“I think,” Reardon said, his face expressionless “Go ahead. You’re doing fine.”
“Yeah,” Lundahl said, and leaned over to flick ashes toward the wastebasket. He leaned back and continued with his story. “Matter of fact, there were two sets of footprints; the ones from the wet shoe, like on the steps, and some sneaker prints on top of them in a couple places, and also on the linoleum of the cabin floor. The sneakers were there over to one side, like they were kicked off, you know. They had Don’s name inside them marked in ink.”
“Maybe he made both the prints,” Reardon suggested. “Maybe he changed shoes before he went out. He may have come back for something — a raincoat, maybe — and managed to make both sets of prints. After all, nobody would go out in sneakers on a night like last night, not if he had anything else to wear.”
“No, sir.” Lundahl shook his head. “The sneakers and the shoes were different sizes. There was a pair of dungarees on the floor, too, like he changed clothes. Also, funny thing — there was his raincoat there, hanging up on a hook. Not that he couldn’t have two raincoats, of course, but this one was the one he always wears around here. And another thing that makes me sure somebody else was there last night; there were two glasses out for liquor. Only one had been used, but the glasses were regularly kept in a little cabinet in swivel holders, so they wouldn’t slide and break, and somebody had taken out two glasses and left them where they could have fallen and broken. Just a miracle they didn’t. No, my guess is that Don was holing up in his boat, and last night after it started to rain he had a visitor, and for some reason or other he went off with the guy, leaving his raincoat behind. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s the way I read it.”
One of these days, Reardon thought, Stan Lundahl will be getting a promotion, if he isn’t careful. He considered the other man steadily as he thought of a proper response.
“He went out without a raincoat in that weather last night?”
“I know.” Lundahl shrugged. “Every time I’ve seen him with a raincoat it was the one I saw on the boat, so I figure it was the only one he had. I’ve only got one.”
“But why would he do it?”
“He must have had a good reason,” Lundahl said cheerfully, and crushed out his cigarette. “No sign of violence in the cabin. He just changed clothes and went off with this guy.”
“In whose car?”
“The other guy’s,” Lundahl said. “Don’s car’s still in the garage at his apartment. I figure he went out to the boat by bus, or something, hung around there until this other man came. It had to be after midnight, because that’s when it really started to rain. Washed away any tracks of the car, but that’s how they had to leave. The last bus that passes that part of the road in Burlingame passes at midnight, sharp.”
Reardon nodded. Lundahl had done a good job. “Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Lundahl said slowly. “Those glasses that were out for drinks; I handled them real carefully. In the light you could see there were fingerprints on the two glasses, and even without equipment you could see they were different.”
Reardon looked at Lundahl speculatively. “Fingerprints, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you bring them in?”
“Of course,” Lundahl said. “They’re in the side drawer of your desk.”
Reardon frowned in surprise. “My desk? Why didn’t you take them down to the lab?”
“Lieutenant,” Lundahl said quietly, “if I’m wrong, all you have to do is send those glasses down to the lab yourself. But if I’m right, then you knew all about that boat of Don’s, because he tells you about everything; and you were out there last night and you and Don have something cooking between the two of you, and if you wanted me to know what it was, you’d tell me.” He looked Reardon in the eye. “Right?”
Reardon’s expression didn’t change in the least. “You’re telling the story.”
Lundahl shook another cigarette free, considered it a moment, and then shoved it back into the pack. “I’m smoking too much,” he said, and came to his feet. He considered his superior a moment. “I’m all through telling any stories, Lieutenant. I’ve been on duty a long time, and I’m going home to get some rest.” He raised a hand. “Have a good day, Lieutenant.”
Reardon watched the tall angular man walk from the room. He sighed. Here was Dondero off on a wild-eyed scheme he should have been stopped from touching with a ten-foot pole; and now Lundahl was joining the club. Department rules were taking a beating, and those rules had been promulgated for good and sufficient reasons. Nor was it even faintly possible that any discipline committee would ever accept good intentions as an excuse for violating all the sacred precepts of the department. Even worse, it was very doubtful that the flaunting of the rules would get them one step closer to Pop Holland’s kidnapper. In fact, they had probably made things worse by letting Dondero have his head.
Still, he had to admit with a touch of pride in his group, Lundahl had done a very nice bit of thinking on the job, and should have been complimented. And then had his head handed to him for not having put his suspicions on paper and seen that they were distributed throughout the Hall...!
Chapter 13
Tuesday — 9:35 A.M.
Foot Patrolman Daniel C. Gottlieb reached his call box in ample time for this, his first report of the day, prepared as always to advise his sergeant that nothing of earth-shaking importance had occurred between the time he had left his home station in the Mission District and the time he had arrived on his beat. Then he paused in surprise, for it appeared that something had happened after all, albeit not very much. It seemed someone had gone to the trouble of prying open the door of the call box, and the only reason for going to this much bother had to be mischief, since the little telephone inside was of no inherent value, and could only be used to speak either with the Mission Police Station or the Communications Center at the Hall of Justice. It didn’t even have a dial to permit other calls. In addition, he noted that whoever had pried the door open had gone to the additional labor of refastening the door with a bit of cord, as if to make sure the door did not bang in the wind and possibly disturb someone, although this consideration was largely wasted, since the neighborhood where Patrolman Gottlieb’s call box was located was quite deserted.
Patrolman Gottlieb unwound the cord with a slight touch of excitement. His beat in this quiet section of the sprawling city usually produced little activity worthy of revelation to his superiors, and now, at least, he could begin the new day with a report of vandalism, even though the purpose of the vandal had been no more than the mere breaking of a patrolman’s box. Still, it was city property, or county property — Patrolman Gottlieb wasn’t sure which — which all citizens were importuned to respect, and he opened the box prepared to transmit all vital details to the desk sergeant at Mission. But then he paused, frowning, for it appeared that whoever had vandalized the call box had not done so without a purpose. They had apparently done so in order to leave behind a sealed envelope tucked between the old-fashioned mouthpiece and the back wall of the metal box. Patrolman Gottlieb removed the envelope and studied it closely.
It was addressed to one Lieutenant James Reardon, and Patrolman Gottlieb knew very well that Lieutenant James Reardon was one of the brighter lights in the Homicide Division, and that the message was undoubtedly meant for him and not for any Lieutenant Reardon in the Army, or the Navy, or even the Fire Department, although they also boasted lieutenants, a fair share of whom were probably named Reardon. Besides, if the note were intended for someone in the Fire Department, why hadn’t it been left in a fire box, of which there were even more in the city than patrolmen’s call boxes?