“I can help you out in lots of things,” he said, trying to interject his words through the slight gap of the almost closed window. “I ain’t just good for bumping into people—”
“I’m sure,” Harry said, and put the car into gear.
The wino stared down vaguely a moment and then straightened up, looking around. There had to be a bar someplace in the area, even in a deserted neighborhood like this. Hell, where wasn’t there a bar in any part of any town in the country? If not this block, the next one. He raised his hand in an uncertain salute to his unknown benefactor and started to cross the street, involved once again in the problem of wine or cheap brandy.
Chapter 5
Saturday — 9:45 A.M.
“No fingerprints on the cassette itself, which figures, but we have a lovely bunch from the package,” Reardon said. He sounded more sanguine about them than he felt, since the chances were they belonged to the wino who had planted the package. Still, it was a slip-up on the part of the kidnapper, if only a tiny one; first, not to have instructed his messenger about leaving prints, and secondly, using one of the few kinds of paper that retained fingerprints easily. Maybe old happy-voice wasn’t as smart as he seemed. “If Stan doesn’t pick up the drunk, maybe we’ll be able to identify him through the prints.”
“If the prints don’t belong to the mailman,” Clark said dourly.
“The mailman didn’t touch that package,” Reardon said confidently. “He didn’t even know he had it. Anyway, the package and the paper and the string are all down in the lab, on the offhand chance they’ll tell us something. In the meantime, let’s hear what the tape has to say.”
He pulled the tape recorder he had borrowed from the sound lab closer; the men in the room crowded nearer, tense now that the tape was about to be played. Boynton gave a terse nod and Reardon slid the cassette into place and pushed the proper buttons. He stared at the slowly unwinding tape, willing himself a picture of the kidnapper from the voice he was awaiting, a picture that could lead him to the man quickly. Once located, Reardon was fairly sure he could drag some facts from the man, possibly even painfully.
There were several seconds of scratchy silence, followed by a sudden aliveness in the tape, as if it had been slumbering and was now awake and ready to go to work. In the background there was a rhythmic bumping sound, muffled, and then the scratchiness disappeared and the familiar cheery voice broke in on them, too loud. Reardon hastily twisted the knob, the volume dropped until they were straining to hear; he twisted again, bringing the sound to a reasonable level. They apparently had missed little.
“...lo, hello, hello. Testing, one, two, three. Testing, one, two, three. Are you there? Are you ready? No, I’m Reddy’s brother. Old joke.” There was a break in the voice pattern, during which the strange rhythmic background sound dominated, then even that stopped. Reardon was about to reach for the recorder when the voice returned. “It played back reasonably well, folks. I’d hate to have my deathless prose lost to posterity — or to you folks — simply because I haven’t learned how to properly work this ridiculous little gadget, yet. But I’m sure you’re not interested in my problems, so let’s get down to yours.”
There was another brief pause, during which someone in the room was heard to mutter, “He talks too gaddamn much!” Then the voice returned. Now, however, the tone was subtly changed. The lightness still seemed to be there on the surface, but it was only a thin veneer over a deadly purpose. The men around the table stared at the small tape recorder with hard, expressionless faces.
“Gentlemen, we are holding Sergeant Holland as our prisoner, as you know. In order to obtain his release, you will release a prisoner you are now holding in your cell block on the top floor of the Hall of Justice. This prisoner is awaiting trial on a minor charge, and possibly extradition. He means nothing to you, but I want him. His name is Guillermo Lazaretti. You will release this prisoner to us at exactly two o’clock tomorrow morning. You will not be cute and try to follow him once you drop him off at the proper place, nor will you try to put any gizmo on him that might enable you to track him electronically, or any other way. Not that any such gadgetry would work, since we honestly are not fools, but primarily because Sergeant Holland would suffer for any such stupidity on your part.
“Incidentally, I should hate to hear the sound of any helicopter or any low-flying aircraft in the vicinity of the release point, so I suggest you inform the necessary officials of any airports. Two in the morning is scarcely the time for low-flying pleasure craft, so for Sergeant Holland’s sake, I hope everyone remembers this point.
“Now, for the release point. Your car, containing just the driver and Lazaretti, will leave the Hall of Justice at precisely one-thirty in the morning. If you wish to keep Lazaretti cuffed during the ride, you may do so, as the cuffs will present no problem, but a third person in the car is strictly prohibited. You will have the driver take Third Street south past China Basin and along the docks. He will pass Central Basin and continue. Just beyond the point where Army Street dead-ends into Third, there is a small bridge that crosses Islais Creek Channel. You will drop your man off at the center of the bridge and immediately drive on and out of sight. And I mean on, and I mean out of sight, and I mean immediately. Nor would I suggest planting anyone either under or even near the bridge beforehand. The only one who would suffer would be Sergeant Holland.
“It’s just that simple. Until two o’clock tomorrow morning, then.”
There was a stop in the voice recording, although the background thumping sound continued. Reardon stared at the little the machine as the tape grated on; then the voice was suddenly back and Reardon knew what he had been waiting for. Now the old jollity was back again.
“Oh, yes, I almost forgot, didn’t I? If you are all good little boys and do what Papa says, your Sergeant Holland will be freed — relatively unharmed — exactly twenty-four hours later. We haven’t decided just where at the moment, but if he needs a dime for a phone call, we’ll loan him one. We’re not all bad, you know.
“And that, I’m afraid, is really that.”
This time there was an air of finality about the voice stopping. The background sound returned, fainter now; the tape ran on for several more revolutions and then ended. Reardon leaned over and pressed the STOP button. There were several moments of dead silence in the room; then Captain Tower of Homicide spoke. He sounded puzzled.
“And just who in hell,” he asked wonderingly, “is Guillermo Lazaretti?”
There was dead silence as the men at the table all looked at one another in equal bewilderment; then all eyes seemed to turn at the same time to contemplate Lieutenant Zelinski, of Detention.
“Well, Jeez,” Zelinski said sullenly. “You know how many guys we got in the tank upstairs? You guys got any idea? What am I supposed to do? Keep track of each one of them individually? Kee-ri!” He reached out a hamlike hand and dragged one of the telephones on the table closer, dialed an internal number, and growled into it when it was answered. He waited and the others waited with him. A moment later Zelinski had the information he wanted and was bobbing his bullet-head up and down as he hung up. “Yeah, now I remember. Sure, now I remember. A foreign guy—”
“We don’t extradite many nationals,” someone said dryly.
“I remember,” Zelinski said, paying no attention to the interruption. “A tough guy. Weighs a hundred pounds dripping wet and because he had a couple weapons on him, he thinks he’s Joe Louis. He was picked up in a scrap with another guy, another foreigner, both of them armed. Guns and knives. They were going after each other with the shivs when a plainclothes cop busted it up and called the wagon. Yeah, now I remember. They both come up in front of Judge Melchor either next Wednesday or Thursday, I forget which.”