CHAPTER 9

Friday—10:30 A.M.

Bluish-white light reflected antiseptically from the tiled walls and the row of polished stainless steel tables laid out in parallel. Dondero, an avid reader of science fiction, once said the dissecting room of the morgue looked like a Vesuvian flophouse. Many people had commented on the large number of tables; the morgue seemed prepared for disasters of major proportions. At the moment, however, the Unidentified Male Caucasian—Dead On Arrival was the only customer.

Doctor Lascowski, the pathologist assigned to the task, smiled as he approached the removal of the second of Wheaton’s bullets from the dead body. The first had required the breaking and retraction of ribs, always a lot of work, but the second had chipped the clavicle, slowing down, touched the aorta in passing, and conveniently lodged itself on the exterior wall of the stomach, where it poked out like an incipient boil waiting to be lanced.

“Vesticular,” the doctor said, pleased. The uniformed policeman acting as his secretary noted it in his book.

The photographer, requested from Sergeant Wilkins by Reardon and sent to photograph the dead man, was seated, against all rules, on the adjoining steel dissecting-table, waiting impatiently to get on with the job. As the doctor bent over the second bullet, he spoke for the fourth or fifth time.

“Look, Doc, all I want is one or two lousy mug shots. I’m not interested in the hemstitching.”

“One minute more and you can have all of him.”

“One minute more and Sergeant Wilkins will have my head,” the photographer said, irritated. “You’ve been giving me that ‘one minute’ stuff for half an hour. Can’t you step out of the way a second—?”

There was a sharp snip of the scalpel and the bullet cooperatively popped into the waiting basin with a small clink. The doctor stepped back, smiling; the secretary closed his book.

“All yours,” the doctor said.

The photographer grunted, brought up his camera without getting off the table, and took a shot. He climbed down and moved closer, raising the camera for a full-face view, and snapped again. He walked to the other side of the table for a final shot, winding the film forward as he did so. He took his last picture and started for the door.

“Just remember to explain to Sergeant Wilkins why it took all day to get the pictures,” he said sourly and left the room. The doctor picked up the bullets, carefully labeled them for the Ballistics Laboratory, handed them to the secretary for delivery, and then patiently began to sew the dead body up again. It would never do to bury an unsightly corpse.

While the photographer at long last was bringing his film upstairs for development, Dondero was waiting, also impatiently, for the Identification Section to check out the fingerprints he had brought up from the morgue a half-hour earlier. The rubber surgical gloves had still been on his hands when the corpse was delivered, and the fingerprints were, if Dondero had to say it himself, things of beauty. Their clarity, however, had not been of any great assistance so far; the local files had revealed no record of the dead man. The state files in Sacramento were now being checked by telex. The sergeant in charge of the section finally appeared at the end of an aisle of filing cabinets; he worked his way down the narrow passage and confronted Dondero at the small counter.

“No record,” he said.

“Get them off to Washington then,” Dondero said, and looked up at the clock on the wall. “How long for that?”

“If he’s on file as a criminal, a couple of hours. If not—” The sergeant shrugged. “Maybe a day. If he was ever printed,” he added.

Dondero looked at him sourly. “Who hasn’t been printed?”

“About half the country, believe it or not,” the sergeant informed him.

“How many bank robbers?” Dondero asked sarcastically.

“Probably all those who were never caught,” the sergeant said, and walked toward the telephone to send the print classification to Communications for forwarding to Washington. Dondero left the office and climbed stairs to relay the news of the ID delay to the lieutenant.

Reardon was seated at his desk going down the small list of people with previous arrest records who had still managed employment at the shipyard. The majority had been up for minor violations, but there were several crimes with violence, and Reardon was studying them. When Dondero walked in, he looked up expectantly. Dondero shook his head.

“He’s not local or state,” he said, “which figures, anyway, from that accent. The classification’s on its way to Washington now. It’ll probably take a while. If he was ever printed, that is.”

“He’ll have been printed,” Reardon said confidently. “If not for a crime, then definitely for the army. At his age he could scarcely miss it.”

“Unless he was 4-F or had an occupational deferment, or was a perpetual student or any one of a dozen other things,” Dondero said gloomily. “Hell, he could even have been in the merchant marine. I was never printed until I joined the force.”

“Don’t cheer me up,” Reardon said. “If he was never printed—” He shrugged.

“I know.”

They both knew. The clothing was cheap, but somebody had still taken the trouble to remove all labels. The shoes were a standard brand, size 9C, with no store name on them. The body had no scars, and the small amount of dental work would have made identification by the man’s own dentist difficult, even if they had any idea where to look for him, which they didn’t.

“Still,” Reardon said, looking for comfort, “we’ve still got his face. By the way, what in hell is holding up those pictures?” He frowned and shook his head. “Well, keep after Identification on those fingerprints,” he began, and then paused. Clarence Milligan, the manager of the branch bank, was standing in the doorway. Reardon looked at his watch. “You’re early.”

“Early?” Milligan looked puzzled.

“You weren’t supposed to be here until this afternoon.”

“Is that Mr. Milligan?” Jennings got into the act. “I forgot to tell you, Lieutenant, I wasn’t able to reach him. I left a message for him to call, but I meant for him to call by phone.…”

“I didn’t get any message,” Milligan said, mystified. “I was downtown at the head office on business, and when I came out I heard the boy screaming an extra, so I bought one—”

“Extra?”

“The newspapers,” Milligan said, and took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it over. There was a photograph of a police officer on the front page, under a stop-press scarehead. It read: ROBBERY GETAWAY CAR AND DEAD BANDIT FOUND. Reardon was scarcely surprised to see the picture was a studio portrait of Officer Gunther, probably taken upon graduation from the academy. He glanced at the article:

… black car containing the body of one of the suspected bank robbers who robbed the Farmers & Mercantile branch bank in Bay View of a quarter of a million dollars, killing Police Officer Thomas Wheaton in the process, was dredged from the bay in Burlingame early this morning. The empty suitcase allegedly used to transport the stolen money was also recovered.

According to Officer Otto Gunther, who called the story in exclusively to the Star, he and another officer were passing the road leading to the Windsor Dock at about four o’clock this morning when Officer Gunther noticed the light normally illuminating the pier was not functioning. Fearing something might have happened to the watchman, Officer Gunther …

Reardon didn’t bother to read further. He could picture the rest of the story. Maybe he’d take a trip down to Burlingame, after all. If nobody down there taught Gunther the obligations of a police officer—or to at least keep his lies reasonable—he might decide to do it himself. He tossed the paper aside with a gesture of contempt and looked up to find Milligan staring at him, a worried look on his face.

“It’s true, isn’t it, Lieutenant? What’s the matter?”

“It has its points of truth,” Reardon said dryly. “We did dredge up a car, and it did have a suitcase in it, plus a dead body. We just preferred to keep it out of the papers awhile, is all. Of course I would have informed you, because I want you to formally identify the suitcase. That’s why the sergeant was calling you.” He reached under his desk and brought out the case. A tag had been appended to the handle. “Is this the suitcase that was taken from the bank?”

“Sure,” Milligan said, surprised at the question. “Of course that’s it. It’s got the name of the bank there, like I said.”

“Then would you please initial this tag. Better look inside first, and make sure it’s really the same one. You’d be surprised what some defense attorneys can do with a faulty identification.”

“Sure,” Milligan said, and opened the case. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, stronger inside, and pointed. “See that tear? Caught my cuff link one day. It’s the same one, all right.” He closed it, signed the tag, and then sat down beside the desk as Reardon slipped the case under his desk again. “What do you think, Lieutenant? Have you any idea where the others are? Or the money?”

“Not yet,” Reardon said. “We haven’t identified the dead man yet. But we will. His prints are on the way to Washington right now. Which reminds me—” He picked up the phone and dialed an inside number. There was a brief wait before Sergeant Wilkins of the Technical Squad was on the line.

“Yes?”

“Frank? This is Jim Reardon. Where in hell are those pictures?”

“They’re in the drier right now, Lieutenant. That damn doctor downstairs wouldn’t let our man get close enough to get a good shot until he was all done fishing out the bullets—”

“Well, get me a print of each in a rush, will you?”

“Two minutes,” Wilkins said, and hung up.

Reardon put the phone down. “I’m going to show you pictures of the dead man. They’re not gory; his face was unharmed and these are just pictures of his face. I want you to try and remember if you’ve ever seen him before, in the bank or anywhere else. The shipyard, maybe.”

“I’ve never been at the shipyard,” Milligan said, “but, sure.” He hesitated a moment. “Lieutenant, what do you figure the chances are of getting the money back?”

“To be honest,” Reardon said evenly, “I’m more interested in getting the other three men who were involved in killing a cop.”

Milligan’s face reddened. “I didn’t mean—”

Reardon took pity on him. “I know. Anyway, basically the money is your problem and getting the men who shot Tom Wheaton is ours.” He shrugged. “I honestly can’t say. The quicker we get the three, the better the chances of the money being found intact. The longer it takes, the less chance. It’s probably already split, which makes it that much harder, and the chances are the men are all spread out by now.” He glared at the newspaper he had tossed away. “That story there doesn’t help. Anyway, we’re doing our best.”

“I know that—” Milligan began, and then paused as Reardon’s attention was diverted by a uniformed policeman. The officer handed Reardon an envelope, and left. Reardon slid three eight-by-ten prints from the brown envelope; they were still warm from the drier. He placed them on the desk. “This is the man we fished out of the bay this morning. Ever see him before?”

The face was unmarked; it actually looked alive. The expression showed none of the horror one might have expected at painful death; instead it seemed to demonstrate only polite disinterest. The hair was tousled and showed dampness, but the face itself had dried. Other than one corner of the print which showed the start of the incision for the recovery of the first bullet, the picture might have been a candid shot taken against a plain steel background. Milligan studied each pose carefully; when he looked up he shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said simply. “He—well, he looks like a million other people. He could have been in the bank, or not. I don’t remember him.”

Reardon nodded. He had studied the photographs together with the young bank manager and it was, unfortunately, his own opinion. It was a standard, everyday face, neither ugly nor especially handsome, of a man in his middle to late twenties, with one nose, one mouth, two eyes, two ears, and a full head of hair.

Milligan cut into the lieutenant’s thoughts. “If I could keep these, maybe one of the tellers, or the guard, might recognize him. They see the customers a lot more than I do, anyway.”

“You can take them,” Reardon said, and put them back in the envelope, handing it over. “We’ll send you more copies, if you want, but the pictures will be in the newspapers, too.”

“Somebody’s bound to recognize him,” Milligan said confidently. “After all, he’ll be missed—” He seemed to realize he was intruding on police prerogatives and came to his feet. He shook Reardon’s hand in a firm, warm grip. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

Reardon nodded. Thanks for what? he thought sourly, and watched the young man leave the office. You were right, you know, he silently said to the departing Milligan. He’ll be missed and somebody’s bound to recognize him. In fact, eighty-eight thousand people will undoubtedly recognize him, each one equally convinced it is his or her missing son, brother, uncle, cousin, sister, aunt, or what have you. And we’ll go crazy.

Pray for those fingerprints, Reardon, he said to himself fervently, and went back to the lists from the shipyard of crimes with violence.

Friday—12:30 P.M.

Lieutenant Reardon, on his way to lunch alone—by design—pulled the Charger to the curb before a drugstore on the corner of Morris and Bryant, climbed out, and edged his way past the crowded display racks inside the store to reach the phone booths well hidden in one corner. He slid into one, dropped his dime, and dialed a familiar unlisted number. To his surprise it was answered almost immediately, an unprecedented thing. Even more surprising was the fact that the answering voice was alert, rather than drugged with sleep as usual.

“Proceed,” said the voice in friendly fashion.

“Porky? Did I wake you?”

“You insult me, Mr. R.,” Porky said with a touch of hauteur. “I’ve been up for eight minutes.” There was a pause. “Nine, actually.”

Reardon said, “Good! Meet me at Marty’s Oyster House in another nine minutes; it’s close to you. I’ll buy you lunch.”

“Lunch? At twelve-thirty in the afternoon? You certainly have weird ideas, Mr. R.,” Porky said musingly. “However,” he added, making a concession, “if you want me there to use my influence to get you a waiter, I’ll be pleased to oblige. At a rate to be determined, of course. Waiter-trapping comes high.”

“You talk a lot,” Reardon said pleasantly, and hung up. He went outside, climbed into his car, and drove off.

He parked outside the restaurant that was so famous for its generous drinks, its excellent food, and the incredible disregard with which service was tendered. He was not at all surprised to find the parking lot still largely deserted. While twelve thirty-five might be considered a reasonable lunch hour for many people, to the usual clientele of Marty’s, appearing before two o’clock for lunch was unthinkable; someone might see them and suspect they worked at menial jobs for a living. It pleased Reardon, however. As Porky had indicated, the waiters at Marty’s were sufficiently independent when the place was empty; when crowded they were impossible.

The beery odor within—which Porky claimed was imported from Munich in perfume bottles and sprayed every hour on the hour—was quite in keeping with the red velvet drapes and the general decor of the Gay Nineties. Reardon made his way to the rear of the large room to find Porky eying him calmly from a booth adjacent to the kitchen door. It was undoubtedly the ideal spot to exchange confidences; it was also a fair location in which to trap a waiter. Reardon dropped into a seat across from Porky and raised a hand at a waiter approaching the swinging doors. The waiter didn’t even bother to glance his way as he pushed past into the kitchen.

“Not that way,” Porky said reprovingly, and turned. A waiter was just emerging from the kitchen, one hand above his head carrying a loaded tray. Porky grasped the pink-shirted, gaitered other arm, nearly upsetting a meal. The waiter glared at him.

“You will stop at this table after you serve that whatever-it-is, and you will be bearing two large mugs of draft ale plus a menu for this gentleman,” Porky said, giving the man a most friendly smile, “or I will trip you the next time around.” The waiter stared at him a moment, sneered in standard fashion, and went off. “That’s just the first step,” Porky said confidentially. “Next time we threaten him with something dire, like a reduced tip.”

The intimidation was needless. To the amazement of both men the waiter returned within twenty minutes bearing a mug of foaming ale in each hand and a menu tucked under one arm.

“You see?” Porky said, essaying insouciance, but it was difficult to hide his amazement at the rapidity of service. Porky-wise, he therefore changed the subject, assuming a serious tone, but only after the waiter had taken Reardon’s order and gone. Porky said, “I could have told you on the phone that I haven’t come up with anything, and haven’t much hope of doing so, but then you would have starved to death, here, lacking my aid.”

Reardon drank some of his ale, watching Porky. He had known the other a long time. He wiped his lips and put the mug down. “Nothing?”

“Nothing that means anything,” Porky amended. Now that the time for serious business had come, he put aside his lightness. “The way I hear it, the locals take exception to jobs of the size of the Farmers & Mercantile being done by strangers. It removes ready cash from the area. I’ve also heard there is active resentment on the part of some extremely large names in the Organization over the killing of a policeman.” His eyes were steady across the table. “As you are aware, Mr. R., such affairs are usually followed by excessive zeal on the part of law-enforcement agencies and—”

He paused abruptly to allow their waiter to bring half a dozen oysters and a roast beef on rye, setting both before Reardon. Porky studied the combination as if wondering how the human stomach could tolerate such an invasion at that early hour. He shrugged, safe in his own virtues, and went on as soon as the waiter had left.

“As I was saying, these people consider the present level of zeal on the part of the authorities as being sufficient. When they want heat, there are always saunas.”

Reardon paused in his eating. He looked curious. “Are you even faintly suggesting that the Organization would turn these men in to us, if they knew who they were?”

“Good heavens, no!” Porky said, shocked at the very idea. “I do think, though, that if the Organization knew who they were, it is more than possible they would be called upon the carpet and reprimanded.”

“Severely?”

“Severely,” Porky said. He was completely serious now. “And they wouldn’t like it. Killing a cop is a dumb thing, any way you figure it. Everybody loses; nobody gains.”

“And if such reprimands, as you put it, were to take place, you think you would hear about it?”

“I imagine so,” Porky said. “After all, it wouldn’t serve as much of an example if nobody heard of it, would it?”

Reardon rightly construed the question to be rhetorical. He finished his oysters, thinking of what Porky said, and then tackled the roast beef sandwich. He chewed awhile, swallowed, washed it down with some ale, and looked over at his companion.

“Let’s get back to the money,” he said. “After all, almost a quarter of a million dollars was taken. That much money has to practically beg to be spent, especially by that type of character.”

Porky looked surprised. “You know what type of character? You didn’t tell me.”

“I mean, they certainly didn’t steal the money just to sit around on the long winter nights counting it,” Reardon said shortly.

“True,” Porky admitted. “But they don’t necessarily have to spend it in the Bay area.”

“That’s also true,” Reardon said, “but we’re fairly sure that one of them, at least, is from around here. It’s in the papers, anyway, so I might as well tell you.” He related the details of the dredging operation and its results, while Porky listened with unabated attention. “Nobody,” Reardon finished, “would ever find that pier in a million years unless they knew they were looking for it. Or I’d say the chances against were in the neighborhood of a million to one.”

“Higher odds than I usually offer,” Porky conceded.

“So we’re sure one of them comes from around here. So why wouldn’t he spend his share around here?”

Porky considered the lieutenant with curiosity.

“You count on local pride?” He shook his head. “Mr. R., other than a Cadillac with everything hung on it, what would a man buy if he suddenly came into possession of that much money? What would you buy, for example?”

Reardon paused, thinking. Porky nodded.

“He might, of course, immediately think of all the girls he had always wanted, either single or together, and could never afford—but even orgies have to bear the competition of the market place. And how many can you buy before they begin to pall? He could, of course, merely put it in a safe-deposit box and hold it for old age, but that would cost him interest. Or, of course, he might actually merely use it for a winter’s night’s entertainment as you suggested, but I doubt it.” He waited a moment while Reardon watched him. “My guess, of course,” Porky said gently, “would probably be gambling.”

“Your field,” Reardon said.

“I know a few gamblers,” Porky admitted. “Gambling, of course, was invented to separate people from money they do not feel essential at the moment, and this applies eminently to most of the money stolen. I would guess, however, he would go to Vegas for his action. Up there, large sums neither distract nor cause the slightest suspicion; down here there would be the danger that any large loss—or win—might come to somebody’s ears. Mine, for instance.”

“It’s possible,” Reardon admitted. “Can you do anything about it?”

“I can ask a few friends up there to keep an eye open for anyone who isn’t known, who drifts around a lot and bets a lot, but it’s not going to be easy. You see,” he said sadly, “it makes it much harder to isolate our bacterium, looking for him in an agar culture.”

Reardon stared. “Where did you learn that?”

“You mean it’s true?” Porky said, looking amazed. “I thought I just made it up.”

Reardon looked at the innocent expression a moment and then raised the other half of his sandwich. He paused as a thought came to him.

“I’ll give you copies of a picture,” he said. “The man we found dead this morning. Possibly he may have been around the casinos, either here or in Vegas. It’s been known as a reason for folks to need money—”

He stopped as he heard his name being called. The bartender was holding one of the old-fashioned upright telephones that Marty’s sported, the receiver to his ear, the mouthpiece pressed against his chest as if he were listening to his own heartbeat.

“Reardon! Jim Reardon! Reardon! Jim Reardon!”

It was the standard address-style at Marty’s, replacing a public-address system, and none of the habitués at the other tables paid it the slightest attention. Reardon dropped his sandwich and arose in a hurry. He had a cold feeling that a call to him here would be like the ringing of the ship’s bell at Lloyd’s, presaging disaster. He took the phone from the bartender and brought it to his ear tightly.

“Yes?”

“Jim?” It was Dondero, and he sounded aggrieved. “Why didn’t you leave word where you were eating? That’s the tenth place I tried.”

“All right,” Reardon said shortly. “You found me. So what’s the bad news?”

“Bad news? What bad news? It’s just the opposite.” The irritation left Dondero’s voice; he sounded pleased. “We’ve tagged our boy!”

“What!”

“That’s right,” Dondero said, happy at the lieutenant’s reaction but not surprised by it, and told him all about it.

Reardon listened, his facial expression betraying none of the pure joy he was feeling. When Dondero paused, Reardon said, “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” and hung up. He walked back to the table, slid in across from Porky Oliver, and picked up his sandwich again.

“If it would help any in checking around,” he said, “the men we’re looking for were pals of a guy named George Mullin, who came from a town called Bartlesville in Florida.”

Porky nodded. “I gather he’s the dead man you fished from the bay? The one whose photograph you are going to honor me with?”

“He is.”

“Fascinating!” Porky said. “Now, if you could give me the names of the three live ones, it would help even more.”

“As soon as we get them,” Reardon promised, and took a large bite of his sandwich, his eyes shining. He might have been biting into the solution of the case from the energy he put into it. Across from him, Porky Oliver sipped his ale and watched interestedly. Energy expended by anyone at that hour of the day, no matter how expended, always intrigued him.