Reardon Read online

  Reardon met her gaze. “Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s what you’re supposed to say.”

  “Hurry back,” she said obediently and turned to look out of the window.

  He stared at the clipped hair on the back of her small head a moment and then turned away, moving toward the door before Jan might turn and add something that could only hurt. Their discussions about the demands as well as the dangers of his job were usually kept under control, but at times they formed a wedge between them leading to arguments neither enjoyed, but which neither seemed to be able to avoid. Lieutenant James Reardon had worked hard to earn his rating at his age, and he could not picture himself in any other kind of work; besides, he believed in the necessity of his job. For a moment he tried to persuade himself that Jan also recognized the necessity as well as his fitness in his chosen line of work, but that was nonsense and he knew it.

  With a sigh he became aware of a sympathetic Mr. Noguchi holding the door open for him. He muttered an unintelligible apology for leaving before enjoying the excellent food; Mr. Noguchi bowed in understanding. With a shake of his head Reardon clattered down the steps of the restaurant to the street.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tuesday—8:15 P.M.

  “You’re late for some meeting, Lieutenant,” the uniformed patrolman at the information desk said, as Reardon came through the heavy glass doors into the red marbled lobby of the Hall of Justice.

  “I know,” Reardon said flatly. He ducked under the rope that cordoned off the lobby and the upper floors to nonofficial personnel at night and then paused. “Where is it?”

  “Fifth floor auditorium. Line-up room.”

  “Right,” Reardon said and walked around one of the massive pillars, going to the double bank of elevators. He punched a button and waited impatiently until a door finally swung back and then stepped back to allow a fellow officer to emerge before entering.

  “Say, Jim,” the other said, holding the door a moment. “Captain Tower has been—”

  “I know,” Reardon said coldly and pushed the button for the fifth floor. He left the elevator, walking rapidly, turning right into the corridor, and almost ran into a young patrolman from the city cell block.

  “Hey, Lieutenant—”

  “Damn it, I know!” Reardon said savagely and pushed through the doors into the sloping auditorium, slamming the door behind him. The air shock on the door took the jar uncomplainingly, easing the door closed gently, almost reprovingly. There were roughly two dozen men in the large auditorium, all of his rank or higher. On the stage, standing before the large striped line-up board, and facing a blackboard on which he was writing, was a stranger. Reardon noted an empty chair next to Captain Tower in the front row and moved to it, sliding into it. Behind him in the second row he could feel the eyes of the assistant chief of police, Boynton, boring into the back of his neck. Reardon knew the fact of his late arrival was filed away in Boynton’s mind for instant reference whenever it would be required, even twenty years hence.

  He leaned over, whispering. “What’s the meeting all about, Captain?”

  Tower kept his voice low. “Smuggling.”

  “Smuggling?” Reardon frowned at him. For this he missed a good meal and chanced a fight with Jan? “What do we have to do with smuggling? That’s a federal problem.”

  Captain Tower shrugged. He was a giant of a man with grizzled hair and hands the size of boxing gloves. His face was heavy and slightly pock-marked but his eyes were bright and alert. “If you’ll listen to the man,” he said quietly, “maybe you’ll get your answer.”

  Reardon slumped back dispiritedly. The stranger at the blackboard on the stage finished the list he had been compiling and turned back to face his audience, dusting his fingers fastidiously. He was a youngish man with light hair and a certain prissiness about him; his voice, when he spoke, was a trifle high and thin. Reardon, knowing the type, had a hunch the young man scored very high on the monthly pistol range check-outs.

  “That’s the problem,” the young man said and tapped the blackboard with one knuckle. The chalk on it seemed to offend him and he wiped it off against his palm. “Every day a frightening amount of narcotics comes into the United States in one form or another, and a disproportionate amount comes in through the port—and that includes the airport—of San Francisco. These figures here are just the amount of the various shipments we’ve managed to intercept. The official figures usually given to the press is that we stop about one out of two shipments. I wish, sincerely, that the true figures were that optimistic.” He checked his knuckle, found it clean, and continued, relieved. “My personal feeling is that we’re lucky if we stop one out of three or even four shipments. What we don’t stop we never know, of course. And what we don’t stop has to be located by the Narcotics Division of the Treasury Department.”

  Reardon shook his head sourly. So why aren’t you out talking to the Narcotics Division? he thought, so I can go back to the Little Tokyo and finish my martini? Finish it? Start it, I mean. The young man paid no attention to the unspoken advice.

  “The distribution is well organized, as you can imagine. From San Francisco the stuff goes all over the country by small planes, big planes, trucks, private cars, trains—in purses, pockets, and even in the mail. So the real place to stop it is before it gets distributed.” He smiled in a deprecating manner. “Now, I realize the stopping of smuggling is our baby in Customs, our responsibility. But I also know, and I’m sure you men know even better than I do, that every drug addict in the city is a danger to the citizenry, and that the responsibility for protecting the people on the streets and in their homes, is yours. Every hophead with a gun is a danger to each one of you personally. Every girl with a habit is going to try and satisfy that habit at any cost, and that means more work for you and your men. And that’s why we feel meetings of this type are necessary for us to develop proper—well, a proper climate for co-operation between us.”

  Reardon raised his eyes to the ceiling. Imported drugs weren’t the problem; not to him. Simple acid was the baby that brought out the sweat. One week before he had answered a call from some neighbors who had heard shots in a pad on Haight; he had found a youngster sitting cross-legged on the floor facing two dead bodies, both sixteen years old, one male, Caucasian, one female, Oriental. When he took the gun from the boy and asked him why he had done it, the kid looked at him blankly and said, “Done what?” Reardon tried to remember a murder done under the influence of heroin, and couldn’t. Trying to raise the price of a lift, sure; but under the influence? But acid? Daily. It had raised the homicide rate in San Francisco almost 200 per cent in a year; and New York was no better. Nor Washington, Chicago, Seattle, Cleveland; Gobler’s Knob, Kentucky, too, in all probability, he thought and tried to listen to the man.

  “And it isn’t just the smuggling of narcotics that has us worried. Weapons are coming into this country at a rate that would surprise many people, especially considering the ease with which local weapons are available. Air guns manufactured in Hong Kong—precious stones …”

  Reardon fought down a desire to yawn. Weapons manufactured in Hong Kong? What about that kid with the knife manufactured in Waukegan? Or the nut who used a whiskey bottle to beat his woman to death? He didn’t break the seal because he wanted the weight; or maybe he just didn’t want to spill any so he could have a relaxing drink afterward. What wasn’t a weapon? He glanced at his watch and wondered if Dondero had gotten to the restaurant as yet, how long this pointless meeting would last—because the young man from Customs sounded as if he were just getting started—and why they bothered with meetings of this nature in the first place. Obviously, co-operation was necessary; it was pretty sad to think meetings had to be held to point up the fact. And as far as narcotics were concerned, the problem was mainly in junk a high school kid could cook up in the kitchen, but soft or hard the effects were more noticeable to the patrolman on the beat than to the Customs people. All that Customs lost when a shipment got by the
m was a bit of face; the patrolman often lost his life. If meetings asking for co-operation had to be held, the police should be holding them at the Customs Building over on Jackson Street; not here.

  He started to yawn, saw Captain Clark from the corner of his eye sitting next to Assistant Chief Boynton watching him, and swallowed it. The telephone on a small table on the stage began to ring; almost without volition he found himself on his feet, trotting up the several steps, picking it up. The young man at the blackboard paused; twenty-four pairs of eyes fixed themselves on him.

  “Yes?” He listened carefully, and then fought down a smile, managing to look quite serious. “What? I’ll be right there.”

  He put the receiver down and walked down the steps, bending down to speak quietly into the captain’s ear.

  “That was Communications. Some problem.”

  “About what?”

  Reardon managed to look concerned. He never believed in lying unnecessarily. “They didn’t go into any great detail. If it’s nothing important, I’ll be right back …”

  “Right.” Captain Tower watched the young lieutenant march up the aisle and nodded his head. Lieutenant Jim Reardon had some of the faults that came from youth, but he was turning out to be a damned good police officer and the captain knew it.

  Reardon kept a straight face as he made his escape, but it was an effort not to smile. He climbed the ramp to the door quietly, aware of the envious glances from the other men chained in the auditorium by the droning voice which had picked up its theme once again.

  “Co-operation between the various government departments and the police officers involved in the day-to-day war against crime has been studied at great length, and it is our hope—”

  The closing door cut off the speaker’s repetitious voice. Good-by, dear hearts and gentle suckers, Reardon thought with a grin and walked happily to the stairs. He trotted down them contently to the fourth floor and walked to the Communications room, pushing open the door. With any luck he could either handle the matter over the phone or assign somebody—which was the logical thing to do—and be on his way back to the Little Tokyo restaurant in a matter of minutes. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time; Don and Jan would still be on their first drink. Their meal would scarcely have been ordered as yet. And speaking of meals, he hadn’t eaten since lunch, and it had been an athletic—though rewarding—afternoon.

  On the other hand he had been off base in leaving the auditorium for a call that had asked for someone in Traffic—but he had to get out or go mad. But somehow he would manage to square it and still be back with Jan in short order. God wouldn’t punish a nice guy like Lieutenant James Reardon, with a nice meal and nice drink and an extra nice girl waiting for him …

  Tuesday—8:50 P.M.

  The Communications room was its usual misleading quiet. The switchboard beside the entering door was unattended; the sergeant in charge of the room was leaning over one of the six patrolmen manning the center table, watching the other’s face as he handled the call. The automatic tape recorders to one side started and stopped spasmodically as some calls were recorded and others were not. The red lights on the map of the city, denoting the patrol cars on calls, covered most of the board. The sergeant looked up at the opening of the door and came forward, frowning slightly.

  “I thought that was you, Jim. But I need a traffic man.”

  “What’s the problem?” Reardon smiled. “Make it an easy one. I’ve got a date and supper’s on the table.

  “But this is for Traffic. An accident.”

  Reardon shrugged. “So nobody else was available.” He glanced at the lighted board on the wall. “And it seems nobody’s available on the streets either. What is it?”

  The sergeant shook his head.

  “If you insist. It isn’t Homicide, but you’re a lieutenant and I’m only a sergeant, so who am I to argue? Frankly, I’m happy somebody’s here. From any department.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “I make no promises on this one,” the sergeant said, thankful a lieutenant—even from the wrong department—was involved. “I’ll take hysterical women any time.” He pointed to the switchboard. “Take it on the headphone, Jim.”

  Reardon had a cold feeling he should have stayed in the meeting. “What’s it all about?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “Some guy, he’s all shook up. He’s practically crying. He—excuse me, Lieutenant …” He stared up at the board, picked a microphone from beside the patrolman he was working with, and spoke into it. He set the microphone down. “That makes about the last car free. What a night! Not even nine o’clock and—” He realized he was straying from the subject. “Grab the phone. This character’s really rattled. Says he killed somebody.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what the man says, Lieutenant.”

  “You got it on tape?”

  “I’ve got it on tape.”

  “Me and my big mouth,” Reardon muttered in disgust. When they wanted a man from Traffic, why hadn’t they said there was a death involved? A ten-minute job and then yoiks and away back to Little Tokyo? What a dream! He picked up the headset, holding the receiver against his ear, wishing he were back in the meeting. “Hello?”

  “Hello? Hello? Is there something the matter with this phone? Is this thing working? It took my dime! Why can’t I get anyone there to talk to me? Is this damned phone working?”

  “It’s working, if you’ll let someone get a word in. You’re talking to the police.”

  “I know I’m talking to the police! I called over five minutes ago and then the man who answered just wouldn’t talk any more! I tried to tell him what happened, but he said to hold on and I’ve been holding on ever since. And I don’t think it’s right—”

  “So tell me.” Reardon’s voice was cold. “What happened?”

  “It was an accident! It wasn’t my fault at all! And I couldn’t find a policeman anywhere, because I looked. There aren’t any down around here, I guess—and then I saw this phone booth—”

  “What kind of an accident?”

  “It wasn’t my fault at all—I swear it! I couldn’t have been going more than fifteen miles an hour; twenty at the most. The streets down here—half of them are full of potholes and the other half are all torn up for construction, you could break a spring—and he stepped off the curb right in front of me. I couldn’t stop in time; it happened too fast.” The speaker swallowed convulsively. “He’s … he’s dead, I think.”

  “What do you mean, you think?” Reardon’s voice was unnecessarily hard; he wanted to stop the growing hysteria in the other’s voice. “Is he breathing? Is he bleeding? Is his pulse beating?”

  “I—I can’t touch him. He … he looks dead.”

  “Great! He looks dead! Hold on a minute.” Reardon held his disgust, cupping the mouthpiece of the headset, looking over at the sergeant. “Did you at least find a free ambulance?”

  “Yes. From Mission Emergency over at San Francisco General.”

  “But no patrol car?”

  The sergeant gestured helplessly toward the lighted board. “Look for yourself. Everyone’s out-of-service—” It was the phrase used to indicate the cars were tied up on assignments; as always, Reardon wondered who had dreamed up the phraseology. “Everybody down in Traffic is out too—that’s why I called up to the meeting. But I asked for a Traffic man …”

  “I know who you asked for,” Reardon said testily. “If I had any brains and hadn’t been feeling cute, that’s who you would have gotten.” He sighed. “Well, I can’t go back to the meeting now.” He uncupped the mouthpiece, raising it, and then thought of something else. “Where’s the phone booth this character is calling from?”

  “Indiana and Eighteenth.”

  “So why in the hell isn’t the ambulance there yet?” He didn’t wait for an answer, started to raise the mouthpiece again and then stopped a second time, frowning at the floor. “What the hell was he doing driving in that neighborhood at t
his hour of the night? It’s all dock warehouses and they’d all be closed by now.” His eyes studied the sergeant wonderingly. “As a matter of fact, what were either of them doing over there at this hour?”

  “Pardon me, Lieutenant—” The sergeant escaped into the excuse of a call coming to the man before him.

  “Forget it. I’m talking to myself.” Reardon returned to his telephone call. “Hello?”

  “Yes? I’m still here.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “What difference does that make at a time like this? I’m all alone with this—this—”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Oh all right! My name is Ralph Crocker. Can you please send somebody over here? Right away? My God! You need a policeman about once in a hundred years, and then—”

  “There’s an ambulance on his way; he ought to be getting there in a very short while. And I’ll be down there in a matter of minutes. When the ambulance driver gets there, tell him if the man is dead, to wait for me there. My name is Reardon, Lieutenant Reardon. Do you have that?”

  “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Reardon.”

  “Right. And stay where you are. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t touch anything.” Lieutenant Reardon couldn’t help the sarcasm. “Like the body, for example.”

  “I—” There was momentary silence. “No, sir.”

  “Good. Just sit tight.” Reardon hung up and looked at the sergeant. “I don’t suppose any Accident Investigation cars are available.”

  “One with Sergeant Wilkins ought to be through with a job in the Mission district soon. I’ll get him over there. And a regular patrol car, soon as one calls in free.” He looked at the lieutenant. “I’m sorry, Jim, but you should have sent down a man from Traffic like I asked.”