“What were the two fighting about?”
Dondero shrugged. “The one thing I’m sure of is that the fight was not part of any plan. Whatever the two are doing here, spending time in our jail wasn’t part of the original program. They were probably fighting about the same important things most people fight about. Nothing.”
“And you’re sure he wasn’t here in San Francisco for the reason he gave — just for a visit?”
Dondero sighed. “Anything’s possible. Maybe years ago he pulled a thorn out of some guy’s paw in the Colosseum, and when the guy heard he was in jail here in San Francisco, he kidnapped Pop to spring him in gratitude. Who knows? He may really have come here for a visit. The only thing is, I give twelve to one against, and those are better odds than I give against today being Thursday.”
“Did you mention Pop Holland’s name to him?”
“That I did, in a roundabout way. It rang no bell. I give eleven to six the little man never heard of Pop Holland in his life.”
“Did you get a chance to talk to the other guy? The one Lazaretti was fighting with? Patrone?”
Dondero smiled. “No. I’m saving him for when we get stuck.”
Reardon was not amused. “Did you check their passports?”
“Yeah. Like Zelinski so accurately reported — for him — both passports are fairly old, both men have legal visas, and this is the first time in the life of these passports either one of them was used for entrance into the United States.”
“They came together?”
“That’s one of the big confessions I got, which doesn’t seem much in exchange for a skinned knuckle.” He glanced down at the knuckle. “Just don’t ask me why they came here, together or alone.”
Reardon got up and began pacing up and down the office, or as much as he could in the limited space provided for junior officers at the Hall of Justice. He paused and looked down at Dondero.
“If Lazaretti or Patrone didn’t know anyone here in town, maybe the guy who snatched Pop knew them in Italy?”
“Maybe,” Dondero said. The idea didn’t thrill him. “You want me to go to Rome and start checking? I speak fair Italian.”
“Did you call the Italian Consulate yet? Or Interpol?”
“That comes next. Momma’s only got two hands. But I don’t expect he’s got any big record or he wouldn’t have gotten a passport. Or a visa.” Dondero frowned. He looked up. “Jim, why are we complicating a simple problem? Why the hell don’t we simply kick this Lazaretti character down the front steps and go home and get some rest? Or why don’t we gift-wrap the son-of-a-bitch and deliver him where and when the man wants? And get Pop back and then go home and get some rest?”
“Ask Chief Boynton,” Reardon said wearily. “He’s got a lot of reasons that sounded good at the time, but don’t ask me what they were.” He yawned and stretched. “God, I’m tired! Well, you call the Italian Consulate, and get off some wires to Interpol, and let me see if I can get some work done.”
He stared at the pile of papers in his in-basket, and shook his head disconsolately. The kidnapping of a police officer, like the murder of a police officer, ranked number one on any Hall of Justice priority list, but unfortunately that did not wipe out the hundreds of other cases that dragged themselves across the police blotter daily. He pulled the basket closer, picked up the top report to struggle through, and then became aware that Dondero was addressing him.
“I don’t know about you,” Dondero was saying, his finger holding his place in the telephone book, “but I didn’t have any lunch and it’s after four. Why don’t we give it the old college try for another hour or so and then knock off and go down to the Wharf for a couple beers and a decent meal for a change?”
Reardon smiled. “Sorry, I’ve got a date.” He saw the surprised look on Dondero’s face and added, “It’s with Jan. I forgot to tell you; we’re back together again.”
“Oh!” Dondero raised his eyebrows. He picked up the telephone and started to dial. “That explains a lot of things.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the yawning,” Dondero said, and grinned. “And also why you haven’t solved this case yet. You never could keep your mind on two things at the same time.”
Chapter 7
Sunday — 3:00 A.M.
Reardon was having a dream. Under a completely neutral sky that almost looked like a drop cloth rather than a real sky, he drove quickly and confidently down a deserted road that twisted and turned between endless darkened warehouses. Though his neutral sky exhibited neither moon nor stars, and there were no streetlights nor headlamps to his car, somehow there seemed to be ample illumination, and though he did not know where he was going, he was sure he would recognize the place when he got there.
Ahead and slightly below there was a sudden bright cluster of lights, and he slowed the vehicle he was piloting — for now it was a tiny airplane — bringing it carefully through the tangle of overhead wires with skillful slips and edgings and stops and starts, to set the craft gently down alongside the roadway beside a narrow bridge. Then, without consciously alighting from the plane, he found himself with a noisy group at the top of a well-lit flight of stairs that led downward beside the small bridge to the water below. It reminded him of Paris, as seen in the movies, which was the only way he had ever seen Paris, with the Seine twisting through the city and these sets of steps at every bridge leading to the quays below, and suddenly he was in a gay mood, ready for celebration. Among the group with him he recognized Dondero and Captain Tower and Frank Wilkins, although Captain Clark was missing, and he found himself pleased at this. A band was playing from below and he found himself anxious to get down the steps and join the festivities.
He handed over flying goggles and a leather jacket to the waiter from Marty’s who had advised him of the telephone call the night before, and then he was hurrying down the steps to join the others, who presumably had preceded him, but when he reached the bottom he found he had somehow managed to get himself on the opposite side of the narrow channel, and that the music and the tables and Dondero and Tower and the rest were across the water from him, sitting near the band with drinks in their hands and obviously enjoying themselves.
At first he thought it was merely a joke, his having been put across the river from the party; all he had to do was to climb the steps, cross the bridge, and descend on the proper side to join the others, but when he looked up he saw that the steps weren’t the wide stone steps he had descended but were the narrow grating type used on fire escapes, and that they twisted and turned to disappear into infinite blackness, and he knew if he started up them, when he came down the other side, if he could ever find the other side, the restaurant would be gone.
For a moment he wondered if possibly he might be dreaming, one of those endlessly frustrating uncomfortable dreams from which one had to awaken to escape the overwhelming tension; but then he saw there was a small rowboat tied to the jetty on his side of the water, and he knew he was not in any dreaded impossible position, because all he had to do was row across and he would be with the others.
He climbed into the rowboat, pleased to see that it was dry and equipped with oars, and set out, facing the other shore and pushing on the oars as his father had taught him when he wanted to see where he was rowing. But the harder he pushed, the farther away the other side of the narrow stream appeared, and the larger the boat in which he was riding, until he found himself at the prow of a large liner steaming silently through the night. He stared helplessly out into the darkness, searching for the shoreline and the lights, and thought desperately, I’ll have to warn them somehow that I won’t be able to get to the party. Then Mike Holland was at his side, dressed in his police uniform, and he knew that Mike was one of the officers on the ship. And Mike said comfortingly, I’ll warn them with the ship’s whistle. But instead of the deep throaty rumble of the ship’s whistle, what came out of the whistle was the high soprano shrilling of a bell, and it rang and it rang and he wanted Mike to stop it, but it kept on ringing...