CHAPTER 4

Wednesday—11:05 p.m.

The famous list beneath the glass covering Captain Tower’s desk was typewritten on a small square of paper; it was slightly fading with age and dated from the days of Captain Tower’s promotion to head up Homicide. Being beneath his eye daily he could scarcely avoid being aware of it, either consciously or subconsciously, and in either case it always had the ability to irritate him. To the captain it represented, among the many successes of the police department, at least a partial list of its failures, although it did have the advantage of keeping him from becoming too complacent about his work, or the work of his department. Here were the names of four men who were walking the streets when they should have been occupying cells in San Quentin; while they were not directly guilty of homicide as such, Captain Tower knew very well that their activities had caused more than one death.

The names on the list were four, and the captain actually didn’t need the square piece of paper to remember them, or the long list of reasons he would have liked to see them put away. From beneath the glass, there peeked at him constantly:

Jerry Capp

Porfirio Falcone

Raymond Martin

John Sekara

The captain leaned back in his chair, raised the glass by one corner, and managed to ease the small square of paper out, using the eraser on his pencil to pull it toward him. He reversed the pencil and drew a heavy line through the first name, and then replaced the list beneath the glass. He straightened the pane to square it with the desk top, and then methodically replaced the ashtray, the telephone and the In and Out basket with its papers. He swiveled his chair, looking out the window into the night, speaking to Reardon without looking at him.

“It’s enough to make you wonder, Jim.” His deep voice was soft, almost reminiscent. He tented his fingers and stared across them at the fog. “Five long years I’ve been after that bastard, ever since he came up from being a nobody to being a big shot in this town, but I could never pin a conviction on him. He and his stable of lawyers have been giving us the laugh for years. Blackmail, loan-sharking—and now, you tell me, an honest businessman on the side, which is hard to believe, but never mind—” He sighed and swung his chair back to face his subordinate. “Jerry Capp …” His voice was musing. “Nee Jerome Kaplan, alias Jack Culp, alias John Carpenter. All our organization and brains and we can’t touch him. And now some punk in a cheap bar sticks a knife in him in an argument, and just like that he’s off the list.” He shook his head; the light blue eyes beneath the bushy graying eyebrows studied Reardon. “I tell you, Jim, it really makes you think.”

“Yes, sir,” Reardon said. He spread his legs and leaned back in his chair, relaxing. It was late, and he had had a late night the night before, and he was tired. He fought down a yawn and came back to the subject of the conversation. “Actually, though, it really didn’t sound to me like too much of an argument.”

“It seems to have been enough,” Captain Tower said sardonically.

“I mean, it sounds as if it wasn’t really caused by an argument at all,” Reardon said, a trifle stubbornly. “It sounds to me as if the guy came in there looking for Capp and intending to get him. You know how most bar fights go, Captain—one guys says something, the other guy comes back with a nasty answer, words go back and forth for a while, then the pushing starts and that goes on awhile, and then—then the real trouble starts. If it starts at all.” He smiled faintly. “Most bar fights give the bystanders or the bartender plenty of time to break it up. Or we’d have corpses all over the place.”

“True,” the captain conceded. “On the other hand there are bar fights where one word is enough. And we do get corpses all over the place.”

“I’m not arguing that, but those are rare cases. And in this case I don’t think so. The bartender claims that Capp was there every Wednesday, which means that anyone could have known it.”

“Anyone who frequented the bar, but you say nobody recognized the killer.”

“Not in that outfit,” Reardon said. “With that getup, they wouldn’t have recognized their own mothers. Which is another reason I think the thing is phony.”

Captain Tower frowned at him. “First you say nobody recognized the man because you think his getup was a disguise, and then you say it had to be a disguise because nobody recognized him. Or words to that effect.” He smiled. “You can’t lose, can you?”

Reardon refused to be baited.

“Look, Captain. The fact is that nine bar fights out of ten are settled with fists. This man came prepared with a knife—” He saw the look of incredulity on the captain’s face and flushed slightly. “Yes, sir. I know half of the town carries a weapon these days, but still. Nobody in the place remembers what kind of a knife it was, but the doctor says it was a thin, long blade, which rules out a switchblade or a kitchen knife. So who goes around with a stiletto on the offhand chance somebody might get smart with him in a bar? They’re hard to conceal and damned awkward to carry. And it had to be something like that to go through Capp’s jacket and shirt and still kill him.”

Captain Tower remained silent, watching him. Reardon took a breath and went on.

“Secondly, they scarcely say two words before the knife comes out and Capp gets stabbed, and even those two words aren’t in any angry tones or loud tones, because nobody even knew they were arguing. Third, this girl that came in could have been checking to find out if Capp was there this particular day, fingering for the killer. Where does a person usually go for directions when they’re lost? Nine times out of ten to a gas station, and there’s one not very far away. Damned seldom to a bar, especially a crumb joint in that neighborhood. Fourth, that beard and jacket and glasses and all—that still sounds like a disguise to me, someone who didn’t want to be recognized, and there had to be a reason for that.” He shrugged. “It could have been because he didn’t want the witnesses to be able to identify him, but it could also have been because he wanted to get near enough to Capp without Capp getting suspicious.”

“You think Capp would have recognized him?”

“I don’t know; I merely say it seems to me to be a possibility.”

“He could have used a gun, you know—knocked Capp off from outside, without all that disguise business,” Captain Towers pointed out.

“He could have,” Reardon admitted, “but bullets are easier to trace than a knife the killer takes away with him. And actually, what real chance was he taking? TV on in a bar, everyone drinking and talking; hell, he wasn’t there ten seconds. And all anyone remembers is what he wants them to remember, a brush, sunglasses, a loud lumber jacket. He could have shed them and walked back in, five minutes later, and nobody would have known the difference.”

There were a few minutes of silence. Captain Tower reached into a drawer and brought out a cigar. He lit it, rolling it in his thick fingers, puffing it into life. The spent match was discarded.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Captain Tower said at last. He puffed, letting the thick smoke eddy from his lips. “I’m sure there are plenty of people who aren’t going to cry into their beer just because Jerry Capp went and got killed. Any one of them might have done it, and with reason. Still, our job is to find that someone. And unless we have something else to go on, we have to use what little we have—which is a beard and a red lumber jacket and a pair of sunglasses.” He looked at Reardon steadily. “Because if we don’t have those, what do we have?”

“Not very much,” Reardon admitted. “Of course, we all know Capp had enemies, but the question is also which particular enemy did Capp get exceptionally riled up recently? After all, he’s been a bad boy for a long time, and nobody knocked him off until tonight.”

“There’s always that first time,” Captain Tower said drily. “And as for enemies, they probably include half of San Francisco, or at least those who knew him or did business with him. His family hated his guts. His father died years ago, but his brothers say they never heard of Jerry, and his mother told me that as far as she’s concerned, Jerry died when he went into the rackets.”

“We’ll still have to check out his enemies,” Reardon said. He sounded a bit unhappy at the size of the chore. “Even if we get something, though, it won’t be easy to hang it on anyone. With the outfit that guy was wearing, any identification in the lineup could be thrown out the window in five minutes by a first-year law student.”

Captain Tower looked at him evenly.

“Look, Jim. I think you’re making too much of a thing out of this disguise bit, and the beard and mustache thing. Even if the beard and mustache were real he could have shaved them off five minutes after he left the bar. But the lumber jacket and the cap are something else again. It isn’t as easy to get rid of clothing as some people think.”

“I know it, Captain. I’m having men search the immediate vicinity right now, but I’ll have a special put on the air for the men all over town to be looking for the jacket and cap. And the knife and glasses, too. And I’ll talk to the Department of Sanitation in the morning; have their trucks report any lumber jacket they might get.” He paused, thinking. “And just for the hell of it, I’ll do a check on stores that sell masks and other costume stuff. See if I can come up with anything on that beard. If it was fake, it had to come from someplace.”

Captain Tower nodded. “It’s not a bad idea. And don’t forget the Goodwill Industries and the Salvation Army on that jacket and cap. Dumping the clothes in one of their receptacles on the street wouldn’t be a bad way to duck the stuff. Or to try to.”

“Yes, sir.” Reardon was taking notes. “And I’ll talk to Dutch Smarth on the Examiner. He might get some mileage out of an article about the problems criminals face getting rid of unwanted clothing. He’s doing a crime series; he could use this lumber jacket as an example. He’d be glad to do it, I’m sure, and maybe we can get half of San Francisco looking for it.” He looked up from his pad, smiling briefly. “If the guy isn’t wearing it to work tomorrow …”

“There’s always that.” Captain Tower wiped ash from his cigar. “Well—”

Reardon recognized that the captain was breaking up the conference for the evening. He tucked his notebook into his jacket pocket and got to his feet, reaching for his raincoat. Bed would feel good tonight, even though he knew it would have felt better with Jan there. May she be having fun with Gabriella, he thought with sudden bitterness; may they both be sitting there getting looped on grape juice! The thought was father to another; he hesitated and then spoke.

“Captain—”

“Yes, Jim?”

“I—” He stopped. To report Bennett would probably make him a fink in everyone’s eyes, he thought; probably even his own. And definitely in the eyes of Captain Tower. Still, that was the captain’s privilege; his own responsibility was to the organization as a whole, and not to any particular member of it.

“What is it, Jim?”

Reardon took a deep breath. “Captain, when Dondero and I got to that tavern tonight, Bennett was out in front, moving people along. He’d been drinking. You could smell him a block away. I don’t know if any of the people he was moving along noticed it—down there most of them are pretty well crocked a lot of the time, too—but …” He shrugged unhappily. “I thought it ought to be reported, anyway.”

“Are you saying you think he took a drink at that bar he was investigating a murder in?”

“No, sir. In fact I’d say he didn’t. I think he was probably in that john at that gas station taking it, but where he took the drink or drinks isn’t the point, Captain. He drives a patrol car. If he gets in an accident, or, even worse, tries to make an arrest with noticeable liquor on his breath—” He stopped.

Captain Tower put his cigar in the ashtray and reached for a pencil, beginning to twiddle it idly. For several moments he looked at the pencil and then tossed it aside. He looked up.

“Jim,” he said slowly, “if you tell me Bennett has been drinking, I’ve got to believe you, but I can say he never was a drinker. Tom’s a religious man and he’s been on the force for thirty-two years. We started together when you were probably just a youngster. If he’d have been interested, I expect he could have been sitting where I’m sitting now, or where you’ll probably be sitting long before you’re anywhere near his age. The reason he wasn’t interested was because he put his church and his family ahead of his job, and I’m not sure he was wrong. Still, his record is one I’d be happy to have—four individual citations, wounded in the line of duty twice.”

He swiveled his chair, staring out of the window toward the bay, invisible in the darkness and the fog.

“But Tom’s had his share of grief lately. We’ve had his youngest boy in here three times in the past year, everything from car-stealing to the latest, which was armed robbery. He goes up for that next week. Tom believes it killed his wife. So from a close-knit family he was proud of—with reason; after all, he put three kids through college on a cop’s pay without being on the take once—to a dead wife and a criminal kid, all in a year—” He sighed. “Well, if he drinks …”

Reardon remained silent, bitter with himself for having reported the man. Captain Tower swiveled back, read the younger man’s thoughts in his face and shook his head.

“Jim, you were right, and don’t forget it. It would be no favor to Tom Bennett if he got into an accident, or had to use muscle making an arrest, and he smelled of booze. If it came out in court it would not only kill the case, but it could ruin him, too.” He leaned forward, picking up his cigar again. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll speak to him. He should be checking out around now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Tower dragged his phone closer and dialed an internal number. “Hello, garage? Is Sergeant Bennett there? He’s changing? Good. Tell him I’d like to see him before he leaves, will you? Thank you. What? Right.” He cupped the receiver, looking at Reardon. “Another call; Communications cut into the line. Stick around …” He leaned back in the chair, puffing on his cigar, and then sat more erect. “Hello? Yes, this is Captain Tower. What? What!”

He shot up in his chair, his large pockmarked jaw hardening as he listened to the voice at the other end of the line; the receiver was almost lost in his huge paw of a hand. The cigar was forgotten. Reardon frowned as he saw the captain’s knuckles whiten as he squeezed the instrument. The big man set the cigar aside in an ashtray and hastily dragged over a pad; he picked up his pencil again and started to scribble hurriedly, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Yes, I’m listening. I’ve got it—the Cranston. Where the hell is that? What? Oh, I know. Yes. When did it happen?” There was the sound of a voice audible as an excited buzzing coming from the receiver to Reardon. Captain Tower paused in his writing. “Right. Right. Yes. I don’t suppose you can tell yet if there are any signs of violence? I suppose not. Yes. Right. I’ll get someone over there right away; you boys stick around until he gets there and then go back into service. Yes. What? Ten minutes at the most. Yes.” He hung up and stared at Reardon blankly, his big hand still resting on the telephone.

Reardon looked at him. “What is it, Captain?”

The captain came out of his reverie, looking at the lieutenant as if seeing him for the first time that evening.

“Jim, what’s your general opinion of coincidence?”

“Coincidence?” Reardon didn’t treat the question lightly; Captain Tower, in one of his moods, rarely asked idle questions. “Well, Captain, a little of it goes a long way with me.”

“With me, too,” Captain Tower said, as if satisfied with the answer. “Still, they also say never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

He made no attempt to explain this cryptic remark; instead, he began clearing his desk again, placing the items there on the table behind him. This chore finished, he moved his chair back and raised the pane of glass once again. Reardon, alert and sleepiness completely forgotten, watched wordlessly as the captain fished out his list a second time and reached for his pencil. A second heavy line joined the first, crossing out another name on the list. The paper was replaced; the glass straightened neatly. The captain’s eyes came up, flat and cold.

“That’s right, Lieutenant. It looks like a long night for you.”

He swung around to replace the accouterments on his desk, and then paused, as if aware that time did not permit.

“About three minutes ago, according to the patrol car that was just passing at the time,” he went on somberly, and took a deep breath.

“What, sir?” Reardon had a good idea.

“Mr. Porfirio Falcone, alias Peter Gabriel, Alias Paul Garbonne—also called Pete the Pimp, a name not selected by him, needless to say …” His eyes came up, expressionless. “He took himself a dive. From his fancy apartment on the fifteenth floor of the Cranston Hotel, over on the other side of town …”