Deadline, 2 A.M.

Chapter 14

Tuesday — 10:30 A.M.

Lieutenant Reardon parked his Charger on Mason, around the corner from the new, impressive four-story building that contained the San Francisco Express. As the first new newspaper in the city since the demise of the old Call-Bulletin, it was rumored that the Express was having its problems combatting the age-old prestige of the Chronicle and the sheer power of the Examiner. Still, Reardon wished the newcomer all the luck in the world — especially if it could provide him answers to some questions. There was, of course, the ridiculous question Porky Frank thought he should ask, as to who might have known about the dinner arrangements for Pop Holland’s retirement party; and then there were the far more important questions arising from the pasted-up note Reardon was guarding in his jacket pocket.

He trotted up the two steps to the wide glass doors, pushed through into a lobby dominated by a huge globe of the world rotating slowly overhead, and advanced to the information desk beneath the round monstrosity. The only person he even had the slightest contact with was whoever wrote the “View from Nob Hill” column, so he felt he might as well start with him. He nodded to the girl behind the desk pleasantly.

“Miss?”

She smiled up. “Sir?”

“I’d like to see—”

Reardon suddenly paused, a tingle passing through him. Ever since he had entered the building he had subconsciously been aware of a faint throbbing somewhere in the background; but now the sound intruded upon him consciously, like the incipient rumblings of an approaching earthquake, except that now he was so immediately aware of it, there was a certain definite rhythm to the sound. He could feel the slight beat that accompanied the sound coming through the marble-tiled floor to the soles of his feet. He didn’t need to listen to it very long. It was a sound that was engraved upon his memory for all time. He swung back to the girl, his pleasant expression gone.

“What’s that noise? That rumbling?”

The girl smiled indulgently. “Everybody asks that. It’s not the San Andreas fault, though I guess that’s what most people think, the first time they come here. It’s just our presses rolling, sir. I’m so used to them I don’t even hear them any more.” That quite-normal inquiry satisfied, the girl smiled brightly. “Now, can I help you, sir?”

But Reardon wasn’t listening. His mind was racing. Newspaper presses, eh? That tape had been made in a building with newspaper presses, and the man who made it was probably like the receptionist — he was so used to the sound he hadn’t even realized it was there, providing a clue to the police. And the note that had arrived that morning, containing the pasted-up threat; that note had been cut from a newspaper and pasted up on blank newsprint, and where was the easiest place to have newsprint lying around if not at a newspaper plant? And then there had been a columnist — one who chose not to sign his name — who was quite openly disdainful of the police...

The entire series of connecting ideas swept across the lieutenant’s brain in analytical process, completed in seconds. He stared at the girl.

“Miss, who writes the column ‘View from Nob Hill’?”

The smile remained, but now it was frozen, no longer as friendly as before, but maintained because that was one of the requirements of meeting the public.

“I’m afraid we’re not allowed to give out that information, sir.”

Reardon’s jaw tightened. A conspiracy, eh? He reached into his pocket, extracting his billfold, opening it to expose his warrant card on one side and his lieutenant’s shield on the other. He allowed the girl to study it a moment, and then closed it and restored it to his pocket. His voice became official.

“All right, miss. My name is Lieutenant Reardon, and I asked you a question! Who writes that column? And why doesn’t it carry his name, as every other column in the paper does?”

The girl looked startled by the attack. “I... I’ll have to make a call, sir.”

Reardon reached over the desk, clamping his hand tightly on the phone.

“No calls! Who writes that column? And why the big secret?”

The girl looked terrified. Tears began to well in her eyes.

“I can’t—”

“Then we’ll take a trip down to the Hall of Justice and see if we can’t get some information out of you down there!” Reardon said grimly. “Let’s go!”

“No! I—” The tears came in a flood. The girl looked miserable. “I’ll tell you. It’s... it’s Mr. Maxwell. He’s the publisher. He—”

She looked around as if for help, but the lobby remained empty except for the two of them. Her teary eyes came back to Reardon’s hard face.

“It’s — he doesn’t sign the column because he often, in fact most of the time, writes editorials in direct contradiction of his column. It’s just — he says he does it to generate interest. Nobody outside the paper is supposed to know...”

Reardon released the telephone, but stayed close enough to take charge if the girl tried to call for help. Maxwell, eh? And a devious man, too! Add that to the pot!

“Is this Maxwell in the building?”

“No. He... he hasn’t come in, yet.”

Just one more thing and we’ll have it all tied up! Reardon thought. “And tell me this — does Mr. Maxwell happen to have a beard? And does he smoke cigars?”

There was the sound of the twin glass doors being opened before the girl could answer; Reardon turned to find a small, portly white-haired gentleman dressed in extremely mod clothes for one his age come bustling up to the desk. He looked like Charlie Winninger to Reardon’s eyes, and he wished the little man had waited a moment longer before breaking into his interview. The newcomer beamed at the girl.

“Ah, Jane! Good morning! How’s everything this morning?” The little beaming man seemed to notice for the first time that the girl had been crying. He glanced at Reardon sharply, as if to determine if this man might be the cause of the girl’s unhappiness, and then brought his attention back to the receptionist. “Is something the matter?”

It was too much for the girl. She burst into tears again. “Oh, Mr. Maxwell...!”

Maxwell frowned and turned to Reardon. “What on earth seems to be bothering the girl? Did you do something, or say something?”

Reardon felt his face getting red. His theory disintegrated about him. He brought out his billfold for the second time and opened it for Mr. Maxwell’s inspection. Maxwell looked puzzled.

“Are you going to arrest her? On what grounds? I’m afraid we’ll have to have our company attorneys look into this. I’ve known Jane since she was a child. Her father—”

“No, no!” Reardon said hurriedly, and felt foolish. “It has nothing to do with the girl. It’s... well, sir, I was asking her questions about you.”

“About me?” Maxwell’s deep blue eyes considered Reardon sharply. “I see. Well, the one to properly ask questions about me would be me, don’t you think? Come along.” He turned and trotted off about the back of the reception desk in the direction of the elevators, calling back over his shoulder, “It’s all right, Jane. It’s all right...”

Reardon followed the small man into the elevator. They rose in silence to the top floor, and emerged into a room filled with desks and people and noise; the steady ringing of telephones drowned out the strange rhythmic sound of the presses downstairs, but the faint bumping could still be felt through the floor. Maxwell pressed through the crowded room without paying the slightest attention to the racket about him, nor did anyone bother to look up or greet him as the small man and Reardon passed. They reached a corner office and Maxwell courteously held the door open until his guest had entered; he then followed along, leaving a small hissing cylinder to shut the door, and trotted to his desk, seating himself and gesturing toward a chair, all in the same motion. He smiled at his guest and pressed a button on his intercommunicator.

“Miss Tenefly? No calls, no interruptions. I’ll be in conference until further notice.” He clicked the button upward and leaned back in his chair, fixing Reardon with a shrewd look. “All right, Lieutenant. Suppose you tell me what this is all about.” A sudden thought came to him and he leaned forward, frowning. “Reardon! Lieutenant Reardon! Good God, I hope it had nothing to do with that column about the police! But I wrote an editorial the same day—” He stopped abruptly. “I mean—”

Reardon smiled. “The girl downstairs told me. I’ll keep it a secret.” His smile disappeared. “No, it has nothing to do with that column. Or it does, actually, in a way...”

And it did, in a way, he thought, because if Porky Frank hadn’t kept harping on that column, he didn’t know whether he would have been here or not. He stared at the round little man a moment and then pulled up a chair and sat down across the desk from him. He watched the steady shrewd blue eyes a moment and made up his mind. After all, you had to trust somebody in this world, and if you couldn’t trust the Charlie Winninger types, who could you trust? He wasn’t sure that Captain Tower or Chief Boynton would have agreed with him, but the fact was that time was rapidly running out. He took a deep breath.

“Mr. Maxwell, I need help. That’s why I came here this morning, but when I got here I got sidetracked with a stupid idea, and that’s how I came to upset your receptionist. I think I’m back on the track now. I’ve got a story to tell you, but first I want to tell you — not ask you — that it cannot be published without our permission. Is that understood?”

Maxwell nodded. “Understood. Provided when permission is granted, the Express gets first crack.”

“If you prove helpful,” Reardon said flatly, and went on. “I’ll put it very briefly. Four days ago we had a police officer kidnapped, and last night another one was taken. The kidnapper was very insistent that no publicity be given, which is why you have not heard of this before, although we would have held back on publicity regardless of his instructions. That’s also why I asked you not to publish anything of what I am telling you, without permission.”

He paused to put his thoughts in order and then continued.

“Now, whoever is holding these two officers has offered to release them in exchange for certain men in our custody. The crimes for which the men in our custody are being held are very minor, and I doubt if you would recognize their names if you heard them.” He paused, thinking. “Or maybe you would. Guillermo Lazaretti and Vito Patrone.”

Maxwell shook his head. “The names ring no bells.”

“I didn’t expect them to. However, I may ask you later to see if possibly one of your stringers turned in a story about their arrest, but at the moment it’s not too important. At any rate the decision was made by the Hall of Justice not to accede to what amounted to blackmail demands on the part of kidnappers; the feeling was that if we began trading kidnapped officers for criminals in custody, no officer would be safe in the future.”

“I agree,” Maxwell said bluntly.

“I suppose I do, too. In any event, we received several messages from the kidnapper, the first one being on tape. We also recovered the automobile in which the first officer was kidnapped. The details of how our laboratory got their results are unimportant, but I can say that we were able to determine that the kidnapper is a fairly well-educated man who we believe was raised in the bay area and who is bearded and smokes cigars. He is accompanied by an accomplice who drove the kidnap car, who we believe is about five-foot-four inches tall.”

Maxwell smiled bleakly. “About my size.”

“I’d put you at closer to five-foot-six,” Reardon said, and smiled mischievously. “However, just for fun, where were you last Saturday morning between nine and ten o’clock?”

Maxwell was not at all disturbed by the inquiry. He swung around in his swivel chair and reached for his desk diary, flipping it open. He leafed through a few pages and paused.

“Saturday, September fourth,” he said. “At that hour I was having breakfast at the Peninsula Golf Club with the mayor, prior to a round of golf.” He closed the book and swiveled back. “Our waiter was Tom. I had shirred eggs and a sweet roll. Now, you were saying?”

Reardon started to smile and then wiped it away.

“Does the description I just gave you ring any particular bell?”

Maxwell shook his head. “I’m afraid it also rings no bell.”

Reardon sighed and plowed on, wondering if he was wasting his time. “I mentioned Saturday because at that hour the smaller accomplice was killing someone up in Potrero. However, to get back to the story — we also have evidence that indicates the kidnapper taped his message to us in a building where printing presses were in operation.”

Maxwell tented his fingers and watched Reardon thoughtfully over them. He almost seemed to be composing the first line of either his column or an editorial, probably, Reardon thought, on the dangers in the street or the idiocy of the police. He went on:

“Then this morning we received a second message. This one was made up of letters and words cut out of what seems to be a newspaper, pasted on a sheet of paper. Our laboratory believes the letters were all cut from the same paper. And they think the paper the words were pasted on was the same paper as the letters and words were printed on.” He reached into his pocket and brought out the envelope, handling it gingerly. He eased the note from the envelope, unfolded it, and laid it on the desk. Maxwell leaned over and studied it closely. His nose wrinkled at the message.

“I assume the 2 A.M. is tomorrow morning?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm.” Maxwell leaned back in his chair, studying the sheet from a distance, and then sat erect. “You know, Lieutenant,” he said slowly, “newspapers also operate in the manner of a detective bureau at times. Take those two lads from the Washington Post, in the Watergate case. They certainly did a better job than the police in that city; or than the FBI, for that matter, even assuming the bureau was trying.” He pointed toward the note. “Now, I think it’s quite possible one or two of our old compositors might be able to read more into this note than the police can — or than I can, frankly. I’ll need your permission to call one of them in and ask him.” He paused. “Or maybe you’d feel better if I cut the message into separate words and moved them around to change the meaning?”

Reardon sat up. “No! You can have one of your people look at it — in fact I’d appreciate it — but let’s leave the note intact. It may well be evidence in a murder trial someday.”

“Of course.” Maxwell shrugged. “Oh, well, if I know the man I want to show this to, he won’t even read it. He’ll just look at the type and the paper.” He leaned over and flipped the communicator switch. “Miss Tenefly? Get McDougal up here, will you? On the double.” He clicked off the set and leaned back. “Well, let’s see what the Scots Wizard has to say.”

They waited in silence, Maxwell tapping his tented fingers together, Reardon staring from the window, wondering if he was right in being here at all. There really had been no need to give Maxwell the information he had; all that any other police officer would have done would have been to show his shield and ask the questions he wanted answers to. If any word leaked out as a result of his needless disclosure, anything that resulted in harm to either Pop Holland or Dondero, he swore he’d come back to the Express and feed a few people here through one of their noisy presses, starting with the publisher! Although, to be honest, if anything unfortunate did occur, the fault would be his alone, as was the fix Dondero was in.

There was an abrupt rap on the door and it was opened without the visitor waiting for permission. The man who entered did so in stumping manner, as if his legs had been bound at the knees. He was an elderly man, stocky, with work clothes that had seen countless washings, and an ink-stained apron across his waist that he wore like a guerdon for services rendered in many a publishing battle. A neatly folded cap of newsprint hid his graying hair, a tribute to the origami talents of American pressmen; his huge gray mustache hid all but red-veined cheeks. Tiny blue eyes peered out cautiously from beneath bushy eyebrows of indeterminate color. A huge curved pipe, unlit, hung from the corner of his mouth, touching his chin. He nodded to Maxwell as if the two of them were alone in the room.

“Y’wanted to see me, Mr. Maxwill?”

“Yes, Mac.” Maxwell made no attempt to introduce Reardon, but pointed to the pasted-up note on his desk. “What do you think of this?”

Maxwell leaned over the thing, making no attempt to straighten it out. “It’s a piss-poor paste-up job,” he said, mostly under his breath. “Me grandson would have done better.”

“Forget the paste-up job,” Maxwell said impatiently. “I want your opinion on the printing, and the type. And the paper. Can you — I mean, do you have any idea of those?”

McDougal looked around shrewdly at the stranger, and then back to Maxwell. “Can I touch the thing?”

“You can touch it,” Reardon said. McDougal’s eyes remained fixed on Maxwell. “You can touch it, Mac,” the publisher said, and smiled at Reardon. Reardon shrugged. He had a feeling he should have let Roy Gentry handle the entire investigation of the note. Time was passing and they were getting nowhere.

McDougal picked it up, studied the printing closely, his one hand pinching the paper the letters were pasted on. He looked up. “What d’you want to know?”

“Everything,” Reardon said without much hope of a useful answer. “Can you identify the type? Or the paper?”

“Oh, aye,” McDougal said. Reardon sat more erect. Maybe his visit wasn’t going to be such a waste as he had feared. “It’s from a shopping broadsheet; anyone can see that.”

“Shopping broadsheet?” Reardon had come to his feet and was standing beside the stocky printer. McDougal cocked an eye at the interloper and then shrugged. If Maxwell didn’t mind the stranger butting in constantly, why should he?

“That’s right,” he said, and took his pipe from his mouth to point with the stem. “Those numbers are probably the price of cheese, or eggs, or something. The job was set up with phototype, probably on aluminum plates, judging from the tone of definition. Printed on a web press, probably. And the paper.” He rustled it again between his fingers. “Twenty-eight pound circular stock, cheapest stuff around. Even cheaper than the newsprint we use, which is thirty-pound.”

Reardon felt a sudden stir of excitement.

“Assuming it was printed in the San Francisco area,” he said, “how many shops would you say are equipped with presses capable of doing work of that nature?”

“Plenty. Too many.” McDougal shrugged and shoved his pipe back somewhere beneath his mustache. “Including those around the other side of the bay, I’d guess at fifteen. Maybe more.”

“And just in the city proper?”

“Oh, maybe eight.”

“And is there a list of them anywhere? Who would know who they are?”

Maxwell broke in. “They’re in the phone book, I imagine, but McDougal would probably know as well as anyone. He’s worked about every shop in the area, haven’t you, Mac?”

McDougal nodded; he seemed to be pleased to be labeled a rolling stone.

“Oh, aye. I’ve worked plenty of them, but I know them all. I’ve been president of the union three times, and treasurer twice. I’ve seen them come up and seen them go broke.” He looked at Maxwell calmly. “Newspapers, too...”

Reardon mentally crossed his fingers and asked his final question.

“Mr. McDougal, do you know of any shop, the kind of shop that might have produced that” — he pointed to the note still in McDougal’s hand — “where there is someone working, in a supervisory position, I imagine, or more likely the owner himself, who has a beard, and smokes cigars, and has a small accomp — I mean, a small person — working with him closely, a person who is maybe five-foot-four?”

McDougal frowned at him. Up until the moment he had tolerated the stranger and his questions, but it seemed to him that now the man was getting damnably nosey. “And who might you be?”

“It’s all right,” Maxwell said. “He’s the police.” He was sitting up eagerly, his deep blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “Well? Would you know?”

“Oh, aye,” McDougal said, and laid the note down on the desk again. “That’d be George Morrison, who owns the Neighborhood Print Works, over on Galvez. Mob money in the place, if you ask me. Bunch of goons working there. It’s a scab shop We’ve had our troubles with Morrison, the sweet-talking thug!” He looked around for a place to spit, found none, and swallowed. “The little guy’s probably Harry Wittwer. He drives for Morrison. Big George doesn’t like to drive.”

Reardon looked at the stocky printer unbelievingly. It had been that easy!