Reardon

Chapter 13

Thursday — 10:25 A.M.

The lobby of the Martinique Apartments had the standard stippled brown plaster walls enclosing a space no larger than was necessary for two tenants to bump into each other — with disastrous results if either happened to be encumbered by a baby carriage, a shopping cart, or even an inebriated mate. The mailboxes were embedded in one wall, a line of brass gap-toothed mouths; a mailman was busily stuffing the hungry maws with fourth-class fare. He stood aside politely to allow Reardon to run his fingers down the list of names; the finger passed Crocker, Apartment 304, without the slightest hesitation, and stopped at 1002. The finger then moved over casually to press the button beside the name and number. There was no response. With a philosophic shrug he appeared to press it again, but pressed 1003 instead. He was instantly rewarded with a shrill buzzing and smiled at the mailman pleasantly to indicate his success. The mailman looked at him as if he were crazy to even want to get into a building like that, and went back to his vital task of distributing junk mail.

The two plain-clothes detectives pushed into the first-floor corridor and walked to the central area of the hallway, which housed the elevator and an incinerator alongside a dismal air shaft. The two entered the elevator and rode the small box-like contraption jerkily to the third floor, accompanied by the odors of cooking long dead. They waited while the elevator door laboriously creaked open and then moved quietly but quickly to Crocker’s apartment. Reardon pressed the tiny button beside the doorframe and waited, his face a mask. He waited a moment and then pressed the bell once again and rapped on the door panel with his knuckles, more from impatience than from any hope of evoking a response.

“Nobody home,” Dondero suggested inanely.

“I guess not.” Reardon reached into his pocket, bringing out a bunch of keys, studying them a moment, and then selecting one. Dondero frowned unhappily.

“We ought to get a search warrant if we’re going in, Jim. I go along with your ideas about Crocker and Cooke, either because you’ve got me convinced or hypnotized, but Captain Tower is rough on this sort of thing. He says it’s stuff like this that some lawyer uses to get a guy off who’s guilty as hell. You know that. Let’s go get a warrant. It won’t take all that long.”

“A warrant?” Reardon was testing the keys, one by one, selecting the ones that were of the same make as the lock. “I’ve heard tell of those. A piece of paper, aren’t they? With a lot of writing on them? I mean, printing?” He tried the next key in line; the lock turned easily. He withdrew the key and eased the door open, looking back over his shoulder. “Are you coming? Be my guest.”

“But suppose he comes back?”

“What do you mean, suppose he comes back? What do you think we came here for? Breakfast? If he comes back, marvelous! If he doesn’t come back, I’ll get somebody to sit here and wait for him until he does come back!” He shook his head in amazement, looking at the husky sergeant. “What a question! I think love has addled your brains. What if he comes back!”

He walked into the apartment. Dondero followed, chastened into silence, closing the door behind him. There was a slightly musty smell to the place, as if the windows had been closed too long. Still, Reardon admitted, with the rain and fog, who wanted to open windows? He looked about the room. It was scantily provided with cheap plywood furniture upholstered in colorful and durable plastic, the few prints on the dun-colored walls were in dime-store black wooden frames, the rug was no thicker than a crepe suzette; everything clearly advertised the apartment as being rented furnished. Reardon grimaced at the decor and turned to Dondero.

“You take the kitchen and in here. I’ll take the bedroom and bath.”

“What are we looking for?”

“How should I know? Look for anything that ties in with Cooke, or with ships, or with” — he shrugged — “with murder, if that makes any sense. Look for anything out of the ordinary.”

“Right.”

Dondero didn’t sound happy about being in a private residence without a search warrant, but he knew better than to argue at this stage. He also knew that Lieutenant Jim Reardon took his chances, but he also took his own raps. He walked into the kitchen while Reardon headed for the bedroom. A quart of milk stood on the kitchen table together with an empty bowl and a box of breakfast cereal. He opened the refrigerator, studying the contents when he heard his superior’s voice raised urgently.

“Don!”

Dondero closed the refrigerator and came hurrying into the dingy hallway to the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway, looking around, fully expecting a corpse, at the least. The room looked normal enough to him.

“What’s the matter?”

Reardon didn’t even bother to answer; he merely waved his hand around. Dondero took a second look and instantly understood.

“He’s skipped!”

“It looks like it.”

The dresser drawers were open and empty except for some shelf paper some tenant sometime in the distant past had used for lining. The closet pole was bare, denuded of suits or even hangers, although a few wire hangers were on the floor. Reardon looked around a few minutes and then walked back to the hallway and went into the bathroom. The medicine chest door was open; the glass shelves within were also empty. Reardon sighed. Dondero walked farther into the room, bent down, and picked something out of the wastebasket.

“Jim — look here.” He held an empty cardboard box. Reardon took it.

“They’re 44s. So he’s armed. Great.”

He left the bathroom, walking to the kitchen. He opened a door or two to the kitchen cabinets and shook his head. Other than a few cans of food and some plastic dishes, they exhibited nothing unexpected. The refrigerator had a plastic bag full of ice cubes, a cucumber, three bottles of some sort of soft drink, and that was all. Reardon slammed the door shut.

“But why would he skip?” Dondero was frowning at him. “He’s supposed to be in court tomorrow!”

“I hope nobody holds their breath until he gets there.” Reardon’s voice was scathing in his self-blame. “He skipped because I had to be a big brain and a big shot and ask Merkel to get us a continuance — as if that made the slightest goddamn difference! Crocker knew damned well something was fishy when I did that; he had the deal figured out just right. He should have been released at once; that’s why he didn’t bother having a lawyer with him in court. A lawyer might make the court look at something twice. He figured to walk out the door free and clear, and when Merkel asked for an extension — and got it — he knew it wasn’t normal. So he figured he’d slipped up somewhere. He didn’t know where, but I have a feeling prudence is a large part of Mr. Crocker’s make-up. So he simply blew.”

“But what could you have done?”

“I should have let him walk out with a lecture by the judge. He would still have been liable for a murder charge when I had the goods on him. And he would still be around in the meantime. But, no! I had to ask for a continuance!”

Dondero knew better than to commiserate with Jim Reardon at a time like this. The best thing to do was to change the subject, and he hurried to do it.

“You going to get the technical boys down here?”

“Looking for what? Bedbugs? Cockroaches? Secret passageways? I can picture Captain Clark if I did. I can hear him like it was yesterday.” He stalked over to the telephone and raised it, listening. “Well, at least he skipped out on a phone bill too. Thank God.” He dialed a familiar number and waited impatiently. The phone was answered almost at once.

“San Francisco Police Department. Sergeant Holland speaking.”

“Bill? This is Jim Reardon. I want to put out an all-points on a man named Ralph Crocker. He—” He paused, thinking. “Is Stan Lundahl there?”

“One moment, Lieutenant.” There was a brief pause; Reardon could see the sergeant’s finger going down the assignment list. “Yes, sir. He should be in the building somewheres.”

“Fine. He can give you a detailed description of the man.”

“Yes, sir. What’s this man wanted for?”

“Murder. Hell probably be using either public transportation or taxis. Or he may be across the bay by now halfway to Seattle, because we don’t know when he blew. Get hold of the taxi dispatchers and see if any of the drivers in town remember him. You can check the airport too. He should be carrying at least one suitcase, maybe two. I’m at his apartment and I’m going to talk to the superintendent and the neighbors. They may have some ideas, but I doubt it.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant didn’t hang up, a sign he had something further to add. There was a moment’s pause as he apparently asked someone to contact Lundahl; then he went on. “Lieutenant — Morrison down in the garage has been trying to get hold of you for the last couple of minutes. He rang your office and then us—”

“Switch me over to him.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a click and another telephone began to ring. It rang for a full minute before it was finally answered.

“Yeah?”

“Morrison? This is Lieutenant Reardon. You wanted me?”

“I sure did, Lieutenant. That character’s been giving me a real hard time. He’s got some sort of paper, but I’m no lawyer. It looks like one of them forms you buy in a stationery store; legal-looking and all that, but I don’t know. I’d feel a lot better if you come downstairs and give it your personal okay.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“About this character,” Morrison said, his tone of voice clearly expecting to be understood. He remembered something else, and disappointment entered his voice. “And another thing, he don’t want to sell the car under no circumstances. I told him about the transmission seal, but he couldn’t care less. He just wants to drive it away, and he’s got this paper—”

Reardon finally woke up. “Morrison! Is there a man there trying to take out that Buick?”

“That’s what I been trying to tell you, Lieutenant,” Morrison said, deservedly aggrieved. “He’s got this here paper—”

“Keep quiet! Listen! That’s Ralph Crocker; that man is wanted for murder. There’s an all-points out on him. Grab him and hang onto him. I’m not in the building, but I’ll be there in damned few minutes!”

He hung up and moved swiftly to the door. Dondero, who had heard and understood, was ahead of him, holding the door open. They forewent the elevator in favor of speed and clattered down the bare staircase, pivoting around the landings and the floor areas, hitting the first floor on the double, bursting through the lobby doors into the street. Behind them the mailman paused in his labors and frowned a moment before returning to feeding “Resident” envelopes to the poor inhabitants of the building. Whatever had those hard-looking characters running, he wanted no part of it.

Reardon was at the wheel and had the engine roaring in seconds; the car left the curb with an impulsive leap as Dondero slammed the door behind him and leaned forward, bracing himself with his huge hands against the padded dashboard, prepared for anything.

They shot down Harrison at full speed, not speaking to each other. The high beams were on, a warning signal in the dark mistiness of the day; both of Reardon’s thick thumbs pressed tightly on the horn ring even as his strong hands handled the wildly twisting wheel, flashing past stop lights with no regard for cross traffic, blaring the klaxon in warning, swerving past slower traffic, urging more speed from the car. He swung into Seventh, going contrary to the one-way traffic, nearly hitting a Greyhound bus, skidding past it into the entrance to the police garage, sluing to a stop blocking the ramp, the tires squealing in protest. Dondreo opened his eyes, sweating, and got down from the car a split second after his superior.

The two men ran down the ramp, guns in hand.

“Don — you take this aisle! I’ll take the other one.”

They separated and pounded down the broad spaces separating the neat rows of parked cars, dashing toward the highly lighted area in front of the garage office. Even as he ran Reardon knew something was wrong. Their noisy entrance had evoked no response of any kind. He passed the spot where the Buick had stood the afternoon before. It was empty; only a glistening pool of oil marked where it had stood. Reardon kept running toward the office area, arriving just as Dondero came in from the other aisle. The two men paused, panting, catching their breath, staring at Morrison sprawled on the oil-stained concrete, his head looking oddly lumpy with blood edging from it. A stained wrench lay beside him.

Reardon drew several deep breaths to steady his voice.

“Don, you get help for Morrison. And then wait to hear from me. Stay in Communications.”

He turned and ran back the way he came, stowing his revolver in his belt holster as he ran, cursing the luck that had permitted Crocker to hit the garage when nobody but Morrison was around. An automobile horn echoed hollowly from the garage entrance, blaring its protest against the blockage of the passageway by the Charger. Reardon trotted up the ramp, catching his breath, passing the Charger to see who wanted to get in. It was a ten-car from Southern, with a sergeant named Pilcher at the wheel. Beside him sat a cadet. Reardon knew Pilcher and liked him. Luck, he thought, and about time too! He paused at the side of the patrol car, drawing in deep draughts of air, finally getting control of his speaking.

“Sergeant, is your car in good order?”

“Yes, sir.” Pilcher understood the reason for the question. “I’m here because we’re to check out at eleven this morning.”

“Well, today you’re in for overtime,” Reardon said decisively, and opened the door beside the young cadet. “Out. The keys are in the Charger; park it in the lot.” He took the youngster’s place in the front seat, closing the door behind him, reaching for the microphone, pressing the button on it. “Hello? Communications? This is Lieutenant Reardon. I’m at the entrance to the police garage in the Hall of Justice. I’m in Southern Six; it’s a ten-car with Sergeant Pilcher. This Crocker — the one we just put an all-points on — just attacked Morrison and took his car out of the garage. It’s a black Buick, 1940. Repeat, 1940. He can’t be far away. I want you to advise all patrol cars near here to start closing in on this area, and have them call me direct with their positions. Clear?”

“Clear. Even the ones out-of-service?”

“Unless it’s more important than murder,” Reardon said dryly.

“How about the bike men? They only have two-way; you’ll have to handle them through us.”

“Good enough.”

“The footmen call in every two hours, you know; the foot sergeants every hour. We can give them the description too.”

“You can, but a footman, by the time he calls in — Crocker will be long gone from there. I’m cutting off. Let the cars call me direct.”

“Right.”

Pilcher looked across at him. He was a gray-haired man in his fifties with steady blue eyes and hands on the wheel like hams. He had six citations and Reardon knew he had been lucky to run into him. Pilcher studied the younger man. “Where to, Lieutenant?”

“No place for now. Let’s wait around until we start getting some calls.”

There was a small burst of static from the speaker; a disembodied voice came on.

“Lieutenant? This is Potrero Four. We’re on Carroll. Parked.”

Reardon closed his eyes, picturing the streets, making a map of them in his mind. His eyes opened. “Start this way. Call again when you get near Army.”

“Right.”

“Lieutenant? Mission Three. We’re at Hawthorne and Folsom.”

“What are you doing there? That’s not your district.”

“Liquor store heist. We were the closest. We’re free now.”

“Stay there.” He made up his mind. “Calling Potrero Four.”

“Here, Lieutenant.”

“From Army start zigzagging. Over Connecticut, up Twenty-Fifth, over Carolina, up Twenty-Second, and all the way over to Mariposa that way. Then hit the main streets. We’re looking for a 1940 Buick, black, with one man in it. Keep your eyes open.”

“Right.”

“Jim? This is Sergeant Johns. I’m in Potrero Eight. I’m at the China Basin.”

“Good! Did you hear what I told Potrero Four?”

“I heard.”

“Then you fill in what he has to miss. I know you can’t hit it all by a mile, but we have to try. Mission Three?”

“Here.”

“You start zigzagging too. Come up Folsom to Fourth, over Fourth to Harrison, up Harrison to Fifth, Fifth to Bryant, and keep that up. But I’m sure he’s a long way from here right now, unless he’s hit a flock of red lights.”

“Southern Two here, Lieutenant. Embarcadero at Mission.”

“Southern Two — stay there and keep your eyes open. That’s a good spot to see five or six streets. You hear what we’re looking for?”

“Yes, sir. We had it before from Communications.”

“Good. Communications — are you on?”

“We’re here, Lieutenant.”

“How about the Highway Patrol? On the freeways?”

“They were number one we contacted, Lieutenant. Then the bridge police.”

“Good.”

“Highway Patrol car Sixty-Five.” Even over the impersonal sameness imposed by the speaker system the voice was speaking quickly and with the tenseness of important news. “We’re on the 101 Freeway, heading south. A black car just passed us heading the other way. Man with me knows cars, says it’s a Buick either 1939 or 1940. One man driving.”

Reardon realized the car might or might not be the one he wanted, but he knew he’d have to take a chance.

“He could go almost anywhere from there. If the bridge police get him, fine, but he’ll think of that. Mission Three, where’s the nearest exit from the Freeway from where you are now?”

“First Street. We’ll get over there and cover.”

“Good. Everyone else keep on with what you’re doing.” He turned to Pilcher. “Let’s go. Get on the Freeway, open up the siren, and let’s see how fast we can get to the end of it.” He returned to the microphone. “Communications, who do you have who can take the exits from the Embarcadero Freeway?”

“Southern Two is the closest.”

“I want them to stay where they are. Who else?”

“Central Seven is at California and Powell. That’s too far.” There was a brief hesitation. “I’ll see what I can do with the bike men.”

“Good.”

Pilcher had taken the patrol car up Bryant against the traffic, his siren beginning to howl. He had to cut sharply to make the Skyway entrance; he mounted the ramp with increasing speed, cutting into traffic at the upper level without slackening speed, raising the shrill whine of the siren higher, shooting past cars that automatically pulled to one side, slowing down. Reardon returned to the microphone.

“Communications: get as many patrol cars and bikes on the north side of Market going down the main streets toward the bay: Stockton, Powell, even Van Ness. He might manage to get that far west if we don’t spot him before. Tell them to keep their eyes open. Mission Three, anything new?”

“If he came down here, we missed him, Lieutenant.”

“Then start scouring the area down to the bay. Southern Two, stay where you are until you hear us pass. We’ve got the siren on full.”

“We can hear you now.”

“Once we pass, head for the Washington exit from the Freeway. We’ll take the Broadway exit. And everyone listening, don’t just look for moving cars — he may have parked someplace, nosed into the curb, or even a parking lot. It would be easy enough to spot if you were looking for it, and easy enough to miss if you weren’t.”

“We’ll pass the word.” That was Communications.

“Good.” Reardon lowered the microphone, staring ahead through the windshield. Pilcher was an excellent driver, and Reardon knew good driving from his own experience. The sergeant spoke from the corner of his mouth without taking his eyes from the wet road.

“Up Broadway or down Sansome when we get off at the end?”

“Take Broadway.” He raised the microphone. “Southern Two, start down Sansome after we pass Washington.”

“Right, Lieutenant.”

Reardon realized trying to spot a moving car in a city the size of San Francisco with only a few patrol cars on the watch, was almost impossible; not for the first time he wished walkie-talkies were in use for the footmen. He stared at the cars they were rapidly passing, automatically checking them and dropping them even as he tried to calculate where the Buick might have gone to. They curved into the final stretch of the Freeway, shooting past the old Ferry Building, curved with the roadway once again, and then dropped like a plummet toward the street. Pilcher had the brakes on, barely pausing at the bottom of the ramp, and in the same instant started up again, heading up Broadway toward the tunnel. Reardon reached over and cut the siren; Pilcher responded by reducing his speed to match the normal traffic. In the fog and mist of the morning the tawdry strip joints and topless bars looked even less appetizing than usual. They drew up at a red light, the engine panting to be off.

Reardon frowned unhappily. Somehow the Buick had managed to escape the confines of the Freeway; now it had half the city to hide in. It had begun to drizzle again; Pilcher started the windshield wipers going. They clicked softly and hypnotically. Reardon ran his window up and stared ahead, his eyes moving from one side of the street to the other, looking at the parked cars. There was a sudden burst of static from the speaker, followed by a voice.

“Lieutenant!”

The microphone was raised instantly. “Yes?”

“Southern Two. I think we have him, or anyway the one that was on the Freeway, probably. We’re on Sansome; he’s ahead of us heading for the Embarcadero. I’m putting on the siren.”

“Right.” He lifted his head to Pilcher. “Let’s get over there as fast as we can!”

“He’s turning into the Embarcadero, Lieutenant. It’s got to be him or somebody else with a guilty conscience, because he knows we’re after him and he’s pouring on the coal. That bastard can move too!”

“Stay with him!” Reardon felt the old feeling of triumph return. No innocent driver of an old Buick — or any other car — would be running from a police car. His eyes came up from the microphone. “Take Columbus. We’ll cut him off down below.”

Pilcher swung the car even as the Lieutenant spoke. His hand moved to the dashboard; the siren came on again, drowning out the rhythmic clicking of the windshield wipers. Below them the bay was covered with fog; it crept partially up the hill they were on, dissipating itself in the light rain that was falling. The pavement glistened beneath them, treacherous, waiting for the slightest mistake on the part of the driver. Pilcher’s face was a mask, his blue eyes icy. He stepped on the gas, taking the diagonal street faster than he wished, but determined not to slow down.

Southern Two came back on. “That idiot will get us all killed! It’s slippery as hell here.” The disembodied voice sounded almost admiring. “He can travel, but we’re gaining.”

Reardon leaned forward as if to help the patrol car’s speed. They shot through the triangular intersections with their siren clearing the slower traffic to one side, weaving about cars who paid the warning little or no attention.

“He’s turning into Bay. I might get a shot at his tires. We’re only a couple of blocks back of him now.”

“No shooting! Not in the city! You’d ricochet and kill somebody!”

“Right.”

Pilcher swayed violently as the patrol car shot around a cable car turning into Columbus from Mason. The faintest sheen of sweat touched his forehead. Reardon swallowed and then peered ahead.

“We’ve got him now.” His voice was taut. Bay Street lay only four blocks below them. He raised the microphone. “We’re on Columbus crossing Lombard. We’re going to try and cut him off at Bay.”

“Right.”

Reardon put the microphone in place and glanced at Pilcher. “When we get there, block the road.” Pilcher’s leathery face revealed nothing; he merely nodded. Reardon looked at him a moment in silence. “And when we do, be ready to jump.”

“Yes, sir.” No muscle moved in his face.

Reardon brought his eyes back to the road. One hand grasped the door handle for instant action; the other braced itself against the dashboard. His heart began to beat more rapidly, adrenaline induced. Below them Bay Street rushed toward them out of the fog...