Lieutenant Reardon was in the Homicide Division of the San Francisco police, and as a general rule enjoyed his work very much. He was a stocky athletic-looking man in his early thirties, with thick russet hair, a rugged yet remarkably sensitive face, and with sharp intelligent gray eyes. At the moment a deep groove between those eyes outlined a frown. Where the devil was Pop Holland? Reardon was not worried that the meal would be spoiled because the guest of honor was late; Marty’s Oyster House, whose front dining room boasted the finest cuisine in all San Francisco, had a standard dinner for affairs held in the back room, apparently designed to discourage people from ever holding an affair there again. But what might well happen, the lieutenant knew, was not a question of whether the rubber chicken with plastic peas was up — or down — to standard; the problem was that any further tardiness was apt to result in the guests being too far gone with liquor to partake of the fare. Which, thinking about it, might not be such a tragedy at that.
There was movement at his side and he looked up to see his good friend and co-worker Sergeant Dondero pulling up a chair beside him. Dondero, two years younger than Reardon, was one inch shorter and thirty pounds heavier, an increase in weight he claimed came about when he stopped smoking in a bet with Stan Lundahl, also of the department. It was a bet Dondero had won, to his intense sorrow. Reardon smiled, pleased to see the other.
“I thought you were still on vacation, Don. When did you get back?”
“This afternoon. Think I’d miss Pop’s retirement party? With free booze?” Dondero smiled at Reardon affectionately. “How’s the old married man?”
Reardon’s smile faded. “We didn’t get married.”
Dondero’s smile changed to a puzzled frown. “What do you mean, you didn’t get married?”
“What does it sound like? We didn’t get married, that’s all.”
“But you phoned me from Tahoe! You said you were up there with Jan, you were going to get married—”
“I know what I said. But Jan changed her mind.”
“Changed her mind? Why?” Dondero sounded more put out about it than his friend.
“Skip it,” Reardon said wearily. “It’s a long story and one I’d rather not go into right now.”
“But—”
Reardon’s eyes hardened. “Let’s drop it?”
“But — oh, sure, if you insist,” Dondero said, and then brightened. “Hey, maybe if I talk to Jan? You know she always pays more attention to me than she does to you—” He saw the look on Reardon’s face and grinned. “I was just joking, pal.”
“Very funny!”
“We can’t hit zingers all the time,” Dondero said, and looked around the room. “Where’s Pop?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“The story of your life,” Dondero said sadly, “and a pretty sad confession for a so-called detective.” He studied the room again, and frowned. “It’s not like Pop to be late, especially for his own party.” He looked about the room for a third time and was struck by a sudden thought. “Hey! If all the cops in town are here, who’s minding the store?”
“They aren’t all here,” Reardon said sourly. “Pop isn’t.”
“Well, outside of him—”
Reardon shrugged, his good humor returning. “Maybe all the crooks are having an affair of their own over on the other side of town.”
“Well,” Dondero said expressively, “if they are, I hope for their sake the service is better than it is here. How do you get a drink in this dump? And who in their right mind ever picked this place for the dinner, anyway?” He came to his feet, shaking his head. “A guy could die of thirst. Hold the fort while I raid the bar. Another for you?”
“Remy Martin.”
“In a water glass,” Dondero said, and moved away.
Reardon looked after him. He felt like he’d like to take it in a water glass. After all, the very least the chairman of the dinner committee ought to be able to do was to get his fair share of the liquor allocation, or anyway before Traffic drank it all up. He studied the crowded room with a faint air of proprietorship, although now that Dondero had reminded him, he wondered why indeed he had selected Marty’s Oyster House for the festivities. If he thought the waiters at Marty’s would change their habits merely because a cop was being honored, he should have known better. Possibly if a cop was being dishonored? Probably not even then. The waiters at Marty’s operated on the principle that, right or wrong, the customer was always neglectable.
As if to refute that uncharitable thought, a waiter pushed through to his side. For a moment Reardon wondered if he should apologize to the aproned figure, but he was saved the necessity because the waiter was busy making a circular motion with one hand, as if he were cranking some imaginary object, while his other hand, curled, was pressed tightly against his ear. It was the time-honored charade to indicate someone was wanted on the telephone, and even as Reardon came to his feet he wondered how the ancient pantomime had ever managed to survive. What it actually looked like, he thought, was that the waiter wanted him to come to the kitchen and listen to the meat grinder.
A sudden thought came and he moved with greater alacrity, a broad smile beginning to change his face. Jan, of course! Calling to apologize, probably, although he was magnanimous enough to realize no apology was necessary. He started to follow the waiter and almost ran down Dondero, carefully balancing a drink in each hand. Dondero paused to proffer one, but Reardon shook his head.
“Later,” he said, raising his voice over the din. “There’s a phone call for me.”
Dondero noted the fatuous grin. “Jan?”
“Probably. I hope,” Reardon said, and raised crossed fingers.
“Then I’ll tag along. You’ll need moral support. And with me there you won’t say anything you’ll be sorry for afterward.”
“And you’re also nosey.”
“That, too,” Dondero said agreeably, and followed along, balancing the drinks carefully.
The waiter paused at the entrance to a corridor leading from the hall, to make sure his trail-blazing had not been in vain, saw Reardon and Dondero close behind, and led the way to a small unmarked door at the end of the narrow hallway. The waiter opened the door, closed it after their entrance, and then hurried back to take his place once again near the thick of the crowd. After all, one could hardly ignore customers unless one were near at hand, could one? Obviously not.
Inside the office Reardon was pleasantly surprised to find that Marty, no fool, had soundproofed the room and that the bedlam of the back room had disappeared as soon as the door had been closed. “That’s better,” he said with grateful relief, and raised the receiver from the desk blotter, making no attempt to hide the eagerness in his voice. “Jan?”
A strange masculine voice was on the line. “Lieutenant Reardon?”
Reardon swallowed his disappointment. “Speaking.” Another possible explanation for the call suddenly occurred to him, an explanation equally disturbing. “Is this in regard to Pop Holland? Is something wrong with him?”
“I don’t know about wrong,” the voice said apologetically, “but I’m afraid Sergeant Holland won’t be able to make your party tonight. I’m extending his regrets for him.” There was a strange touch of amusement in the event, semicultured voice.
“What? Who is this?”
“Just call me a friend—”
“Well, listen, friend,” Reardon said, in no mood for mysteries at the moment. “Put Mike Holland on the line, will you?”
“I’m afraid that’s not allowed,” the voice said with false regret. “You see, he’s been kidnapped.”