Reardon

Chapter 15

Thursday — 6:15 P.M.

“You should have been there,” Dondero told the girls, grinning. He was leaning back on the couch in Reardon’s apartment, one arm lightly about Penny’s shoulders, a martini in his other hand, his dark eyes twinkling. He laughed aloud. “You know Clark, don’t you?”

Jan sipped and nodded. She was curled up in a chair across from the other two, her feet tucked beneath her, her shoes lined up neatly on the floor beside the chair. “Captain Clark? I’ve met him.”

“Well,” Dondero said, “you should have seen his face when Stan and I walked in with that bag of stones from the gas tank! He was supposed to have had the car searched, but what a search! The old man didn’t say anything — he wouldn’t in front of other people, especially not lowly types like sergeants — but I know him. It all went down in that little black book he carries in his head.” His grin widened; it was apparent that Clark was not his favorite captain in the Hall of Justice. “And the beauty of it is that Clark can’t even raise hell with the squad. The old man’s going to be watching him, and he knows it. If he tries to pass the buck down the line—”

He paused, stuck with the choice of removing his arm from Penny’s shoulders or setting down his drink. He elected to set the drink down a moment, long enough to draw his forefinger across his throat, and then picked his glass up again. Penny smiled at him, grateful for his choice of hands in his demonstration.

Reardon came in from the kitchen carrying another Mason jar of martinis. Jan looked at him with affection; she glanced at Dondero.

“You mean my boy is a hero?”

Her hero smiled down at her.

“They may even give me my own wastebasket. A private key to the men’s room isn’t beyond the possibilities. Heavens; my name may even be in the newspapers, delivered every morning with the milk.”

He paused, his grin fading abruptly. Jan saw the sharp change of expression.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs, and began replenishing their glasses from the jar, decanting with care. He waited until his chore was finished before continuing. “Something just crossed my mind and then disappeared again.”

“No!” Dondero shook his head with mock despair and then explained for the benefit of the girls. “Lieutenant Reardon’s subconscious works overtime. It won’t let him go until he remembers something he’s forgotten. And in the meantime we all suffer.” He grinned up at Reardon. “Jim, why don’t you take Harry Lorayne’s memory course?”

“Well,” Reardon said with a grin, “it worked once. I thought it might work again. But we won’t bother with it tonight. Tonight is for celebration — mad, drunken, orgy celebration.”

“Unless you have a meeting you’ve forgotten.” Jan smiled at him. “Is that what your brain is trying to tell you?”

“Not this time. And if it is, I’m purposely forgetting. Where would you girls like to eat as a start to the evening?”

There was a moment’s pause; then the two girls spoke at the same time.

“I never did get to eat sukiyaki Tuesday night—” They stopped together and looked at each other in surprise. Jan laughed; Penny smiled. “It looks like Little Tokyo,” Jan said.

“Which is fine with me,” Dondero said. “I didn’t get to eat at all that night. Because a cold cheese sandwich is not my idea of eating.”

“Little Tokyo it is. Drink up and we can get started. I’ll go in and change my shirt.” Reardon raised his glass as if in a toast. “That is, if I’ve got a clean shirt.”

He finished his drink with one swallow, winked at Jan and walked into the bedroom. He opened the dresser drawer and pulled out his last clean shirt, making a mental note to get to the laundry and pick up the batch he had there, and making a second note to remember the first mental note. And speaking of mental notes, what had struck him when he had mentioned having the newspaper delivered with the morning milk. Milk in the refrigerator? There was a bottle there, but so what? What on earth was he trying to remember?

He pulled off his turtleneck sweater and tossed it in the general direction of the closet holding his laundry bag, slipping into the clean shirt, buttoning it, tucking it into his trousers, reaching for a necktie. First it had been newspapers, now it was milk. James Reardon, he said to himself, you are slipping a cog!

Newspapers and milk... Or was it either one? Or both? Will you forget it! he commanded himself sternly. All you’ll do is spoil the evening for the others. He smiled. Maybe you’re thinking of having alexanders instead of martinis — is it possible? It was not; his smile faded. Milk, milk, milk! Why don’t you tie your tie and get down to the Little Tokyo before Mr. Sessue Noguchi runs out of gin and vermouth, Buddha forbid! He grinned and flipped the necktie over itself, feeding it back through the formed loop, drawing it tight.

Newspapers and milk... It sounded like a song title, the kind you heard at the hungry i. Newspapers and milk, satins and silk, and a one-way ticket to the psychiatric ward at San Francisco General. He started to grin again and then stopped short, frowning. Newspapers and milk? In hallways, waiting delivery! And when they were running down the corridor at Crocker’s apartment building, there were bottles in front of some of the doors, but his bottle was on the table, together with breakfast cereal. So what?

He dropped on the bed, frowning fiercely at the floor. What was he trying to tell himself? What was the connection? There had to be one, because his subconscious was generally a pretty good subconscious as such things went, not given to annoying him for no reason at all. There had to be a tie-up. What was it?

“Jimmy?” It was Jan, calling from the living room.

“Be there in a second.” He tried to review his thoughts, to marshal them into some sort of order, and then sat up straight. The pieces of the puzzle began to click into place, each one moving over to make room for the next; color began to emerge, and form, until the whole pattern lay revealed at last. Of course!

“Jim!”

“One minute, honey.”

He went over it in his mind for a second time, cleaning up small details, answering arguments he could hear from Captain Tower, not to mention the assistant chief. When he had it clear to the last dotted “i” he came to his feet, looked at himself thoughtfully for several seconds, and then walked into the other room, pulling his tie tight about his neck, wiggling it into a comfortable position. Jan looked at him sardonically and reached down, pulling her shoes into position for slipping into.

“And you complain about how long it takes me to dress!” She shook her head. “I thought you were washing and ironing your shirts, the time you took. I was going to offer to help, but I’m an architect, not a useful person.” She came to her feet. “Shall we be on our way? I’m slightly starved.”

Reardon considered her quietly.

“I’m afraid there’s going to be a slight change in plans.” His voice was without expression.

Jan studied his face a moment and decided not to argue. Instead, she dropped back into her chair, pulling her feet from her shoes, wriggling her toes. Penny had also started to rise; she sank back as well. Dondero stared at the lieutenant and then nodded in certain conviction.

“The subconscious has spoken!” He bowed, hands spread wide, and then straightened up, reaching for the Mason jar. He eyed its emptiness dolefully and put it back. “All right, Swami. Let’s get the seance over and go out to eat.”

“Fair enough.” Reardon went into the kitchen and came back with a full bottle of gin. “No vermouth, no ice. No time.”

“No martinis,” Dondero said equably. “No fish, no rice—”

He poured himself a drink and offered the bottle to the girls; they both refused. He placed the bottle on the floor and leaned back, prepared for another lecture from Lieutenant Reardon. The red-haired detective was standing at the low bookcase against one wall, leaning on it, putting his thoughts in order. The others waited patiently, with Dondero sipping straight gin with sudden appreciation for the potentialities of vermouthless martinis. At last Reardon looked up.

“Don — do you remember Crocker’s apartment this morning?”

Dondero nodded deeply and slowly, sipping his drink.

“Do you remember the milk we found on the kitchen table?”

“I found.” Dondero wanted things straight for the record.

“Do you remember milk bottles in the hall in front of some apartments? But not in front of his?”

“I don’t remember, but I’ll take your word for it.” He looked at the lieutenant. “Why?”

“Now,” Reardon said, not answering the other’s question, but fixing his eyes, “if Crocker took a powder as a result of my — or Merkel’s — asking for a continuance of his case, you’d think he’d take it right then. Or within the time it took him to realize the potential danger he was in. Wouldn’t you?”

Dondero considered it. He nodded. “Yes, I suppose so. Why?”

“Would you expect him to wait until the following day to figure out he’d better be on his way, because obviously we were looking for something to hang him with?”

“I suppose not. I know I wouldn’t.”

“And neither would I. Yet that’s exactly what he did. That milk shows he was there that morning, and that seems silly under the circumstances. And another thing — and an important one. He also waited until this morning to make his try for the Buick, yet he must have known it was far less dangerous trying for the car at night, when there isn’t a full complement of people in the Hall. Actually, at night quite often, when the night attendant steps out, the garage is completely unattended. Yet he waited until this morning to make his play.”

The girls were watching Reardon with curious frowns on their faces. Dondero summed it up for everyone.

“What are you trying to say? That the guy was a nut?”

“He was far from a nut. I’m just saying he didn’t leave because we asked for a continuance. That was my first thought, but I was wrong. No; he was all prepared to turn up in court tomorrow, convinced that nobody was after him. He fully expected to be released routinely, take his precious Buick, and be on his merry way.”

“So why didn’t he?”

“Because something made him change his mind.”

“But, what?”

Reardon turned to Penny.

“It was your telephone call to him, wasn’t it? It had to be, because you were there when Don and I were discussing it. You were the only one who knew what we had found and knew we were going there to take him in. You and Smokey, and I trust him. There’s no point in denying it, because a call from your number to his can be traced easily enough, knowing the time it was made.”

It wasn’t the truth, but Reardon was fairly sure that Penny Wilkinson wouldn’t know that fact. All color had disappeared from her face; her strong hands were locked on her empty martini glass so tightly they might have crushed the fragile glass. Dondero removed his arm from her shoulder, but only so he could turn and watch her better. One look at her face and whatever denial he had been preparing in her defense died on his lips. Jan sat in shocked silence, unbelieving.

“Actually, you had more than your share of luck,” Reardon said seriously, “because you made more than your share of mistakes.” His voice was quiet, noncommittal. He seemed to be trying to accustom both Dondero and Jan to the idea of the girl’s guilt. “You called him ‘Rolf’ when we were talking after we left the morgue the night before last. You said, ‘What will they do to this man Rolf?’ I thought you made a mistake in his name, except when we find his passport the name on it — the last name — is Rolf. Coincidence? Maybe. But I’ll bet when we take a look at your passport we’ll find a visa in it for Brazil, dated the same time that Rolf’s was.”

She was watching him, half hypnotized. Reardon went on calmly.

“And if you’ve hidden your passport, or figure to destroy it when you get the chance, forget it. Your ownership can be established through the State Department, and the visa is easy enough to verify through the Brazilian consulate. Application, photographs, signature — the works.” He paused, looking Penny in the eye without expression. “Do you want to tell us about it?”

Penny Wilkinson sat motionless, frozen, her large liquid eyes fixed on Reardon’s politely querying face. Her mouth was pressed tightly closed, her face bloodless, her knuckles white on the empty glass.

“All right,” Reardon said equably. “Let’s go on. When I first told you about the accident I said it happened at Indiana and Eighteenth. You know San Francisco, you live here. You knew it was miles in the wrong direction from Pier 26 where you docked, but you never mentioned that fact. Why not? I’ll tell you why not — because you could see I didn’t know where the ship was docked, and you hoped nobody would ever note the discrepancy. Because if someone did, it would make Crocker’s story look fishy, and that’s the last thing you wanted. Well?”

Penny continued to stare at him as if in a trance.

“All right,” Reardon said. “You don’t have to say a word. In fact, when we take you in, all your rights will be explained to you. But just so you know where you stand, let me tell you what you did, and how easy it will be to prove: You picked the stones up abroad, not Cooke. Where you picked them up won’t be hard to find out, because Interpol have experts on precious stones who will recognize those sapphires if they were stolen or spot where they came from very closely if they weren’t. Even if they weren’t stolen, it won’t affect your responsibility in Cooke’s death, and maybe even for Crocker’s death—”

For the first time Penny made a sound. Her breath was drawn in sharply; she gave a little cry. Her eyes widened more. Reardon stared at her.

“You didn’t know?”

She shook her head wordlessly, tears forming in her eyes, flooding them. Jan spoke up suddenly, filled to the bottom of her soul with an excess of policemanship.

“Jim! Don’t you know when a person is telling the truth? Or isn’t it important to you any more?”

“It’s important, but I also know there are some fine actors in this world, and Penny and Crocker are — or were — among the best. And a man named Bob Cooke is dead as a result. So save your sympathy for him.” He turned back to the girl. “Your boy friend tried to kill a few more people today when he panicked after your call. He tried to club a garage attendant to death, and then tried to run away in a speedboat in this fog. A railroad barge ran him down. He’s down in the morgue where Bob Cooke was. That was the net result of your telephone call after Don and I left your place this morning, if that pleases you.”

Jan’s voice was pleading. “Jim!”

“All right,” Reardon said heavily, still staring at Penny. “Let me finish my story — maybe it’ll help your lawyer plan your defense. Then everybody can be happy — except Bob Cooke, of course. You picked up the stones. The ship’s shop is closed in port by law, and you’re free, while Cooke often had to work. But while there was an advantage in being free in port outside of this country, the opposite was true when you got back here. Customs abroad — or even here — seldom bother passengers taking things out of a country. Many ports don’t even have Customs officials posted for people boarding ships. But bringing things into a country is a different story. Passengers and crew that leave the ship when it first docks, go through Customs rather vigorously, particularly in a port such as San Francisco where a campaign is on against smuggling—”

The thought crossed his mind how proud Captain Tower would be to hear he’d paid some attention to the lecture the other night before escaping. He came back to his story.

“So you needed someone who could carry the stones off for you. When Jan and I were watching you through binoculars when you first came into the bay, Jan thought you were slipping something to a deck officer, or else holding hands. We made a big joke out of it. But you probably were slipping him something — the stones. Because he worked later, and by the time he left the ship most of the Customs people had quit work, if not all of them. Ship’s officers, even dressed in civvies, usually walk off a ship without any trouble; the ones who live aboard during a port stay go back and forth without the slightest inconvenience, especially since they have no luggage. So Bob Cooke was your perfect sucker. He’d probably been after you for a date for a long time; with your looks it wouldn’t be very hard to handle him.”

Penny’s eyes broke from his; she stared down at her shoes. Dondero spoke at last, his eyes on her face, pain in his eyes. He was studying her beauty, but addressing his words to Reardon.

“I’ll take her in, Jim. I’ll take your car. You and Jan can use Jan’s. You go ahead with your date.”

“We’ll both take her—” Reardon stopped abruptly. He nodded. “All right, Don. The charges are smuggling and accessory to murder. You can have her held on an open charge until you get a warrant. You know how to handle it as well as I do.”

“Probably better. I’ve probably put the arm on more people in my time.” Dondero came to his feet, taking Penny by the arm gently, helping her to her feet. She rose like an automaton. “Penny?” She looked at him blindly. “Penny, let’s go.”

They left the room without a backward glance. There was silence for a few moments and then the sound of the street door being opened and closed. Reardon studied Jan’s face a minute. He walked over, bending down, picking the gin bottle up. He poured himself a drink. His eyes came up to Jan’s; she shook her head in misery. He started to put the bottle on the table when she spoke.

“Jim—”

He looked at her. She was holding out her glass, her face still unforgiving for his having had Penny arrested. Reardon sighed and poured her a drink. She took it in two quick gulps and looked at him somberly. The empty glass dangled from her fingers.

“Jim—”

“Yes?”

“I... I don’t want to stay here overnight...”

“All right.”

She bit her lip. “And I don’t think I want to eat at the Little Tokyo tonight, either.”

Reardon kept his voice equally grave. “All right. In fact, I know a better place to eat. If we aren’t too late. I’ll have to make a call though—”

He put down his glass and walked into the bedroom, picking up the telephone.