Reardon

Chapter 5

Tuesday — 11:45 P.M.

Lieutenant James Reardon buttoned his jacket and started down the hall, glad to finally be on his way home, glad the evening was finally finished, glad that Captain Tower had made the decision to have Crocker sent home, and also glad that Crocker and his hopeless, helpless “It wasn’t my fault, it was an accident” was finally out of his hair. If he got called to Municipal Court the following afternoon as a witness, it would be his own fault. He’d have to go, of course, which was a cramp in the elbow, but he’d have no one to blame but himself.

He frowned, remembering Captain Tower’s words. Was it possible he had subconsciously tried to make a homicide case out of a simple accident just to justify his interference? If so, it was pretty sad. He knew men who had done things like that, but he didn’t respect them, and he had always thought of himself as being far too good a cop for anything like that. And if he had, of course, he owed Crocker an apology. It was a tough rap having some character step off the curb in front of you without having some hard-nosed cop try to make a patsy out of you for no good reason. Besides, Reardon thought, there but for the grace of God goes Lieutenant Jimmy Reardon. I certainly handle a car faster than fifteen or twenty miles an hour, and my mind isn’t always on what I’m doing or where I’m going. I’d hate like hell to have been coming down Indiana Street tonight, just at that exact moment!

He came down the corridor leading past Room 454, Missing Persons, and then suddenly had to sidestep as the door to the Bureau swung back and a girl emerged without looking, almost bumping into him. She looked worried, preoccupied, and his first reaction was automatically to apologize even though none of the fault was his. Then he stopped, a big smile crossing his face. The girl he had nearly collided with was his beautiful stewardess friend from the ocean liner that afternoon. She had changed her uniform for an evening dress, and she carried a small white beaded bag in her gloved hands, but her face and figure were as fascinating as ever.

“Well, well!” Reardon said. “Hello, there!”

Somehow his having studied her so intently through the binoculars only a few hours ago seemed to him to constitute an introduction of sorts, though he was honest enough to recognize she might not feel the same way about it. And he was sure the “competition” Jan had mentioned almost certainly would take a different attitude.

The young lady stared at him a moment without seeing him, and then frowned as she realized a complete stranger was addressing her. True, he was an interesting-looking stranger, but still a stranger. The look she gave him stated quite clearly that she had met fresh men before and undoubtedly would again, but only an idiot would try a pass in the Hall of Justice where, presumably, one call would have him under lock and key. She turned, a look of disdain on her face, and marched down the corridor in the direction of the elevators. For a moment Reardon thought to follow her and explain, but instead he allowed his curiosity to take him into the Bureau.

There was a lieutenant standing back of the counter, searching in a typewriter desk drawer for something. He looked up as the door opened, and his look of irritation changed to a grin.

“Hello, Jimmy,” he said and gave a wink. “You should have seen what was just in here. Wow! Meat!”

“I saw her,” Reardon said and smiled back. “How did she get under the rope downstairs? I thought anyone after 6 P.M. got sent to Southern Police Station automatically?”

“The man on the desk downstairs knew I was working. And I guess if she just smiled at him, he’d have let her into the chief’s safe.”

“What did she lose?”

“A boy friend. He stood her up on a date.” The lieutenant shrugged. “It takes all kinds, I guess. A guy has to be like out of his head to stand that up, is all I can say.”

“When did she lose him?”

“That’s the reason I’m not getting overly excited,” the lieutenant said. “He’s a couple of hours late for a date they had, and already she’s worrying. She’s called four hospitals before she come in, she said. True,” he added, wanting to be fair, “any guy shows up late for a date with that piece, he’s got to be missing something, like his brains at the very least. What probably happened, he stopped in a bar someplace for a quick one, had a couple, and forgot the time.”

“It’s possible.”

“Or else his wife wouldn’t let him out,” the lieutenant said with a grin.

“That’s possible, too, I suppose. What’s her name?”

“Penny Wilkinson. What a name, Penny! She looks more like one million bucks to me. Here’s the whole bit, Jim.” The lieutenant grinned and swung the report around so Reardon could read it. “It also has her address and telephone number, if that could be of the slightest interest to you. I hear you had a slight scrap with your own girl tonight...”

Reardon stared at him. “Man! Word certainly gets around in a hurry! Our intelligence should be so good in police work!”

“Yeah,” the lieutenant said and winked. “I also heard you got tired of Homicide and asked for a transfer to Captain Clark.”

Reardon laughed. “No; he asked for me. I’m still considering it.” He looked down at the form. “What was the guy’s name?”

The lieutenant’s thick finger pointed. “Cooke. Bob Cooke. Works with her on the ships. A deck officer.”

Reardon started reading the form, muttering the missing man’s description under his breath. “Cooke. Age twenty-eight. Height — she thinks — about five feet eleven. Weight one hundred seventy-five—”

“She was sure about that,” the lieutenant said. “Seen him on a scale.” He grinned. “I wonder where?”

Reardon kept going. “Hair, dark brown. Eyes, dark brown. Distinguishing marks—” He straightened up, frowning. “Scar on upper lip from shipboard accident, partially covered with mustache, dark brown...” He looked up. “Jesus Christ!”

“What’s the matter?”

“That’s that accident case we just picked up!”

The lieutenant lost his humor. His hand went out to the telephone, instantly all business, preparing to dial. “Which hospital?”

“Our own,” Reardon said flatly. “Downstairs!”

He hurried from the room, trotting down the corridor, punching the elevator button fiercely. To his amazement the door swung open almost instantly; he shoved the button for the first floor and stood waiting at the door. As soon as it opened he trotted across the lobby and ducked under the ropes, looking at the patrolman on duty at the information desk.

“Where did she go?”

“The girl just came down? Outside.” The patrolman pointed to the front doors.

Reardon ran down the steps and looked in both directions. About a block down Bryant he saw a girl getting into a cab; at that distance and in that light he couldn’t be sure it was his quarry, but there was no sign of anyone else in the immediate vicinity. He started to shout, realized the futility of it, and ran to his car.

He climbed in hurriedly, putting the key into the ignition and twisting it even as he slammed the door and turned the wheel to clear the car ahead. He cut into the street with the blare of startled horns from other traffic, starting in pursuit of the taxi. The cab pulled into Fifth, heading for Market Street and the brighter lights there. Reardon put on a burst of speed, flashing his high beams up and down, pressing one hand insistently on the horn. Other traffic gave way until he was behind the cab; inside the car ahead he could see the driver tilt his head backward, obviously saying something to his passenger. Whatever she said in reply only made the driver speed up. Not for the first time Reardon wished he was driving a patrol car with a flasher beacon and a siren.

They both crossed Tahama and Howard with the light; Reardon waited for a car in the other direction to pass and then jammed down on the accelerator, passing the cab and cutting in sharply. Even as he did so he wondered fleetingly what would have happened if some pedestrian had stepped from the curb as he hit those speeds, and quickly put the thought out of his mind. The taxi squealed to a shuddering halt, its left front fender nudging the Charger, the tires jammed against the curb. The driver came down in a hurry, big, tough, and angry. A short piece of one-inch pipe dangled menacingly from his right hand.

“All right, buster! What are you, some kind of nut?”

“Police,” Reardon said shortly and flashed his wallet. His voice was ice-cold. “And don’t tell me you didn’t know it.”

The driver stopped dead, his tone instantly defensive. The pipe sagged. “How the hell should I know? Anyway I ain’t done nothing.”

“I didn’t say you did. I just want to talk to your passenger.” He opened the taxi door, bending in, relieved to see the girl. “Police, Miss. Do you mind getting out?”

For a brief moment it appeared as if she might refuse, but then she climbed down, angry. And more beautiful because of it, Reardon thought.

“What is this?” She recognized him from the corridor outside of the Missing Persons Bureau, but it didn’t seem to lessen her annoyance. “What do you want?”

“I’ll tell you in my car.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“No, Miss. I’d appreciate it, though, if you’d come with me.”

He handed a bill to the driver without looking at the girl, and then turned back, taking her arm. The fait accompli seemed to work; she allowed him to lead her to the Charger. A crowd had formed on the curb, watching with the hidden hostility of those who know nothing of the matter watching an arrest. They climbed in; he straightened the wheels and pulled away from the curb, turning into Mission, heading back toward the Hall of Justice, his speed reduced as if in apology for his previous mad dash. The girl clasped her purse tightly, her face expressionless.

“All right,” she said. “What is it?”

“You reported a Missing Person.” Reardon kept his voice quiet. “I want you to look at somebody.”

She stared at him disdainfully. “Are you trying to tell me that Bob was picked up for something? That he’s in jail? That’s utterly ridiculous. He’s the last man in the world to get into trouble. If you’re holding him for anything, you’re making a mistake.” The continued lack of expression on Reardon’s face seemed to finally break through her veneer, to cause her some concern. Her voice lost some of its contempt. “Well, tell me! What is he supposed to have done?”

“You’ll see.”

Her disdain returned. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Reardon lapsed into silence, concentrating on his driving. He had turned down Sixth; he reached Harrison, waited for the light, and then turned into it, pulling to the left to swing into the public parking lot behind the Hall of Justice. He drove past the automatic ticket window without taking a ticket, and pulled around, parking for easy exit as was his habit. And if I get a ticket, he thought to himself with an inner smile, I can always tell the judge I’m working in Traffic tonight. He glanced over at the girl and his inner smile vanished. She was sitting forward, as if leaning back in comfort might constitute some sort of betrayal to Bob in his trouble.

Reardon turned off the ignition. For a moment they sat quietly, the two of them, a tableau, while her eyes climbed the smooth walls of the building to dwell on the fifth floor, where a row of lights demonstrated that the city jail was in business twenty-four hours a day whether the other offices were or not. Reardon broke the spell; he opened the door and climbed out. They walked side by side across the parking lot and through the narrow gap facing the covered arcade that led to the rear entrance to the Hall. Suddenly she held back, her eyes staring upward. Her voice was suddenly doubtful.

“Where is Bob? In one of those cells?”

Reardon took her arm but she still held back.

“Has he called a lawyer? He — he doesn’t know any here, you know.”

“He’s not in a cell. And he doesn’t need a lawyer.” He led her along the arcade and then stopped. Her forward progress was halted unevenly; she stumbled and then looked at him in surprise. Her eyes studied his face and then passed it to look at the door to their side. On it were the simple words, “Coroner’s Office.”

The girl’s face blanched; her fists locked themselves convulsively about her beaded bag. Her large eyes came to his face, asking him, begging him, and then hating him for his subterfuge.

“You didn’t say...”

“I want you to look at a man.” He still held her arm, but softly now, protectively. His gray eyes were warm with sympathy. “How do you feel? Do you think you can do it?”

She faced him, pulling her arm away. The blood had left her face, making her appear more Oriental than ever. “You mean a dead man, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Is it — you think it’s Bob Cooke, don’t you?”

“We think so.”

She closed her eyes a moment, swayed, and then recovered before he could steady her. Her eyes opened. “Is he—”

Reardon understood her instinctively. “He isn’t bad to look at.”

“All right.”

He led her into the anteroom. There was a warm rug on the floor and colorful prints on the cream-colored walls, but the sharp odor of formaldehyde destroyed the image. A door instantly opened; an attendant, warned by some inner signal, stood there.

“Lieutenant?”

“We’ll be right with you.”

The door closed behind the white-coated man; the girl looked after him with growing awareness and then abruptly looked around the room. She found a chair and stumbled to it, sinking into it, trembling.

“I think I’m going to faint or get sick,” she said in a little-girl voice.

“I’ll get you some water.” The room boasted a fountain, neatly pastel in color as if to compensate for its location, flanked by a container of paper cups. He filled one and brought it to her. “Drink this.”

She took the paper cup and brought it to her lips, and then retracted it without tasting it. For several moments she stared at the brightly carpeted floor, holding the water as if she didn’t know she had it. Finally she found the strength to question, speaking to the rug.

“You’re not 100 per cent sure, are you?”

“We’re pretty sure from your description. Can you do it?”

“What happened to him?”

“An automobile accident. Over on Indiana and Eighteenth. He was hit and killed. Instantly,” he added. Somehow that word “instantly” seemed to make people feel better, as if it held out the hope of painlessness. “Can you look at him?”

She placed the water to one side and came to her feet.

“Yes,” she said simply, and her eyes came up. “If we do it now and we do it quickly.”

He took her arm again, leading her to a set of swinging doors, opening them, guiding her through. They faced a corridor; he pushed through the first set of double doors to the right. There was an antiseptic whiteness to the tiled walls and floor, as if antisepsis could lessen in the slightest the effect of unabated horror to those unacquainted with the morgue. The glare of fluorescent lights added to the garishness; the odor of formaldehyde here was almost overwhelming, almost as if sprayed in the air to hide other, and more frightful, odors. The attendant rose hastily from a desk as they came through the door, tucking a fountain pen into his white jacket pocket.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“There was an Unknown from an automobile accident on Eighteenth and Indiana. Few hours ago.”

“Yes, sir. That would be D-4.”

The attendant glanced at the girl with the touch of sympathy he automatically reserved for those unfortunate enough to have to come here, but with a bit of curiosity as to her conduct and reaction, as well. He had seen thousands and could not help comparing. He moved to a solid wall of stainless steel drawers; they looked like the file cabinet of some giant. He found D-4 and drew it out, proud of the numbering system he had helped to devise, and prouder yet that the metal box rolled silently, with none of the tortured screeching of metal upon metal that seemed to set relatives’ nerves on edge. He drew back the unbleached sheet covering the form.

The girl forced herself to look down. She bit her lip in a daze.

Reardon touched her arm. “Well?”

“It’s — it’s Bob.”

The drawer was held open one extra second for her verification and then was slid shut on its expertly oiled runners. The attendant had no desire, nor cause, to be needlessly cruel. She stared after the drawer as if still unable to believe what she had just seen. Her eyes, wide and lovely, came up to Reardon’s face.

“What happened to him?”

“I told you.” But she hadn’t listened. How could she possibly have listened? None of those left living ever listened the first time, and often not the second. He made his voice unemotional, reportorial. “There was an automobile accident. Your friend stepped off a curb on a dark street wearing dark clothes, and the driver — a man named Ralph Crocker — didn’t see him. It was one of those things. Either your friend wasn’t looking, or his mind was on something else.” Like a date with you, he couldn’t help thinking.

He was leading her from the room as he spoke. The attendant suddenly appeared in front of them, holding them. His pen had popped into his hand as if by magic, as if he were an autograph seeker, “Lieutenant—” He tilted his head toward the stainless-steel wall behind him. “Is he identified?”

“Cooke. Robert. That’s with a final ‘E.’”

The attendant nodded, satisfied. Reardon took the girl’s arm and led her from the building. She came quietly, submissive, dazed, as if unaware that she was being led or directed. He walked her down the open arcade in the warm breeze of the night, pushing the door to the Hall open so she could enter, holding the rope high so she could go beneath. They rose in the elevator silently to the fourth floor and walked quietly down the corridor to his office. She moved as if sleepwalking. Reardon flicked on his office light for the third time that night, seated her in the chair beside his desk, and dropped wearily into his accustomed chair. There was a large manila envelope there with Wilkins’ name penciled in one corner. He pushed it aside to be considered in the morning — if ever — picked up his pencil, edged his pad closer, and looked at her sympathetically.

“Tell me about Bob Cooke.”

She looked about the small office numbly, accepting the nude calendar, the otherwise barren walls, the lovely view of the city from the window that somehow seemed out of place. There should be no beauty in a place like this, she seemed to silently say. Her eyes finally came back to Reardon. Behind them her tears were checked with effort.

“He’s dead.”

“Yes, he’s dead.” Reardon’s voice was even.

“I can’t believe it. He was the most alive person I ever knew.”

“He’s still dead. Tell me about him.”

For a moment she looked as if she were about to flare, but then she relaxed. She sighed, recognizing the necessity of official action at this point.

“There isn’t anything to tell. I can’t believe it. He’s dead. We had a date and he had to work later than I did. We both work on the S.S. Mandarin — it’s a passenger cruise ship between here and the Orient—”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“—although it carried cargo too, of course.” She might not have heard him. “He’s — I mean, he was — one of the deck officers. Actually, he reported to the purser’s office; he handled the paperwork for hold-luggage, and any of the cargo that was in the forward holds. He—” She seemed to realize she was wandering in her statement, and allowed her voice to die away.

“And you’re a stewardess on the same ship.”

He expected some surprise on her part at this unexpected foreknowledge of his, but instead he got a touch of indignation. It almost seemed for a moment that he had insulted her. At least, he thought, it took her mind from her tragedy, if only temporarily.

“I run the ship’s shop. We sell anything passengers might want on the trip — shaving equipment, post cards, film, and T-shirts, swimming things, sun lotion—” She seemed to realize she could go on forever and finished rather weakly. “—paperback books...” She fingered her purse as she added information. “We — that is the shop — are closed in port. It’s the law. So I’m free to leave the ship as soon as we dock, together with the passengers. But Bob—” She shrugged. “Well, there are papers and documents to fill out, and that’s after the holds are clear of cargo, of course, so he couldn’t get away as soon...”

Her voice dropped and then came back, strengthened. She refused to succumb to her loss. Reardon listened quietly, the pencil unmoving in his fingers.

“We were supposed to meet for a drink at the bar on top of the Fairmont, and then we were going to the Little Tokyo for dinner—” Reardon’s eyebrows raised slightly; under completely different circumstances they might have seen each other there, and he and Jan would have had a conversation piece instead of a fight. “I knew Bob might be a few minutes late, because he often is. It’s hard to tell exactly when he’ll be free. But when he didn’t show up by nine o’clock I called the ship. They put a telephone line on board as soon as the ship docks. They told me he’d left at least an hour before. That’s when I got worried, because it isn’t — wasn’t — like Bob. So I guess I got panicky and started calling hospitals, and then I thought of the Missing Persons Bureau...”

She suddenly started to cry but before Reardon could think of anything comforting to say she forcibly brought herself under control.

“I don’t cry,” she said. She sounded almost angry that she didn’t.

“Neither do I,” Reardon said. “Sometimes I think it might be a loss.”

Her eyes looked at him. “I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Jim Reardon. James Reardon. I’m a lieutenant of police.”

“What did you mean, downstairs, when you said to the man he was the Unknown you picked up?”

“When he was picked up he had no identification. No wallet.”

“You mean he was robbed?”

Reardon shook his head. “No. I just mean he had no identification. No wallet or cards. Nothing with his name on it.” He put the pencil he had been holding aside. “He had money on him in a money clip and a handkerchief and loose change and some keys, but nothing with his name.” A possibility occurred to him and he looked at her. “Did Bob Cooke live on the ship?”

“He did in San Francisco. And other ports, too, of course. Or sometimes—” She straightened in the chair a bit defiantly, daring him to make something out of it. “Sometimes when we were in port here he stayed with me at my place. My apartment. He had a small two-room house in Hawaii; it was where he was from. Sometimes I’d stay on the ship there, but sometimes I’d stay with him.”

Reardon felt an urge to ask if she had loved him and if so, how much. Jan came to mind, warm as she had been in bed that afternoon, smart as he knew she was smart, and — sadly — hurt as he knew she was hurt at the moment.

“How long are you in port here in San Francisco?”

“Four days.” The conversation on innocuous subjects seemed to have relaxed her; her hands didn’t move over her bag as much, as if seeking a solution to her problem in picking at the tiny pearl beads. “We do our main reprovisioning here, although we pick up fresh food in almost every port. We usually spend three days in Hawaii.” She considered, her mind fending off the thought of the death and her loss. “In the East it depends. Sometimes we make Hong Kong, sometimes not. Or Manila. We always make Japan, though. The cruises vary; they aren’t always the same.”

Reardon nodded and reluctantly brought the subject back to the dead man.

“Did Bob Cooke have any family?”

“No,” she said. “Or if he did he never mentioned them. We... we weren’t planning on marriage or anything like that.” Her defiance had returned. “We were just good friends.”

She sounded sincere. And before you start any sniggering inwardly, Jim, boy, he advised himself evenly, remember it’s the same deal you and Jan have. Or had, until the little argument tonight. He brought his mind back to business.

“Who was his immediate superior aboard the ship?”

“The chief purser. His name is Thompson. He’ll know what to do. About the body, that is...” She bit her lip again and tears formed in her eyes. She reached into her small bag for a handkerchief and wiped them away angrily, hardening her jaw. “He’ll know what to do...”

Reardon picked up his pencil and marked the name down. “Do you know the telephone number?”

She shook her head. “I don’t remember, but Information can give it to you.” She waited a moment in the silence. “Is there anything else?”

Reardon sighed. “I don’t believe so. Not now, at any rate.” He looked down at his notes. Among the squiggles and the little squares, neatly crosshatched, was the name S.S. Mandarin and the name Thompson, but that was all. He came to his feet. “I’ll drive you home. Will you be all right there alone tonight?”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Do you have any sleeping pills at home? Or tranquilizers?”

“No. I’ve never needed them.”

“How about liquor?”

“There’s plenty of that.”

“Then take enough to make you sleep. Let’s go. You live out past me a few blocks. I’ll take you there.”

She looked surprised. “How do you know?”

“It was on the Missing Person’s report. Also your name.” He moved to the door. “Is it Penny, or short for Penelope?”

“It’s Penny. Bob used to call me his Bad Penny, because he said he hoped I’ll always show up. Only tonight he was the one who didn’t.” She swallowed convulsively and looked around the office as if wondering what she was doing there. “What will they do to this man Rolf?”

“Rolf is his first name — or rather, Ralph. His last name is Crocker. What will they do to him? I don’t know. It depends on the judge. Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said expressionlessly. “I was just wondering. You know—” Her dark eyes came up to his face. “—I still can’t believe it. I feel as if some imposter was down there in that drawer, all made up to look like Bob. I don’t feel Bob is dead.” She looked slightly apologetic at her own statement. “I don’t feel anything.”

Reardon sighed. “Of course you don’t, not now,” he said quietly. “But you will,” and opened the door.