CHAPTER 16

Sunday—7:30 P.M.

“You’re a different man with twenty hours’ sleep,” Jan said. She was holding Reardon’s hand across a table in Marty’s Oyster House. A waiter hovered in the near background, undisturbed by the importuning of other customers, prepared to instantly spring into action at the lady’s slightest command. Since the lovely lady was accompanied, the waiter knew he would be expected to give somewhat equal service to her companion; it was unfortunate, but the waiter felt it a price worth paying.

Reardon winked at Jan and used his free hand to raise his martini.

“In fact,” Jan said, “you’re a different man away from that police station.”

“It isn’t a police station. It’s called the Hall of Justice. And I still have two more lovely days free—”

“Which you will probably spend sleeping. You might as well,” Jan said. She sipped her martini and put it down. “Because I have to work.”

“I wanted to talk to you about that—” Reardon started, and then paused as a man stopped beside their table. He looked up to discover Porky Oliver staring at Jan, entranced. “Mr. R.,” Porky said without looking in his direction, “I certainly will. And thank you.”

Reardon frowned. “You certainly will what?”

“Join you for a drink,” Porky said, and slid into the booth at Reardon’s side. Jan, looking across the table, was pleased by what she saw. Oliver was handsome, well-dressed, soft-spoken, with an obvious sense of humor, and his apparent admiration for her managed to make her feel very feminine without in the least making her feel insulted.

Reardon sighed and slid over. Oliver raised a hand for a waiter, forcing himself to stop looking at Jan. The waiter came over instantly; Porky frowned. “They must have changed management,” he said under his breath, and then saw the look the waiter was bestowing upon Jan. “Oh,” he said, understanding. “In that case I might as well take full advantage of the rare situation. I’ll have what they’re having, only vodka instead of gin, straight up instead of on the rocks, onion instead of twist.”

Jan smiled. Porky smiled back in friendly fashion and spoke over his shoulder. “You haven’t introduced us yet.”

Reardon shrugged. “Jan, this is Paul Oliver.”

“Jan what?” Porky asked, interested.

“Jan is all you need to know,” Reardon said shortly.

“I do believe I note a tone of jealousy,” Porky said, and looked at Jan. “Tell me, Jan, does Mr. R. have reason for this possessiveness?”

Jan smiled and nodded. “He does.”

“Oh.”

“And why do you call him Mr. R.?”

“I have a short memory,” Porky said. “But the name ‘Jan’ isn’t too great a strain. I shall work on etching it on my brain.” He accepted his drink from the waiter, sipped, and nodded his approval.

Jan felt it time to change the subject, especially as Reardon merely sat in the corner and frowned. “What do you do, Mr. Oliver?”

“I’m in communications,” Porky said with becoming modesty.

“Publishing or broadcasting?” Jan asked.

“Well, a bit of both, actually,” Porky said, considering. “My primary interest is an occasional book. The broadcasting, you might say, is more a hobby.” It was his turn to change the subject. He turned to Reardon. “Your exploit in that bank caper is the talk of the airwaves, Mr. R. When last we lunched you mentioned the names of four complete unknowns, but failed to raise the name of this Mr. Milligan. Had you done so I could have clarified the picture while we were waiting for service. Mr. Milligan was an old client, although frankly of late our relationship left something to be desired. Like payment on his part.”

Reardon frowned. “Then why didn’t you tell me? Didn’t you see his name in the papers at the time of the robbery?”

“Unless he was favored at the Big A or scratched at Fairground,” Porky said, “I would have missed it.” He turned to Jan. “I apologize for speaking in riddles. In any event, one can pursue just so many hobbies, and reading newspapers is one I’ve been pleased to forego.”

He finished his drink and came to his feet.

“I thank you one and all,” he said pleasantly, and looked at Jan. His tone became slightly conspiratorial; he lowered his voice. “You may have noticed,” he said, “the remarkable resemblance between our friend, Mr. R. and sweet Alice. He weeps with delight when you give him a smile, and trembles with fear at your frown. I should do something about that if I were you.”

“Such as what?”

“I should marry him if I were you,” Porky said. “Weeping and trembling policemen give cities a poor image.” He smiled brightly at them both and walked away.

“Well,” Jan said, “at least that was something different.” She looked across the table. “Now, if you were in the kind of business where you didn’t have to associate with hoodlums all the time, but could meet people like your friend Mr. Oliver—”

Reardon had been drinking. He choked.

“Pinch your nose,” Jan said. “It helps.” She tried to keep a straight face but couldn’t. “‘I apologize for speaking in riddles,’ he said.” She laughed. “I was practically raised at Santa Anita. Outside of being a bookie, and your personal informant, I gather Mr. Oliver seems like a very nice man.”

Reardon looked at her with admiration. “He is. He’s also a very smart man. That advice of his was excellent.”

“I thought so, too,” Jan said softly.

“If you weren’t so stubborn,” Reardon went on, not listening, “you could take the next few days off and we could go up to Tahoe and get married.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

“It’s simply ridiculous,” Reardon declared, “for us to go on like this and not get married!”

“I agree.”

“Porky—I mean, Paul Oliver was right, you know.”

“I know. So let’s get married.”

“One of these days—what?” Reardon stared. “What did you say?”

Jan smiled. “If we’re going to drive to Tahoe tonight, we’d better not talk so much. We’d better order.” And she raised her hand for the waiter.

Saturday—7:45 P.M.

At his booth farther down and across the way, Porky Oliver was able to see the look, first of disbelief and then of happiness spread across Reardon’s rugged face. He sighed. It must be nice, he thought, but scarcely for him. Still, it had been the least he could do for the lieutenant. He just hoped, for Reardon’s sake, that Jan never found out it had been a setup.

He raised his hand for a waiter and then dropped it, knowing it to be useless. Why couldn’t Reardon have arranged the meet anywhere else in San Francisco except Marty’s Oyster House?