“Hey, hey!” Dondero said. “Do you suppose this character wants Patrone out of jail to service a lonely lady?”
“You can hope so, anyway,” Reardon said dryly. “At any rate, the cops there have a pretty good idea Patrone used to augment his income by picking up tips from pocketbooks on bedroom dressers without his patroness of the day knowing she was being so generous. Only one really raised a stink, but she had no proof as to how much she had in her purse when she went to bed, so Patrone walked out free and clear.”
“Our boy’s a bum,” Dondero said disappointedly. “A small-time bum.”
“Who did you hope you were impersonating?” Reardon glanced across the car. “The head of the Italian CIA?”
“No, but a plain bum—”
“Well,” Reardon said, “maybe he’s a bum, but he was a bum smart enough to con some American ladies.”
“What’s that mean? Look at how many American ladies you’ve conned. Hey!” Dondero suddenly said, struck by another of his brilliant ideas. “Maybe that’s it! Maybe this guy who’s holding Pop, maybe Patrone conned his wife, or his girl friend. Maybe he took her to bed—”
“And for this, this guy goes to the trouble of kidnapping a policeman — and mutilating him — and killing a second man?”
“Well,” Dondero said, still intrigued by the idea, “you know how some guys are about their dames, and about revenge...”
Through the rain and the darkness a glow against the sky ahead marked the location of the San Francisco International Airport. Reardon glanced at his watch in the light from the dashboard. Still ample time. He went back to Dondero’s statement.
“I only know how I am about revenge,” he said, wondering if what he was saying was accurate or only an answer to Dondero’s presentation. “If I wanted revenge on some street guide in Rome, I think I’d take a plane to Rome and look up this street guide, and do something about it. I doubt if I’d sit in San Francisco, here, and wait for the man to conveniently show up. He just might not do it.”
“Well, maybe not,” Dondero said grudgingly. He hated to see a good theory go down the drain, especially one of his own. “Maybe we’ll know more about it after tonight.”
“Yes,” Reardon said quietly. “I certainly hope to God we do!”
Dondero seemed to find something significant in Reardon’s tone. He frowned.
“I don’t like the way you said that, Jim.”
“You don’t like the way I said what?” Reardon looked hurt. “All I said was, ‘I hope we will.’ What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing’s wrong with that,” Dondero said quietly, “only that’s not exactly what you said. To me, it sounded like we were back on the same argument we had this afternoon. It sounded like you were right back with some screwy idea of trying to follow me tonight.”
“Who, me?”
“Yeah!” Dondero said, now convinced. “And when you give me that ‘Who, me?’ routine, I’m more convinced than ever.” He glared across the darkened interior of the car. “Look, you wouldn’t even let me slide a beeper down my pants like I wanted—”
“If they found it on you,” Reardon said flatly, “you’d be dead in five minutes. And Pop, too.”
“And if they find Lieutenant James Reardon, my bosom buddy — who they have demonstrated they know inside and out — on my tail, what then? What rebate do I get on my insurance premium then, pal?” He shook his head violently. “No, damn it! If you want to play Lone Ranger, do it on somebody else’s horse! Drop me off, like the man wants, and then go about your business. Go to a movie, or go home and take a cold shower, but don’t — please! — don’t try and be cute and follow me.” His voice became plaintive. “Damn it, Jim, I thought we went all over that this afternoon!”
Either the fog was getting thicker or the rain more dense, or South San Francisco was economizing on its electricity bill, Reardon thought, because the blackness continued to stretch on either side of the highway. It was like driving through an endless tunnel. The kidnapper, whoever he was, was luckier than he deserved to be, to get weather like this tonight! Or maybe not...
“That was this afternoon,” Reardon said slowly. “I’ve been thinking — on a night like this I could follow you and never be seen.” He checked his watch in the light from the dashboard and nodded. He gestured with one hand toward his two-way radio. “As a matter of fact, we could even be a few minutes late and I could probably raise Stan, or Ferguson — they’re both on nights; it wouldn’t take long — and we could cover you like a tent. They could cover Third Street from each side, down a side street nobody could see, and I could even probably get the Harbor Patrol to have a boat around, in case they pick you up that way—”
“No!”
“They’ve got these night binoculars that cut right through this garbage weather—”
“No! Damn it, how many times do I have to say it? NO!” Dondero changed his tone, turning to pleading. “Jim, please. Don’t help me. Don’t even try to help me. Eighty-seven and a half per cent of all the trouble in this world comes from people trying to help other people. That’s a reliable statistic.”
“That’s a great attitude for a cop.”
“At the moment I’m not a cop. I’m an Italian fugitive named Patrone who just got let out of jail for reasons he can’t fathom, and if you don’t blow as soon as you drop me off, I’ll probably end up being a dead Italian fugitive named Patrone! Who still won’t know why he’s being sprung...”
“Nobody followed Lazaretti,” Reardon pointed out, “and look where he is.”
“I’m not Lazaretti; I’m Patrone. And nobody followed Pop Holland, and look where he is,” Dondero said stubbornly. “Besides, Lazaretti didn’t know the answers the man wanted.”
“And you do?”
“I’m a better bluffer,” Dondero said aggressively, and lapsed into silence.
Reardon sighed and appeared to concede. The city had mysteriously sprung up about them as they had driven, and they were approaching the intersection of Route 101 with Bayshore, and the turnoff to Third Street; he wanted to concentrate all his attention on the scene. Somewhere off to his right, he knew, was an empty, deserted Candlestick Park, but all he could see when he glanced in that direction was a wall of wet mist.
He slowed down and turned into the Third Street exit. A careening automobile swung past him, startling him by its sudden appearance, drenching the Charger with water and then disappearing into the night, its taillight fading quickly in the fog and rain. It made Reardon realize how easily one could allow the night to hide one, if one was courageous enough to drive without lights of any kind. True, one might run over an embankment, or into a telephone pole, but at least he would do it invisibly. He glanced into the rear-view mirror, saw nothing but mist, and brought his attention back to the roadway.
Through the fog the faint outlines of small houses crowding the side streets in working-class land economy could barely be seen, and then they were lost to sight as the fog swirled up. The lampposts edged by, one by one, until there, ahead, the bridge over the channel could suddenly be seen under a pair of overhead hooded lamps, swinging in the wind and rain. Reardon started to slow down when he thought of something.
“Don, what if he doesn’t show up?”
“Then I’ll catch my death of cold and they won’t have to fire me off the force,” Dondero said with a cheerfulness he was far from feeling. He stared through the blurred windshield and his voice turned bitter. “Why in hell wasn’t Patrone wearing a raincoat when he was picked up?” He saw the bridge ahead and his voice tightened a bit despite himself. “All right, here we are. Stop the car and heave me out like the man would expect a good cop to do.”