Deadline, 2 A.M.

Chapter 10

Tuesday — 1:05 A.M.

Fog was beginning to sweep up from the bay as Reardon bumped down the rutted lane leading from the main road to the jetty and the dock mooring Dondero’s small fisherman; a light drizzle was attempting to dissipate the mist and managed only to compound the general unpleasantness of the night. Reardon kicked himself for having left both umbrella and raincoat at home, pulled the car around to face the way he had come in, and turned off the ignition. He flicked the lights to the parking position, stared out at the rain for a moment, and then ducked from the car with his bundle, holding it over his head for as much protection as possible. He made his way down the precarious length of the dilapidated slippery dock, almost going into the water several times, and finally reached his goal, cursing loud, long, and fluently. As if in response, the hatchway was opened and light angled up from below, losing itself at once in the sodden night.

“About goddamn time!” Reardon muttered savagely under his breath, and dropped to the pitching deck of the small fishing boat, feeling it heel under his weight.

Dondero was watching him with a smile. “I heard you give the password. Advance, friend. Hey, you got the stuff!” His smile faded. “It isn’t wrapped. It’ll be all wet.”

“Yeah.” Reardon climbed down the narrow companionway after Dondero, happy to be out of the rain, but still not overjoyed to be involved in the idiotic scheme at all. He tossed the damp bundle onto one of the two bunks that lined the outer bulkheads of the small cabin, walked over to the head and helped himself to a towel, vigorously wiping his head with it. “You’ll probably be wetter after tonight if you go through with this ridiculous idea,” he said darkly. “Probably a lot wetter,” he added ominously, “when we fish you out of the bay.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel good,” Dondero said. He was unfolding the bundle. “You’re just mad because you didn’t think of the idea yourself.” He shook out a wrinkled dirty white shirt that had been at the bundle’s core and slipped it on over his undershirt, buttoning it up to the collar. He considered himself in the mirror. “I’ve got a picture of my great-grandfather taken somewhere in the Abruzzi when he was a young man, and he wasn’t wearing a tie, either. Now I know where I get my good looks.”

He kicked off his sneakers, slipped out of his dungarees, and pulled on the trousers of his black silk suit. He started to bring up the zipper and suddenly cringed.

Reardon looked at the other’s grimace unsympathetically. “What’s the matter? Catch yourself?”

“No, they’re wet! Why the hell didn’t you at least leave the pants on the inside?” He pulled on the jacket and studied himself in the mirror. He turned to Reardon for approbation. “How do I look?”

“Like your great-grandfather. All ready to be laid out.” Reardon bent to a small cabinet beneath the cabin’s desk, brought out a bottle of brandy, and lifted a glass from one of the gimbal-type holders there. He straightened up, poured himself a generous drink, and took it down in one gulp. He gasped and stared at the bottle. “Good God! Where did you get this stuff? What is it? Fermented bay water?”

“You have no taste,” Dondero said with the air of a connoisseur. He bent down, brought up another glass, and reached for the bottle, but Reardon took the glass from his hand, setting it down on the desk.

“Are you intent on committing suicide? He’d smell the liquor on your breath. We don’t give prisoners brandy before releasing them, and we don’t stop at bars with them on the way to trading them for sergeants. It isn’t regulations.” He looked at the bottle and wrinkled his nose. “Anyway, we don’t give prisoners this kind of brandy, or they’d have us up on cruelty charges.”

“If you hate it so much, quit polishing it off,” Dondero said. He dropped down on one of the bunks and slid into his shoes, reaching down to tie them. He straightened up and looked at his watch. “How much time before we have to leave?”

“About five minutes,” Reardon said. “And give me that watch. We also don’t furnish prisoners with timepieces before trading them for sergeants; anyway, not Timex watches, made in America.”

“I forgot. Anyway, they probably sell Timex in Italy, too, or Patrone could have bought it here. If I really wanted to take the part of an Italian visitor, I ought to be wearing about six of them.” But he still took off the watch and handed it to Reardon, and then stared down at his hands. Then he stood up and studied himself in the mirror again. “Not bad. I hope.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Incidentally, how did you get the stuff out of the apartment?”

“Johnny Merchant was watching the place. I told him I was going to shake the joint down. Since we had no instructions to break in, and since we had no warrant — and since Johnny is a smart cop — he went around the corner for a beer while I went through the closets.” Reardon shrugged. “The stuff was in my car, stuffed down behind the seat, when he came back.”

Dondero’s preoccupation momentarily took a back seat to his admiration.

“You know,” he said, “you’d make a great criminal, James. Remind me not to leave any valuables around the apartment from now on.” He started to look at his wristwatch and then remembered he didn’t have it. “Hey, let’s get going, huh?”

“If you insist,” Reardon said, and poured himself one for the road. Dondero was getting a bit up-tight sitting around, and if he was going through with his idiotic scheme, at least he shouldn’t be allowed to get overly worked up ahead of time. Reardon slugged the drink down, grimaced again at the taste, and went to the companionway ladder. “Up we go.”

Dondero grunted and followed. He paused long enough to lock the hatchway cover and then made his way behind Reardon down the length of the convoluted dock to the jetty. Reardon splashed through the puddles to the Charger, ducked inside hastily, and leaned over to unlock the opposite door. Dondero clambered inside, slammed the door shut behind him, and wiped water from his face.

“And I’m going to stand out on an open bridge in this weather waiting for somebody to pick me up?”

“As you’ve been so fond of saying — this was your bright idea.”

“Yeah. I got to be crazy, huh? What a night!” He tried to peer through the window and gave up. “Man, I don’t care if this guy’s picking me up in a boat, or a car, or a helicopter — I hope whatever it is has a roof, is all.”

Reardon looked at him. “You can still change your mind.”

“Change it for what?”

Reardon studied the set face a moment and then started the engine. Dondero’s mind was made up, and it was apparent in the hard jaw and narrowed eyes. Reardon sighed and put up the headlights; he started the windshield wipers and defroster, and started to drive down the muddy lane toward the main road. He bumped over the curb into the highway, checked in both directions for traffic, and started the long drive toward the city, leaning back and trying to wriggle into a more comfortable position in his wet clothes.

“Incidentally, I saw Patrone this evening,” he said conversationally.

“Oh?” Dondero was looking at him expectantly.

“He’s a little bigger than Lazaretti, but not all that much. A little smaller than you.”

“And needs a shave like me, I hope,” Dondero said with a grin, and rubbed a hand over his own stubble.

“And needs a shave like you do, and like Lazaretti did,” Reardon said. His eyes were steady on the deserted, rainy road; his hands steady on the wheel. “And you were right. He speaks English.”

“I’m always right—”

“Except when you get bright ideas. Anyway, my guess is when he was pretending not to speak English, it was probably just to be hard-nosed with Zelinski.” He smiled. “Which almost puts me on his side.”

“Me, too.”

“He tried to pull the same routine on me, only before I even saw him I took the trouble to call Rome and talk to some police captain there. He checked for me, and Patrone’s got a sheet. Nothing major; nothing to stop him from getting and holding a passport. Small-time stuff. He used to make his living escorting visiting Americans around Rome — which is difficult if you don’t speak English — and every now and then, according to the cops there, servicing some of the lonely American ladies—”

“Hey, hey!” Dondero said. “Do you suppose this character wants Patrone out of jail to service a lonely lady?”

“You can hope so, anyway,” Reardon said dryly. “At any rate, the cops there have a pretty good idea Patrone used to augment his income by picking up tips from pocketbooks on bedroom dressers without his patroness of the day knowing she was being so generous. Only one really raised a stink, but she had no proof as to how much she had in her purse when she went to bed, so Patrone walked out free and clear.”

“Our boy’s a bum,” Dondero said disappointedly. “A small-time bum.”

“Who did you hope you were impersonating?” Reardon glanced across the car. “The head of the Italian CIA?”

“No, but a plain bum—”

“Well,” Reardon said, “maybe he’s a bum, but he was a bum smart enough to con some American ladies.”

“What’s that mean? Look at how many American ladies you’ve conned. Hey!” Dondero suddenly said, struck by another of his brilliant ideas. “Maybe that’s it! Maybe this guy who’s holding Pop, maybe Patrone conned his wife, or his girl friend. Maybe he took her to bed—”

“And for this, this guy goes to the trouble of kidnapping a policeman — and mutilating him — and killing a second man?”

“Well,” Dondero said, still intrigued by the idea, “you know how some guys are about their dames, and about revenge...”

Through the rain and the darkness a glow against the sky ahead marked the location of the San Francisco International Airport. Reardon glanced at his watch in the light from the dashboard. Still ample time. He went back to Dondero’s statement.

“I only know how I am about revenge,” he said, wondering if what he was saying was accurate or only an answer to Dondero’s presentation. “If I wanted revenge on some street guide in Rome, I think I’d take a plane to Rome and look up this street guide, and do something about it. I doubt if I’d sit in San Francisco, here, and wait for the man to conveniently show up. He just might not do it.”

“Well, maybe not,” Dondero said grudgingly. He hated to see a good theory go down the drain, especially one of his own. “Maybe we’ll know more about it after tonight.”

“Yes,” Reardon said quietly. “I certainly hope to God we do!”

Dondero seemed to find something significant in Reardon’s tone. He frowned.

“I don’t like the way you said that, Jim.”

“You don’t like the way I said what?” Reardon looked hurt. “All I said was, ‘I hope we will.’ What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing’s wrong with that,” Dondero said quietly, “only that’s not exactly what you said. To me, it sounded like we were back on the same argument we had this afternoon. It sounded like you were right back with some screwy idea of trying to follow me tonight.”

“Who, me?”

“Yeah!” Dondero said, now convinced. “And when you give me that ‘Who, me?’ routine, I’m more convinced than ever.” He glared across the darkened interior of the car. “Look, you wouldn’t even let me slide a beeper down my pants like I wanted—”

“If they found it on you,” Reardon said flatly, “you’d be dead in five minutes. And Pop, too.”

“And if they find Lieutenant James Reardon, my bosom buddy — who they have demonstrated they know inside and out — on my tail, what then? What rebate do I get on my insurance premium then, pal?” He shook his head violently. “No, damn it! If you want to play Lone Ranger, do it on somebody else’s horse! Drop me off, like the man wants, and then go about your business. Go to a movie, or go home and take a cold shower, but don’t — please! — don’t try and be cute and follow me.” His voice became plaintive. “Damn it, Jim, I thought we went all over that this afternoon!”

Either the fog was getting thicker or the rain more dense, or South San Francisco was economizing on its electricity bill, Reardon thought, because the blackness continued to stretch on either side of the highway. It was like driving through an endless tunnel. The kidnapper, whoever he was, was luckier than he deserved to be, to get weather like this tonight! Or maybe not...

“That was this afternoon,” Reardon said slowly. “I’ve been thinking — on a night like this I could follow you and never be seen.” He checked his watch in the light from the dashboard and nodded. He gestured with one hand toward his two-way radio. “As a matter of fact, we could even be a few minutes late and I could probably raise Stan, or Ferguson — they’re both on nights; it wouldn’t take long — and we could cover you like a tent. They could cover Third Street from each side, down a side street nobody could see, and I could even probably get the Harbor Patrol to have a boat around, in case they pick you up that way—”

“No!”

“They’ve got these night binoculars that cut right through this garbage weather—”

“No! Damn it, how many times do I have to say it? NO!” Dondero changed his tone, turning to pleading. “Jim, please. Don’t help me. Don’t even try to help me. Eighty-seven and a half per cent of all the trouble in this world comes from people trying to help other people. That’s a reliable statistic.”

“That’s a great attitude for a cop.”

“At the moment I’m not a cop. I’m an Italian fugitive named Patrone who just got let out of jail for reasons he can’t fathom, and if you don’t blow as soon as you drop me off, I’ll probably end up being a dead Italian fugitive named Patrone! Who still won’t know why he’s being sprung...”

“Nobody followed Lazaretti,” Reardon pointed out, “and look where he is.”

“I’m not Lazaretti; I’m Patrone. And nobody followed Pop Holland, and look where he is,” Dondero said stubbornly. “Besides, Lazaretti didn’t know the answers the man wanted.”

“And you do?”

“I’m a better bluffer,” Dondero said aggressively, and lapsed into silence.

Reardon sighed and appeared to concede. The city had mysteriously sprung up about them as they had driven, and they were approaching the intersection of Route 101 with Bayshore, and the turnoff to Third Street; he wanted to concentrate all his attention on the scene. Somewhere off to his right, he knew, was an empty, deserted Candlestick Park, but all he could see when he glanced in that direction was a wall of wet mist.

He slowed down and turned into the Third Street exit. A careening automobile swung past him, startling him by its sudden appearance, drenching the Charger with water and then disappearing into the night, its taillight fading quickly in the fog and rain. It made Reardon realize how easily one could allow the night to hide one, if one was courageous enough to drive without lights of any kind. True, one might run over an embankment, or into a telephone pole, but at least he would do it invisibly. He glanced into the rear-view mirror, saw nothing but mist, and brought his attention back to the roadway.

Through the fog the faint outlines of small houses crowding the side streets in working-class land economy could barely be seen, and then they were lost to sight as the fog swirled up. The lampposts edged by, one by one, until there, ahead, the bridge over the channel could suddenly be seen under a pair of overhead hooded lamps, swinging in the wind and rain. Reardon started to slow down when he thought of something.

“Don, what if he doesn’t show up?”

“Then I’ll catch my death of cold and they won’t have to fire me off the force,” Dondero said with a cheerfulness he was far from feeling. He stared through the blurred windshield and his voice turned bitter. “Why in hell wasn’t Patrone wearing a raincoat when he was picked up?” He saw the bridge ahead and his voice tightened a bit despite himself. “All right, here we are. Stop the car and heave me out like the man would expect a good cop to do.”

Reardon obediently brought the car to a halt in the center of the bridge, reached across Dondero’s body, and opened the door. His hand appeared to be aiding Dondero in descending, but in reality he was squeezing the other man’s arm tightly for good luck. “Take care,” he said under his breath. “Get lost,” Dondero replied, equally quietly, and then the door was closing behind him and Reardon was driving off into the darkness of the night, his wheels spraying water on either side.

He drove slowly, as a man would in weather like this, his eyes searching the darkness of the street’s shoulder for any sign of an occupied car, or an approaching vehicle which might be coming to pick Dondero up, but there was nothing for him to see, and his rear-view mirror revealed nothing in that downpour. It was probably a boat, he thought, as they had considered. He thought again of calling the Harbor Patrol, and then decided against it. It was one thing for him to take on the responsibility of following Dondero, if the man coming for him was coming by road, but it was quite another thing to let the responsibility fall into other hands. Other hands might, without meaning to, do something sufficiently suspicious to lead to harm for Dondero. The same held true of Ferguson, or Stan Lundahl, or any of the others. This was something he’d have to do himself, and he knew he had known it ever since he had agreed to the scheme.

He came to Army and passed it without diminishing his speed. He would swing around at the next block, assuming he didn’t see anything in the meantime, and start back slowly; then pull off at the small road just this side of the bridge, his lights out. Anyone coming for Don would certainly not be coming from that direction, not down a dead-end street, and he should be able to pick them up and follow them, using their taillights for a guide.

He turned into the next street, backed out swiftly, and started back down Third Street at the same even speed, thinking. In a way, Dondero was right; to follow could easily lead to disaster. Still, not to follow was unthinkable. The entire idea was what was basically wrong. Even as the thought came, another followed, one he knew to be correct and certain. The thing to do was not to follow anyone, and not to have anyone to follow. The proper thing to do was to get back to the bridge as soon as possible, pick Don up if he had to pull him into the car by his ears, and let the brains at the Hall decide what was really the right thing to do after that!

His mind made up, and satisfied that he had come to the right decision, even though tardily, he stepped on the gas, the car swaying along, shoving water from under the tires in steady spurts. He glanced at his watch and then instantly back to the road, surprised he hadn’t lost control even in that split second. It was still a minute or two before two o’clock; they wouldn’t have come for Don yet. He must have been insane ever to let Don talk him into the stupid idea in the first place.

No car had passed in either direction since he had swung around; in fact, he had seen no car at all on the road since that crazy character off Route 101. And they would never attempt using a boat on the bay in that weather; the best bay captain in the world would be docked tonight, and not taking any chance in that garbage of being sunk by a tug, or another of those hooting monsters out there. As a matter of fact, the chances were the deep-voiced sardonic bastard would simply forget the whole thing on a night like this. He’d probably postpone it until the following night, and probably manage a message, one way or another, to that effect once everyone had gotten soaked to the skin! What a system!

He crossed Army, his speed dangerously high, his eyes alert for any other car, but there were none. The streetlamps fled past; the overhead swinging arcs making the entrance to the small bridge appeared suddenly out of the dark. He slowed down, his eyes searching the gloom for Dondero, a smile quirking his lips at the thought of the half-drowned detective. It would serve him right, getting bright ideas!

His headlights rose as he hit the bridge, his foot pressing insistently on the brake; then they dipped, sweeping the entire expanse.

The bridge was empty. Dondero was gone.