The Gremlin’s Grampa

Chapter 14

Friday — 11:35 p.m.

A patrol car was angled into the curb before the apartment building, its siren silent but its flasher turning monotonously. Behind it, the familiar car of the Technical Squad was parked; ahead of it one of the boxlike windowless paddy wagons that served the city as ambulances was being loaded with the covered corpse of John Sekara. Reardon, climbing down from Bennett’s car, could not help but be impressed by the repetitiveness of the scene. How many times have I seen — and will I see again — the same lineup of the ambulance, the patrol car and the Technical Squad, he wondered, plus myself staring down at a dead body, removed from life for any one of so very few reasons, none of them good? Maybe Jan is right, he suddenly thought. A man can’t really spend his life doing this kind of work forever and not be marked by it, and also not have his values changed. On the other hand, what job could a man do over and over again and not be affected by it? Interior decorating? He smiled faintly to himself at the thought, feeling the tension ease somewhat, and walked forward in the darkness.

Stan Lundahl was standing morosely to one side, his tall body slumped, his wide shoulders bent a bit, as if either in disappointment with his performance that night, or as if to weather a reprimand completely undeserved. Reardon stopped him, looking up into the taller man’s face. Bennett and Dondero diplomatically continued on in the direction of the ambulance.

“Well?” Reardon’s voice was sharp. “What happened?”

“He was shot. Three times. Medics think it was a twenty-two; the autopsy will tell. The bullets are still in him. He was plugged from a few feet. He’s dead.”

“I know he’s dead. You were supposed to be guarding him. What happened?”

Lundahl straightened up a bit defensively. “He decided to call it a day and sack in early. I walked him from the car to his apartment and went inside with him—”

“How did he get in? Use his own keys or did someone open the door for him?”

“No,” Lundahl said. “He used his own key. He lived alone. Anyway, I went through the place the same as I did last night; I checked the windows to see they were locked, looked in the closets — the works, under the beds, behind the furniture—”

“And?”

“And there wasn’t anything, so I said good night and left. I heard him put the double lock on, and I waited until I heard him put up the safety chain—” His voice trailed off.

“And?” Reardon was getting impatient.

Lundahl looked slightly embarrassed, and then forced the look from his face with the attitude of one whose conscience is clear.

“Well, I’d done everything I should have done, outside of sleeping with him, so I went back to my car—”

“Where were you parked?”

“Around the corner. He didn’t want to drive up to his apartment building directly; figured he’d be an easier target sitting in a car where he couldn’t duck, than walking up — with me a bit in front of him, you can be damn sure.”

“All right. And?”

“So I was on my way back to the car when I heard these shots. I knew it was Sekara, don’t ask me how, but damn it, I knew! I ran back and the goddam downstairs door was locked. There’s another door leading from the foyer to the basement and that was open, but that didn’t help any, so I rang a flock of bells, and finally somebody buzzed to open the door, and then when I got to his floor—”

“Which floor was it?”

“The second, which is why I always checked the windows. A guy could make it to his window without much trouble, but that wasn’t what happened tonight, because when I got there his front door was open and he was lying across the sill, dead. Well, I knew nobody had come out the front of the apartment, so I—”

“How did you get up there? Stairs or elevator?”

“Stairs; they’re a lot faster. Anyway—”

“Suppose somebody came down the elevator while you were going up?”

“No,” Lundahl said positively. “How could they know I’d take the steps? Anyway, like I said, I was pretty sure nobody had come out the front, so I hiked through the apartment, and the back door was open, and when I had checked out the place that door had been locked and the safety chain had been on, so whoever shot him just waltzed out the back door and down the back stairs.”

“That’s great!” Reardon said bitterly.

“What was I supposed to do?” Lundahl asked, suddenly aggrieved. “How in hell was I to know the stupid bastard would open his front door to the first stranger who came along, the minute I left?” He suddenly frowned. “And just why in hell did he open it, I wonder?”

A thought came to Reardon. “Would he have opened it for a woman?”

“Naw. Not Sekara. I don’t think they meant that much to him, and anyway, if he wanted a dame, he didn’t have to hide her from me.” He shook his head, wondering aloud. “Why did he open it?”

“Don’t wear your brain out wondering,” Reardon said coldly. “All it took was somebody waiting on the basement steps for you to leave. Then all he had to do was to buzz Sekara on the intercom, say he was you and that you had dropped something, or forgotten something in the apartment. With the timing right, Sekara wouldn’t even think twice about it — he’d buzz the door release, and open his own front door when whoever it was came up and rapped. And that was just how simple it was.”

“And what in hell was I supposed to do to stop it?” Lundahl cried, irritated at the unfairness of it all.

“How the hell do I know?” Reardon said savagely. He swung around and marched over to the Technical car. Sergeant Wilkins was helping his assistant pack his gear away. Reardon’s voice lowered automatically. “Hello, Frank. Any luck with anything?”

Wilkins looked up. “Hi, Jim. Luck? None. Whoever shot Sekara wasn’t accommodating enough to leave any fingerprints. The knob and the back door were clean, and I can’t see why he would hang around long enough after the shooting to handle much of anything else.”

“Did you check the chain, too?”

Wilkins stared at him. “You’re tired, Jim. Of course we checked the chain — the head of one of those things is perfect for prints. It was clean. And so was the railing going down the back; somebody wiped it down, probably with gloves on their way down.”

“Sorry. How about the gun? Or the bullets?”

“No gun. They’ll have to dig for the bullets downtown.”

Reardon sighed. “Anything else? At all?”

“Well,” Wilkins said, “we looked around in back as much as we could with our lights — we’ll take another look in the morning — but you can cut through from the back area to the next street, and there’s a regular warren of driveways and winding streets, and God knows what in this neighborhood. We did find some bicycle tracks, but they could have been from anyone in the building, or even a newsboy, but we cast them for luck, and just to be safe we put it out to the cars to look for anyone on a bike around here, because it’s a little late for anyone to be delivering newspapers, or pedaling for exercize...”

It was a long speech for Sergeant Wilkins, an exceptionally long speech, but it was about all he could offer Reardon in lieu of sympathy. He shrugged and went back to putting away his camera equipment, speaking over his shoulder.

“Anyway, nothing on the bike so far, and nothing on any suspicious characters loitering.”

“So what’s your guess?”

“My guess is that whoever knocked off Mr. Sekara knew pretty much what he was doing. The killer probably parked one or two streets over, and he could have been in his car and on his way two minutes after the shooting. Probably while Stan was still trying to get into the apartment building. Maybe someone will remember seeing somebody in a driveway, once the news gets out tomorrow, for whatever good that will do.” Reardon started to turn away, toward the apartment. “Save your time, Jim. We’ve been over everything and the apartment’s all locked and sealed. You’ll see a copy of the report in the morning.”

Sergeant Wilkins moved to the front of the car, sliding into the passenger side of the front seat while his assistant put the key in the ignition and released the hand brake. Ahead of them the ambulance pulled from the curb, followed in turn by the patrol car. Dondero and Bennett were waiting back beside Bennett’s car. Whatever small crowd had formed at the excitement was beginning to drift away. Wilkins closed the door and looked up at Reardon through the open window. His nasal voice was meant to be kindly.

“Take it easy, Jim. Nobody could have stopped this one.”

“Yeah. Just tell that to Captain Tower, though!”

“Don’t worry about the captain,” Wilkins advised. “He doesn’t just read the words in those reports; he reads the meaning, too. He won’t give you a hard time.”

But I will, Reardon thought bitterly, and watched as the car moved off. His eyes swung about, to the yellow-brick front of the new high-rise apartment, climbing the impersonal face of the building to the second-floor windows with their shades drawn. What could Stan have done to prevent the killing, indeed? He sighed, shook his head in disgust, and then walked back to the car and climbed wearily into the back seat. Dondero and Bennett silently slid into the front seat. Bennett turned around.

“Where to now, Lieutenant?”

Where to, indeed? Reardon thought. Sufficient unto the day is the lousing-up thereof...

“Home,” he said at last, and leaned back against the cushions wearily, closing his eyes.

Saturday — 12:05 a.m.

Jan was waiting up for him when he turned the key to his flat; she was wearing a pair of his pajamas and one of his summer robes, with the sleeves rolled up. They looked like huge doughnuts around her wrists. She was comfortably curled up in a chair, watching him solemnly. He grinned at her, yawned mightily and slipped off his jacket, hanging it on a chair back and straightening it. Whenever Jan was around he tried to at least give the appearance of neatness.

“Can I get you something, Jim? A drink?”

“A glass of buttermilk, if we’ve got any.” He started to pull his necktie over his head and then changed his mind, unknotting it instead. It didn’t look any better that way, he thought, and draped it neatly over his jacket.

“Of course.” She came to her feet and padded into the kitchen; the tight rope belt pulled in her waist, exaggerating her figure. Reardon loked after her appreciatively. There was the sound of the refrigerator door opening and then closing; a few moments and Jan was back, carefully balancing the glass. He took it gratefully and sipped it while Jan sank back into her soft chair, tucking her feet under her again. Her eyes came back to his face. “Was it bad?”

“It was bad for John Sekara. Somebody shot him dead.”

“I know. I heard when we were in the nightclub. I mean, will it be bad for you?”

He shrugged and finished the buttermilk, turning to set down the glass. There was a sudden gasp from Jan.

“Oh, Jim!”

“What?”

“You sat in something!”

He twisted, looking down. “I’m just a natural-born slob,” he said. “I must have sat in some greasepaint down at that stupid nightclub, tonight.” He suddenly grinned, a rueful grin. “That’s the story of my life, these days. Paint on my pants and egg on my face.”

Jan cocked her head to one side. “It sounds like a song.”

“Maybe I’ll give up being a cop and write songs for a living,” he said, and walked into the bedroom to undress. He came out a few minutes later in his pajamas and robe and stood before Jan, smiling down at her, relaxed as always to be home with her. “How would you like that?”

“How would I like what?”

“That’s what I like about you,” he said approvingly, “your remarkable memory. I said, how would you like me to give up being a cop and write songs for a living?”

“How would you like it?”

“Well,” Reardon said, “I couldn’t do any worse than I’m doing right now. Actually, though, right now I think I’d like to be a mattress tester.” He yawned deeply. “Ah, me! I’m tired.” His eyes suddenly came alive, twinkling. “Do you remember that ancient story about the man who was enticed to bed by a widow, and once he was in bed with the woman he asked if he could enjoy a husband’s privileges, and she eagerly said yes. And then he said, ‘In that case, madame, good night!’ And rolled over and went to sleep?”

“No,” Jan said curiously. “How does it go?” She laughed. “All right, I’ll let you rest tonight, but I really shouldn’t, since you aren’t my husband.” She pretended to think. “Maybe subconsciously that’s why I don’t want to get married.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Well,” Jan said firmly, “I would. However, we can discuss that when you are less tired. I’m going to brush my teeth. You go to bed.”

“In a minute. Right now I’m too tired to sleep.”

He dropped down onto the sofa, leaning back against the cushions, yawned cavernously and half closed his eyes to slits, letting his thoughts wander where they would. It was a common way he used to relax himself when things built up too tightly. Four murders, each with at least eighty-eight jillion clues — or what should have been clues — and none of them leading anywhere to speak of. Or, rather, leading everywhere to speak of, mostly in opposite directions. Four well-known and well-disliked mobsters killed, with witnesses all over the place, with no attempt made in any case to hide the fact of murder, and with enough motive on each to provide a dozen suspects. That was the trouble, of course; if they had all been preachers of the gospel instead of hoods, it might be easier to narrow the suspects down. Or maybe not, he thought idly; motive, like beauty, is strictly in the eye of the beholder.

Still, there had to be something in common when four men such as Capp, Falcone, Martin and Sekara get killed, even though each was killed by a different method. Were they even killed by the same person? And if so, was it a man or a woman? It was pretty sad at this stage of an investigation when even those simple questions were difficult, if not impossible, to answer. The fact is, he tried to convince himself, that every murder leaves its mark somewhere, if one could only recognize it. The simplicity of each killing in this case was one of the things making it so difficult to solve. Take tonight, for example...

The building where John Sekara had died so few hours before now formed before his half-closed eyes, the shaded windows of the dead man’s apartment strangely making him think of the closed eyes of its ex-occupant, now undoubtedly undergoing the final indignity of an autopsy. Tomorrow Captain Tower might well put him on the carpet for not having more men on Sekara, but disregarding the fact that he didn’t have the men to spare, there was also the fact that unless they had had men staked out front and back of every place Sekara went — including his home — for the period he was there, Mr. John Sekara would have caught it. As he did. Maybe in those pleasant days when man’s sole weapon was a club, or a rock, other men could furnish someone with reliable protection, but today it was foolish to even think of it. About all any protecting agency could do today was to make it a trifle more difficult for the killer to achieve his objective, but they certainly couldn’t guarantee their client’s life, or even well-being.

Especially in a case such as this. What could Stan have done? It was really a rather clever idea, when you stopped to think about it. Anyone could probably get into anyone else’s apartment simply by waiting for a guest to leave and then immediately calling on the house phone saying you were old Uncle Charlie and you’d forgotten your false teeth upstairs. Your voice wouldn’t betray you, that was certain. With the inadequacy of the cheap apparatus they used in today’s apartments, Reardon thought, it’s a holy wonder anyone understands the words, let alone recognizes the voice.

He frowned suddenly, and repeated the last thought to himself, hearing the words in his mind. It’s a holy wonder anyone understands the words, let alone recognizes the voice. It’s a wonder anyone understands the words. It’s a wonder anyone understands the words...

He sat erect, eyes wide, sleep forgotten. The old familiar tingle of his nerve ends, advising him he was on to something hot, came back; he had been waiting for it a long, long time. He hunched over, his hands clasped before him, concentrating fiercely, going over other facts. Was it possible? Everything in this world is possible, he told himself almost harshly; and most of it is probable. And where bad news and crime were concerned, too much of it was certain.

He grimaced at the rug without seeing it, tracing the facts once again. Now, what was it that old man in that bar down on the Embarcadero had said? The one with the scarf wrapped around his jaw five or six times? He had said—

“Jim.”

He held up his hand abruptly and unconsciously to prevent any immediate interruption in his flow of thoughts. The old man with the scarf had said — and now in his fierce concentration he could almost hear the thin, reedy voice — “The guy with the lumber jacket, his shoes were real shiny... I was looking down, like... I seen his shoes. By accident, like... They was real shiny...”

Reardon growled deep in his throat. He could have kicked himself down the stairs and then up again. How had he overlooked that vital statement all this time? Sheer stupidity, that was all. But the girl who had come in, asking directions... Reardon suddenly frowned. No, that wasn’t possible; the time element didn’t permit. Or the witnesses. So suppose she actually was asking directions? The gas station was around the corner; maybe she hadn’t seen it. Or maybe it had been closed; there wasn’t much action for a gas station that hour of the night in that neighborhood... In any event, there wouldn’t have been any need for anyone to finger Capp, so forget the girl...

“Jim!”

He sighed and looked up, aware that he couldn’t put off Jan’s interruption forever, and that it might be better to answer it and get it over with before he went back to figuring out his case.

“Yes, what is it?”

Jan was staring at him. “What is what? I’ve been trying to talk to you for the past five minutes, and you just sit there and look as if you were in a trance. I don’t like it when you go off like that.” Her voice softened. “And leave me behind...”

Reardon smiled grimly. “I had a sudden rush of brains to the head. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does I don’t like to discourage it.” He saw the change of expression on her face and nodded soberly. “Yes, I don’t think there’s much doubt. There’ll be a lot of chasing around to pick up evidence, but I think I finally see what it’s all about.”

“And what’s it all about?”

He stared at her, his mind far away, and then came back to earth. “What?”

“I said, what’s it all about?”

“Did you ever hear of the Esquadrão de Morte in Brazil? The so-called Death Squad?”

“No. Who are they? Jim? Jim?”

But she was talking to the raised hand again. Jan sighed and curled up in her chair again, watching her man across the room frown fiercely at the rug, his hands clenched together again.

And that beard and mustache and sunglasses that had never turned up — well, he would give thirteen to that nine, now, that he could put his fingers on them fairly quickly. That list on Captain Tower’s desk... How long had it been there, and how many times had the newspapers used it as the basis for either an article, or an editorial?

But that wasn’t evidence. What was evidence were things that had happened, or things people had said, like that old man with the scarf. For example, what had that bartender, the other one down at the Cranston Hotel who was always polishing glasses — what was it he had said? Well, among other things, he said — “Mr. Falcone don’t pick up no pigs,” not a vital statement, but he had also said—

“Jim — I’m going to bed...”

“Good night—”

What else had that bartender said? Well, among the other things he had said, “She didn’t barely drink it herself.” They had been speaking of the weird Gremlin’s Grampa. And the glass upstars in Falcone’s apartment with that oddball mixture had been more than half full. Christ! Where had he been when it was raining intelligence? Outside with a fork? Where had his eyes and ears been this past week? Obviously with something called a Gremlin’s Grampa — an idiocy — just as he was meant to be. A smoke screen! Any bartender in town could have told him no such thing existed, or could exist, but he had believed it — had, in fact, even convinced the man behind the bar at the Cranston that the drink existed. And had told Jan it was an important clue. Well, it was — pointing directly to his own stupidity.

And, putting the matter aside of the Gremlin’s Grampa, there was still the matter of the paint on his pants. Well, that paint wasn’t egg on his face now!

He sighed and came to his feet, untying the cord of his robe, moving to a closet for clean trousers, and then paused, going instead to the bedroom, and picking up his old ones. He studied them awhile; Jan, watching from the bed, could not make out his expression; he seemed almost an automaton. He dropped them once again in a heap and went back to the living room, picking up the telephone and dialing a familiar number. The phone rang several times before it was answered.

“Hello?”

“Don? This is Jim Reardon—”

There was a deep sigh. “I was afraid of that. Don’t you ever sleep? Try hot milk—”

“Don, pull on your pants. I’ll be by to pick you up in ten minutes. Be ready.”

“My pants are on and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, but whatever fun you have in mind will have to wait. I’m watching the late-late-late show, I think. It’s The Mark of Zorro in the original, with Doug Fairbanks. They don’t know he’s Zorro, see, not even his old man; he keeps waving this handkerchief full of perfume, and he’s got this mustache looks like he’s been drinking grape juice—”

The only reason Reardon let him ramble was because he hadn’t been listening; his mind was still building his case. He came out of his dream world to find Dondero still talking.

“Keep quiet. Ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Dondero said hopelessly, and then brightened. “What’s it all about? More killings?”

“You’re a ghoul. Let’s hope not,” Reardon said soberly.

“If you’re pulling rank, then I hope not, too,” Dondero said. “What about Tom Bennett?”

“We’ll stop for him after I pick you up.”

“I’m going to quit this job,” Dondero said conversationally. “I’m going to get a job with regular hours, or try for that fireman’s job again—” He paused and then subsided; he was speaking to a dial tone. With a sigh he hung up.

Reardon glanced at his watch, frowned at the telephone a moment as he tried to put his thoughts in order, and came to a decision. He dialed again, this time to the Hall of Justice. There was a brief wait while his credentials were established, and then he was speaking with Records. The night man on duty listened to the lieutenant’s request without any particular surprise; surprise was one of the things that had to be sacrificed if one wanted to work for the police department. He disappeared to rummage in a file, returned at last with a folder, opened it and began to read. Reardon nodded in satisfaction as he received the facts stored in the folder.

“Good,” he said quietly, when the recital was finished. “It’s what I finally figured, but I suppose I should have checked it a long time ago. In any event, thanks a lot.”

“Anytime, Lieutenant,” the night man said. He hadn’t a clue as to what the lieutenant needed the information for, or even what he had been talking about, but he did know lieutenants were higher than sergeants in the table of organization. “Anyways, it’s dead down here nights. A call breaks up the monotony.”

“Don’t knock monotony,” Reardon said fervently, and hung up. He slipped from his robe and pajamas and hurriedly began to dress. Ten minutes to pick up Don and another ten at least to get to Tom’s, and then — he dismissed the thought and sat down again to draw on his shoes. In the bedroom Jan listened quietly to the sounds from the lighted living room. When the front door closed softly behind him, she rolled over in bed, staring at the rectangle of light outlining the open doorway to the outer room, wondering, as always, when he’d be back. Or if he’d be back. Or if it really made much difference whether one worried about a husband or a boyfriend, so long as one worried about a person they loved...