CHAPTER 15

Tuesday—12:00 NOON

Chief Boynton marched through the closely set desks as if they were obstacles to be overcome, following a prim Miss Tenefly, with Captain Tower on their heels. Miss Tenefly tapped once on the door of the corner office and then opened it, permitting her guests to enter. Once they had been properly delivered, she closed the door and returned to her desk, prepared—as anyone working for Mr. Maxwell had to be prepared—for anything.

Inside the office, Chief Boynton acknowledged the introductions and then frowned at the lieutenant.

“All right,” he said quietly. “What’s this all about? And if you’ve got something to report, why not at the Hall?”

“Because I think we can save ourselves a lot of trouble, with Mr. Maxwell’s help,” Reardon said. He was standing with his back to the window, looking at the chief evenly. He had had plenty of time since his call to the Hall to work things out. “If you’ll just take a seat …”

Chief Boynton looked for a moment as if he might object, but then he shrugged and sat down. Captain Tower considered his subordinate a moment and then found a chair and followed suit. Lieutenant Reardon had always done a good job, and the captain had a feeling this case was no exception. Reardon could almost read his mind. Well, he thought, it’s a damn good thing the captain doesn’t know how much luck played in this one!

“All right,” he said. “With the help of the Express, we’ve located the people we believe kidnapped Pop Holland. There’s very little room for doubt. The man in charge is named George Morrison, and the small man who ran down the wino in Pop’s car is named Harry Wittwer. Morrison runs a small printing plant called the Neighborhood Print Works, over on Galvez. Wittwer is his driver; Morrison apparently doesn’t like to drive. We think Pop and Dondero might be held there, at the—”

“Dondero!” It came as a chorus from both Tower and Boynton.

“Yes, sir. Dondero took Lazaretti out of the cell block, it’s true, but he didn’t torture or kill him. Morrison and Wittwer did that. Don took the man out to trade him for Pop Holland, and—well, the kidnapper has him, too.” And the statement, Reardon told himself, was true; it didn’t seem the time to go into details that had been abridged. “As I started to say, Pop Holland and Don may be in the building on Galvez, or they may not. My guess is they are. Now, we could surround the building with a dozen squad cars and end up with a shoot-’em-up, and somebody would get hurt, and that includes Pop and Dondero. Or, we can play it smart and ask Mr. Maxwell for his help.”

Boynton was quiet, trying to absorb the information he had just received. Tower frowned. “Mr. Maxwell’s help? How?”

“Well,” Reardon said, “I spoke with Davidson while you were on your way over here, and he’ll have men on the Neighborhood Print Works in the next fifteen minutes. They’re probably there now. They’ll be instructed not to be obvious. There are men on foot and cars, both, but if Dave knows his job—and he does—nobody at the print works will have any idea they’re covered. Then, as soon as Morrison and Wittwer leave—”

“How do you know they’re there?”

Reardon smiled. “Because Miss Tenefly, Mr. Maxwell’s invaluable secretary, just had a wrong number and spoke with Morrison. She was looking for the Neighborhood Dry Cleaning Company to register a complaint, and she wouldn’t believe they weren’t giving her a run around until she spoke with the boss. No, Morrison’s there.”

“And what makes you think they’ll leave?”

“That’s Mr. Maxwell’s part of the job.” Reardon looked at Maxwell. “Ready?”

“Ready,” the little man said. His eyes were twinkling with delight. He picked up the telephone, asked for an outside line, and dialed. There was a short wait; then the telephone at the other end was raised.

“Neighborhood Print Works.”

The humor died from Maxwell’s face. He looked to be exactly what he was; a tough experienced publisher. Tower and Boynton watched the small man with curiosity; Reardon smiled. Maxwell’s voice was harsh.

“I want to speak with Mr. Morrison.”

“Who wants to talk to him?”

“This is Ira Maxwell, publisher of the Express. Please tell Mr. Morrison this call is extremely important.” He cupped the receiver and winked jovially at the others, then straightened his face and removed his hand as another voice came on the line. “Morrison? Is this George Morrison? How are you? We’ve never met, but I’ve heard a lot about you, and I think you can help me out. And, in return, I think I can help you out.”

“Help you out? How?” Morrison sounded slightly amused by the call.

“I understand you run a nonunion shop. Well, we’re sitting here, me and my lawyers, talking about just that. We’re about to come up for negotiations and these damn fools here are ready to give away the whole damn plant! I thought if you could come over and join us for an hour or so, maybe you could give us some idea of how you operate. Damned if I’m going to give everything I’ve worked for to some damned union …!”

“I don’t know …” There was a brief pause while everyone in the room waited tensely. Then Morrison spoke. “And just what would be the quid pro quo you mentioned if I did help you out?”

Maxwell was quite prepared. He had a pencil in one hand and doodled as he spoke.

“You buy your newsprint through Western American, don’t you? Of course you do. I happen to be a major stockholder in Western American. How do you think I’ve stayed in business as long as I have against such competition as the Chronicle and the Examiner if I didn’t have an edge? Now, we had a board meeting of Western American not very long ago, and the question came up of a price rise—”

Morrison laughed, genuinely amused. “I’m not afraid of any price rise.”

“I don’t believe you understand,” Maxwell said, and Reardon was amazed at the toughness that had crept into the little man’s voice, a toughness he was sure Morrison would recognize. “The reason we are thinking of a price rise is that we have overcut our forests, and the concensus was we should raise prices and reduce output for a few years. The oil producers have done very well with this method, and we believe it would have equal advantages for us. That, of course, would mean dropping some customers …” He allowed his voice to drift off.

There was silence at the other end of the line for several moments. Then Morrison said quietly, “I’ll be in your office in twenty minutes, Mr. Maxwell.”

“Thank you,” Maxwell said graciously, but he was talking to a dead line. He hung up and turned to the others, smiling faintly. “Morrison will be here in twenty minutes.”

Reardon looked at that bright, shrewd, smiling face with the sharp blue eyes and hoped he would never have to face the little man on a business deal. He reached behind him, to his belt holster and removed his service revolver. He checked it carefully, slid it into his outside jacket pocket for easy access, then seated himself, waiting. Captain Tower did the same with his revolver and also placed it in his side pocket. Chief Boynton merely came to his feet and moved to the window, staring out.

The minutes ticked by. Then there was a rap on the door; it opened and a large bearded man stood on the threshold. His glance passed the other three men in the room and fastened on Maxwell. “You’re Mr. Maxwell …?” he started to say, and then did a rapid double take, turning swiftly to face Reardon. “You’re …!” His hand went to his pocket, but before either of the others could draw their guns, Chief Boynton had moved swiftly. His big hand slapped Morrison across the face with all his might. Morrison stood there a moment, dazed, and then slid to the floor, unconscious.

“Too many guns around, these days,” Boynton said briefly, and bent down to frisk the man on the floor.

Tuesday—12:30 P.M.

Harry Wittwer sat behind the wheel of the large Cadillac and bit his lip. Whatever labor problem this Maxwell had, Harry sincerely hoped George could solve, because the one thing they had to have was newsprint, and getting it on a moment’s notice from some other company than Western American was damn near impossible. And without the “Neighborhood Shopping News,” they would have plenty of problems—

He suddenly looked up, aware that someone was speaking to him. It was a man dressed in work clothes, crossing the street in front of the car, pointing downward.

“Hey, mister,” Jennings said. “You’re getting a flat.”

Harry started to open the door, his back turned to the sidewalk, and then froze as a gun dug into his ribs.

“Just sit real nice and quiet and don’t reach for anything,” Johnny Merchant said pleasantly, “or I’ll take your pillow away and you won’t be able to see over the steering wheel.”

Tuesday—6:00 P.M.

The party that was going on this time was taking place in the front room of Marty’s Oyster House, in a booth in the rear, and since Jan was present the service was not only prompt but waiters seemed to be standing in line to handle her every whim. The fact that this meant they also had to handle the irresponsible whims of the two men with her was unfortunate, but with one accord the waiters felt it was worth it. Dolls like that didn’t walk into Marty’s every day of the week! Reardon had been telephoning from the cashier’s extension; he came back and sat down next to Jan, taking one of her hands in his.

“Pop’ll be fine,” he said, pleased. “The hospital doesn’t expect any complications from the finger, and outside of that he’s just tired. They think he’ll be out and around in a few days.”

“Great!” Dondero said. He was wearing dark glasses to hide a badly battered eye, and his split lip made drinking painful, although that did not prevent him from drinking. He just drank carefully. He set his glass down and patted his lip gently. “When I walked in on him and he pulled the exact same line you’d said he’d pull, I was so surprised I said, ‘Shut up, Pop, for Christ’s sake!’ instead of using my head.”

Reardon looked at him critically. “It looks to me like you did use your head. Or somebody did.”

“Somebody sure did,” Dondero said bitterly, and reached up gingerly to touch the edge of his eye. He thought of something. “Hey! Who got to talk to Patrone?”

“Several of us,” Reardon said grimly. “In depth. The two and a half kilos were in a suitcase at the checkroom of the Mark Hopkins. At least they picked a stash point that was classy.” He frowned. “The thing that surprises me the most about the whole thing is why Morrison bought Maxwell’s story so easily. Why should he get so up-tight about not being able to buy some paper?”

“I can tell you all about that,” Dondero said. “You don’t think I wasted all my time just being a punching bag, do you? I listened, pal; and they didn’t worry too much about talking in front of me, either, because they also mentioned what they were going to do with me and Pop once they got their hands on Patrone. It didn’t involve survival.”

“So what’s the secret?”

“So they had a good setup,” Dondero said half-admiringly. “The shopping news gimmick was legitimate, and for all I know it may have even made them a buck or two, but it was also the basis of their distribution setup. They delivered the papers by hand, and while that meant they couldn’t stuff mailboxes—because that’s against the postal laws, you know—they didn’t want to stuff mailboxes, anyway. They wanted to drop them behind screens, or shove them under doors, or even hand them over to people who opened the door when their delivery boy came up on the stoop. And inside those papers that were accepted by hand, or shoved under a door completely, they had a small glassine envelope pasted, with a deal of horse in it.” He grinned. “I’d give eight to five some narc, doing a surveillance, probably saw the stuff handed over under his nose and thought nothing of it.”

“Cute,” Reardon said. “Well, it’s all busted up, now, and maybe we can all get some sleep.” He pressed Jan’s hand. “Want to eat here, honey?”

“Why not?” Jan said, happy to be with him and pleased to see him relaxing. “The service is wonderful.”

Dondero choked on his drink.

“Why not, indeed?” Reardon asked, smiling. He picked up a menu from the stack behind the napkin holder and then handed it to Jan. “You order for me, honey. I’ve got one more call to make.”

“Hurry back.”

“I’ll be there before the waiter,” Reardon said, and walked back to the telephone.

Tuesday—6:20 P.M.

Sawicki, proprietor and principal hustler of his pool emporium, wondered what he could possibly have done to irritate Lady Luck to make her treat him like this! A miscue on an absolutely-dead-as-Kelsey-combination-break ball had to rank with the Titanic as a major disaster! Now look at the goddamn table! It looked like a couple of high school kids were playing rotation, for crissakes! Sawicki tried to control his temper, retreating bearlike to one of the high stools against the wall, shaking his head.

Porky Frank smiled gently and studied the layout, chalking his cue carefully as he did so. Sawicki did not offer his largess so frequently that one could afford to be careless in the acceptance thereof. His eye went from ball to ball, planning strategy and position, and when his plan was completed, he bent down to the table, prepared to put Sawicki out of his misery as quickly as possible. At that moment the telephone rang.

Sawicki leaned his cue against the wall and went to answer it. His tiny molelike eyes lit up at the sound of the familiar voice; he forced himself to present a poker face as he turned to address his opponent.

“Telephone, Porky,” he said in his gravel voice. “For you.”

“Oh? Thanks.” Porky Frank laid his cue on a nearby abandoned table, being more protective of his property than Sawicki, and walked over to the phone, raising the receiver. Sawicki politely refrained from listening. Porky smiled at him and spoke. “Hello?”

“Porky?”

“Ah, Mr. R! What can I do for you?”

“I tried your apartment, but I guess you’d already left.”

“A reasonable assumption,” Porky said in a congratulatory tone. “Is anything new on the you-know-what?”

“Quite a bit,” Reardon said. “I would have let you read all about it in the Express, except I remember you don’t read newspapers. Well, you’ll be pleased to know that Mike Holland is in the hospital—under our care—and that a couple of bad boys named George Morrison and Harry Wittwer are being held for kidnapping, among other things.”

“Congratulations,” Porky said, honestly pleased. “Morrison and Wittwer, eh?”

“You know them?”

“Only by reputation,” Porky said. He thought a moment and nodded. “That would explain a few things.…”

“Such as?”

“Well, you recall at our last meeting I mentioned a temporary lack of powdered Nirvana in the marketplace? As I hear it, George Morrison was one of the lads involved in that field.”

“We know,” Reardon said, pleased for once to be ahead of Porky. “Little Harry told us all about it. The mob arranged the incoming package, via Patrone. Morrison knew about it, naturally, and decided—when he heard the courier was in jail—on a nice little hijack scheme, all on his own. My guess is that both Morrison and Wittwer will pray for a long, long sentence. There’ll be people waiting for them when they get out.”

“If they wait,” Porky said. “I hear they’re a restless bunch, at times. I imagine that Morrison heard the courier was in jail by reading the papers?”

“That’s right. There was a squib about it. And if it makes you any happier, that column ‘View from Nob Hill’ did mention that I was in charge of the dinner. And Morrison knew me from the few times he’d seen my picture in the papers. I gather he preferred to deal with a known element.”

“Like a policeman who puts things off to the last minute,” Porky said. “Well, I’m glad you finally got around to looking up that columnist. You see? Listen to the old pro and you’ll never go wrong. That, Mr. R, will cost you.”

“And that, Mr. P, is worth it,” Reardon said, smiling. Why tell Porky the way Mr. Maxwell and his organization helped was not exactly the way Porky imagined? “Now, go back to your game, and good luck.”

“Thank you,” Porky said, and hung up. He stood staring at the telephone for a moment and then walked slowly back to the pool table. Sawicki looked up in all innocence.

“You got to go away, Porky?” he asked, barely able to hide the welling hope in his gravelly voice.

Porky smiled at him in gentle fashion and retrieved his cue from the adjoining table.

“Not tonight, Josephine,” he said, and bent over the rail to make his first shot.