The Gremlin’s Grampa

Chapter 10

Friday — 9:03 a.m.

Lieutenant Reardon — never the one to be overly late but also not the one to be overly early of mornings getting to work — trotted up the steps of the Hall of Justice, pushed through the doors, and was about to continue toward the elevators when a voice from the information desk gave him pause. He turned, walking over.

“Good morning, Jordan. You wanted me?”

The recruit back of the desk, one of the three men on duty behind the long counter, frowned in non-understanding. “I got a message for you, Lieutenant, but it’s pretty screwy. Doesn’t make sense.”

Reardon smiled. “I like them better that way. The ones that make sense around here usually mean more work.” He waited a moment but the recruit remained silent, as if waiting himself for more pearls of wisdom to fall from the lieutenant’s mouth. Reardon’s tone firmed. “Well?”

“Oh, yeah. Some character called,” Jordan said, explaining, and then broke off to remove a note from beneath his desk calendar, referring to it. “He says to tell you that today is September the eleventh — which it ain’t, of course, it’s the fifteenth — and that any month with an R in it is a good month for oysters. I was going to hang up on the nut, see, but he sounded sober—”

“Sober but sleepy?”

The recruit stared at Reardon in amazement. He supposed it was just this profound ability to detect that led men like the lieutenant to rapid promotion — although in this particular case he honestly could not see how the lieutenant had done it.

“Yeah!” he said. “How did you know?”

“Because that’s how I feel early in the morning.”

“Oh.” The recruit was disappointed in this denial of prescience; he went ahead with his story. “Anyways, like I say, I was going to hang up on him, only he also says you’ll have my ears for bookmarks — those were his words, Lieutenant, not mine — if I don’t give you the message, so why should I take any chances?”

He looked at the lieutenant as if wondering if he were going to get a pat on the head for delivering the message faithfully, or a horselaugh for his innocence in paying any attention to such gibberish. What he actually got was a shrug.

“I like to receive all messages, Jordan, even those from nuts. You can never tell when one might be important.”

“That’s true.” The recruit was suitably impressed by the infallibility of this logic; his tone returned Reardon to his pedestal.

The lieutenant smiled to show his appreciation and headed back in the direction of the elevator bank. There was really no good reason for Porky Frank to complicate his messages in this fashion, other than the fact that he enjoyed doing so. Reardon grinned inwardly as he pictured Jordan receiving the message, and rode to the fourth floor in good humor, hoping Porky had something for him. He walked down the corridor to his office, humming slightly. Bennett and Dondero were sitting on opposite sides of his desk, waiting for him. Dondero had been keeping his pistol eye in shape by tossing paper clips at a wastebasket; at the lieutenant’s entrance he walked over, retrieved his ammunition from in and around his target, returned them to the container on the desk, and sat down again. Reardon walked around his desk, removed his clip-on holster and seated himself. He looked from one man to the other.

“Good morning. So what’s new?”

Both men shook their heads. “Nothing,” Dondero said, and shrugged.

“Nothing? Did you get hold of those men from that bar down on the Embarcadero? The ones that didn’t hang around? And what about that dame, the barfly?”

“Who, Sadie? Sadie Chenowicz.” He grinned. “I saw her. Fifty years ago I might have gone for her. She was sitting there at the bar; my guess is she’d beat the pavements, only at her age her feet probably hurt, so she used the bar as a recruiting station.”

“Did she have anything to say?”

“Yeah. Mostly, ‘Buy me a drink.’ Anyway, she wasn’t there when Capp got it — she says a gentleman friend of hers invited her up to his room. But she was there when the girl came in asking directions, and Sadie says she was a nothing, a nobody. A kid.”

“Could Sadie give a description of this kid?”

“Sadie probably couldn’t give a description of her gentleman friend’s belly button. Sadie, my friend, is a lush. Sadie also dislikes all women younger than her, and that covers practically the world. Sadie was of no use at all.”

Reardon frowned. “Unless, of course, Sadie fingered Capp herself.” He suddenly grinned and then wiped the grin away. “Don’t ask me where that hot flash came from — I told you I was desperate.”

“Well, Sadie would do anything for a buck, but if she fingered Capp she didn’t get paid yet, because she was bumming drinks with what I guess is her usual talent.”

“Forget it,” Reardon said. “What about the others?”

“Well, we got hold of them — or rather, I did; Bennett was doing the costume shop bit by phone. Anyway, on these guys, only one of them even admitted he was in the bar and he says he left before any trouble started, said he read about it in the papers and wasn’t it a bloomin’ shyme? Says Alfred, the bartender, must have been excited and forgot he left early, even before any girl came in asking directions. And the others deny having been in the bar at all. None of them seemed to care for having any intimate contact with us nasty cops, although what trouble they could get into by just telling the truth, is beyond me.”

“Maybe they’re afraid it could get to be a habit,” Reardon said.

“Or maybe they’re all telling the truth, and Alfred Sullivan and the other three guys we found there are lying,” Dondero said. “How about a conspiracy by the four of them? Sullivan does the knifing — say, because Capp caught him knocking down on the cash register — and he bribes the other three guys to keep quiet about it by promising them free beer for a week? How’s that? The guy with the broken specs acts lookout, and the old man with the scarf checks out back to make sure the kitchen’s empty and nobody’s in the john—”

Bennett was staring at the two of them.

“And that punch-drunk ex-pug makes sure the phone doesn’t ring and disturb them, I suppose,” Reardon said, and smiled. His smile faded. “Well, we may have to come back to something like that before we’re through, especially at the rate we’re going.” He swung around to Bennett. “What about the costume shops?”

“Nothing. Oh, they all rent and sell fake beards and mustaches and wigs, too, either separately or all together — one place even rents the whole works with dark glasses and a fake nose, practically a mask — but every one of them says that at the moment they don’t have any outstanding rentals that fit the description—”

“Unless,” Reardon said, thinking about it, “he rented a full costume — say Blackbeard, or Ivan the Terrible — and just used the beard and the mustache...”

“It’s a thought,” Bennett said. He sounded irritated with himself for not having thought of it himself. “I’ll have to check them again, although my guess is still it’s a waste of time. If he planned the murder ahead of time, and it certainly sounds like it, then would he rent anything that would point to him when he returned it? Wouldn’t he buy it outright, and well in advance?”

“Hell,” Dondero said. “If he planned it long enough in advance, he could have grown his beard and mustache, and then just shaved them off afterwards.”

“They still sounded fake,” Reardon said stubbornly. “Anyway, we have to cover all the angles.”

“Well,” Bennett said a bit unhappily, “I’ll check them again, but they also told me you can buy wigs even in barbershops today, plus he didn’t have to even buy it in town. He could have gotten it anywhere on the peninsula — or even brought it with him from L.A. If it’s a fake at all,” he added darkly.

“True.” Reardon sighed and moved on. “What about the Salvation Army and that angle?”

“Well,” Dondero said, “we called them and left a message, and they’ll call back if they find anything. Same with Sanitation, but neither one of them make daily pickups, you know. It may be a week or more before we even know if they found anything, and a killer can go a long way in a week.”

“And we can bring him back.”

“All we need to know is what he looks like.” Dondero frowned across the desk. “Jim, I hate to repeat myself, but what if the guy just went home, shaved — or took off his beard if you insist — took off his glasses, and then went down to the docks and worked the graveyard turn, plaid lumber jacket and all?” He shrugged. “After all, red plaid lumber jackets on the docks are a dime a dozen.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Captain Tower,” Reardon said, “and I’ll tell you what I’ll tell him if he asks me again: in that case maybe we never get the guy. Do you like that answer better? And there’s still Pete Falcone and Ray Martin, and I don’t believe in coincidence to that extent.” He thought a moment. “We know where Falcone was before he died, but we haven’t much on Ray Martin. The squad car that notified his wife must have a report in by now, and also the state troopers. So why don’t you two check on that? Get as close a trace on his movements prior to his death as you can. That should keep you out of mischief for today.”

“It’ll help,” Dondero said.

“We’ve got a file on Martin that also might help. It might even help to dig out the folders on all four of Captain Tower’s bad boys and go over them. For luck, if nothing else.”

“Right.” Dondero came to his feet, followed by Bennett.

Reardon thought a moment. “And, Bennett, don’t waste any time on those costume shops. I think you’re right; whoever planned this wouldn’t leave that big a hole for himself to fall into. Work with Dondero.”

“Yes, sir.” The two men moved to the door; Bennett went through when Reardon called Dondero back.

“And Don—”

“Yeah?” The swarthy sergeant paused, one hand on the knob.

“You busy tonight?” Dondero shook his head. “Good,” Reardon said with satisfaction. “Keep it open.”

Dondero frowned. “Special job?”

Reardon grinned. “Above and beyond the call of duty. Jan has a date for you.”

Dondero smiled. “She hasn’t done badly by me up to now. Will do.” He winked and went out.

Reardon turned back to his paper work. Maybe taking Bennett off the costume shops was a mistake; very often it was just some silly thing like returning a rented beard that often caught a man who thought he had been clever and had covered all the angles. Still, Reardon thought, mama only has two hands and the man’s beard was one of the things that had to be dropped, at least at the moment. If it was a man at all...

Maybe I ought to have the boys checking the circus, he thought. For the Bearded Woman... He grinned and picked up the first report.

Friday — 11:03 a.m.

Porky Frank was holding down the fort, a clothed table this time, in a booth at the far end of Marty’s adjoining the back wall. He had been fortunate enough — or had used his newly discovered pull enough — to have arranged twin steins of ale, one of which was half empty by the time Reardon arrived. The stocky detective seated himself, nodded a greeting and picked up his stein, taking a long and refreshing draft. He set it down and looked across the table, studying the man there. The right size, he could not help but think; I wonder what Porky would look like in a beard and mustache?

Porky seemed to read his thoughts; he smiled sardonically.

“More suspicions, Lieutenant? You didn’t send me that letter ahead of time, you know.”

“Sorry.” Reardon made no attempt to deny the statement; his voice and face were expressionless. “What do you have?”

“Well,” Porky said, not at all put out, “let me say first what I don’t have. I don’t have the slightest indication that the mob wanted your three little friends harmed in the least. Actually, there’s a touch of consternation going the rounds, or at least on the surface, but my feeling is that it’s genuine. Normally, when changes are made in personnel in the Syndicate, replacements are lined up well ahead of time. Quite often, in fact, changes are made precisely to accommodate these replacements. This time everyone seems to have been caught off base. There is a running back and forth; there is an influx at airports of concerned gentry.”

Reardon nodded. “I never did have a strong feeling the mob was behind these killings. It doesn’t feel like a mob action.” He picked up his stein but didn’t drink. “All right; you’ve told me what you don’t have. Now tell me what you do have.”

“Well,” Porky said easily, “as you might well imagine, people who are pleased to see any single one of these particular three persons dead, are — to coin a phrase — legion.” One finger was raised. “However, individuals who would want all three of them dead — the same individual, I mean, of course — are another thing.” He paused, thinking. “Or should it be ‘are other things’? To accord with the plural of ‘individuals,’ I mean? However, never mind. To get back to business, Pete Falcone had a madame that quit him not long ago...”

Porky leaned back and took a long drink before continuing. He sounded musing.

“It’s quite a story. It seems that while this lady thought her daughter was being nicely educated at a convent down the peninsula, the girl was actually getting taken to the cleaners in one of Ray Martin’s clubs. She had the gambling bug, a dread disease. At any rate, when she was well in over her head, Ray steered the girl to Jerry Capp for financing, after which, of course, it was merely a question of time before Falcone got into the act.” He shook his head commiseratingly. “Poor Pete! He had no idea, naturally, that the girl’s mama was his trusted employee, Lily, and he can therefore scarcely be blamed for introducing Lily to her own daughter as their latest recruit. Although,” Porky added, considering the facts fairly, “I suppose Lily deserves a bit of the blame for telling her daughter she was a buyer for Sears. However—” Porky smiled sadly. “The story is it took weeks for Pete to recover from the verbal beating he took at Lily’s hands, and I shudder to think of the spanking that poor child must have caught. But if you want a suspect who had reasons to dislike all three of your victims, be my guest.”

Reardon had his notebook out. “What’s her name?”

“Lillian Messer. She has, or had, an apartment on Greenwich Street, I’m told, but it has, or had, an unlisted number. So it’s hard to say if she’s still there. However, I imagine you might have more success than me in finding out from the telephone company.”

“I imagine.” Reardon was marking it down. He looked up. “Of course it’s pretty hard to conceive of Lillian pushing her ex-boss out of a window without his recognizing her.”

Porky smiled faintly. “Who said anything about her pushing anybody out of anything? You wanted suspects with reasons to knock off all three of your baddies, and I gave you one. What more do you want?”

“Well,” Reardon said reasonably, “I think I’d have preferred one who also had the opportunity as well as the motive—”

“Mr. R.,” Porky said condescendingly, “we are living in a service economy as we both should know, since, to be accurate, neither of us exactly weaves nor do we spin. In a service economy one’s desires are often catered to by second parties, frequently for a price. We no longer make our own shoes nor do we render our own lard and neither do we bake our own bread. And so very often we no longer do our own killing. A pity, but there it is.” He shrugged. “I should judge in her former employment, Lily had ample contacts for clout, either male or female; nor do I want that statement taken as an accusation. Merely a fact.”

“Taken as such.” Reardon nodded. “Incidentally, did this Lillian have anything against Johnny Sekara?”

Porky looked thoughtful, he moved his stein closer to him in case he needed it for sudden sustenance.

“I follow your reasoning, Mr. R., but if she did I haven’t heard of it. Not that that necessarily means she didn’t — although, unless I missed the news, Mr. Sekara is still among the living. An oversight, possibly, on someone’s part—” he added, looking up, his eyes bright, “or, possibly not.”

Reardon smiled. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” Porky said. “One more person you might check out. A man who works as a female inpersonator—” He stopped short, looking at Reardon quizzically. “Did I say something I shouldn’t have?”

“Go on.” Reardon was impassive after his first start.

“All right,” Porky said equably. “It’s nice to have an appreciative audience. Offhand, though, I’d say I touched a nerve. At any rate, this particular lad works in one of Jerry Capp’s places, a bar over on Broadway, which claims to feature — if you’ll pardon the expression — entertainment. As I hear it, he had good reason to dislike Johnny Sekara. He had a fairly heavy habit and John cut him off at the pockets when he didn’t pay up for past deliveries. Well, the lad went to Capp for an advance, but Capp said no dice, which didn’t please the lad with either one of them.”

“What could he have had against Martin? Or Falcone?”

“I hear he was also into Martin on the tables; he’d gotten credit because he worked for Capp.”

“So how did he get by?”

“Who, the lad? You mean, without fixes? God knows. Probably started his own personal chapter of Odyssey House. He really didn’t have much choice. Credit in the needle trades is hard to come by.” Porky looked across the table. “I don’t like being nosy as a rule, but how much dough did Pete Falcone have in his kick when he was picked up?”

“And you do mean picked up, I know,” Reardon said. “Falcone had quite a roll, plus all his credit cards, papers and what have you. He went out the window fully dressed. Martin, however, had his pocket picked, if that means anything. Billfold gone and all the rest. But I don’t know how much he usually carried.”

“More than bus fare, from what I hear,” Porky said. “Ray Martin would match you hundred dollar bills while waiting for an elevator. His roll would keep someone in horse for more than a reasonable period, I’d guess.” He thought a moment. “Or pay a lot of convent bills, if it came to that.”

“What could this impersonator have had against Falcone, though?”

Porky shrugged. “I have no idea. Of course, I think our boy is gay; he may have made a pass at Pete and gotten his face slapped, although I must admit that’s really reaching for a motive.”

“Let me have his name.”

“Georgie Jackson; that’s the way he’s billed. Why don’t you take in his act? He works nights.”

“I might at that, one of these evenings,” Reardon said, and poised his pencil. “Anyone else?”

“That’s the lot,” Porky said, and turned up his palms.

“Well, at least it may give us someplace to start.” Reardon tucked his notebook away. He finished his ale and set the stein back on the table, frowning across the table. “Porky — tell me something: all three of those hoods got caught looking the other way. I’m surprised they didn’t have at least a little personal protection. Why?”

“Today?” Porky shook his head. When he spoke his tone was chiding. “They aren’t hoods anymore, Mr. R., they’re businessmen and very, very legitimate. And why should respectable businessmen need protection? Does Gimbel protect Macy?” He shook his head. “Besides, Jerry Capp got it in one of his own bars with a crowd standing around, and Pete Falcone would have parked any protection outside his boudoir, even if he’d had any along. And I gather that to date they — I mean you — don’t have bobbly-squinch on Martin.”

“Not yet. But we will,” Reardon said with a confidence he was far from feeling, and came to his feet. “I’ll see to it that a donation to your favorite charity is in the mail first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Porky said graciously, “and preferably in cash. As Jeff Peters said so succinctly, I hate to put my name on the back of a check almost as much as I do on the front.” He smiled. “And on your way out, Mr. R., would you mind terribly trying to put an arm on a waiter?”

“We knock down ten per cent on our donations for service like that,” Reardon said, “especially at Marty’s,” and walked toward the door, smiling, but also pondering deeply...