels to the curb, locked the emergency brake to its fullest—all standard precautions of any San Franciscan who did not want to wake up in the morning and find his car in the bay below—and climbed out, locking the car door. He s
truggled up the few feet of the steep incline to the worn wooden steps of his building, and regained his balance there, staring up at the house, wondering why he didn’t simply lie down on the stoop instead of climbing those mountainous stairs to his own aerie somewhere above. Still, sleeping on the stoop with his normal thrashing about meant taking the chance of ending up in the bay himself, and the thought of waking up under water was distasteful. Besides, he had to get up too early in the morning to waste time rolling down hills.

  He let himself into the house with his key and wearily climbed the inside flight to his own personal portion of the ornate old mansion, his footsteps dragging on the worn carpeting, his eyes half closed. He let himself into his living room, switched on the lamp and closed the door, grateful for the silence. Almost three o’clock, which still left four lovely hours of slumber before having to get up and face the hectic meetings that were certain to mark the morning. Four wonderful hours of rest and relaxation before the holocaust! Not the longest time span in the world, but still the equivalent of almost twenty-four ten-minute naps. Why, the thought was practically sybaritic! Four beautiful, wonderful hours! God, a lifetime!

  He allowed his jacket to drop unheeded from his shoulders; his necktie was dragged over his head and tossed somewhere in the general direction of a corner. His shoes were scraped off, his trousers allowed to collapse in a pile, his shirt permitted to lie where it fell. The lamp was switched off and he padded toward the bedroom in the dark. Pajamas and toothbrushes were all right in their place, but their place was not here and now; the shade of his mother might scold and threaten eventual dentures, but at the moment sleep was more important.

  The mattress felt wonderful as he sank down upon it. He swung his tired legs onto the bed, welcoming the comfort, pulled the covers to his chin, and rolled over, nestling comfortably against the warm figure lying there. “Good night, dear,” he murmured absently under his breath, and allowed himself to relax, his mind automatically seeking a means to avoid the problem of Mike Holland’s kidnapping, looking for a line of concentration that would lead to soporific release. The answer, he decided, would lie in mentally replaying the front nine of the San Francisco Golf Club course; he usually managed to be sound asleep before he came up to the fifth tee, assuming he didn’t get buried in that trap on the fairway leading up to the fourth green—