Reardon shook his head in annoyance. These gagsters could be a pain in the butt at times.
“Look, friend,” he said with a patience he was far from feeling, “just put Mike on the phone, will you?”
“You’re not paying attention,” the other man said reprovingly. “You’re not keeping your ears open. I said, Mike Holland is being held captive, and therefore is unable to appear at your little wing-ding—”
Reardon took a deep breath. He had about had it.
“Now look, chum,” he said firmly. “Fun’s fun, but this isn’t any college fraternity initiation we’re holding here. I’ve got forty-eight characters getting stewed to the ears, waiting for Pop to show up. And we all have lots of vital things to do tomorrow — like golf, for instance, or even go to work for the less fortunate — and we’d all like to get home in reasonable time to sober up. So will you please tell Mike Holland to quit fooling around and get his butt over here? Right now?”
“You still refuse to understand,” the voice said, and there was the slightest touch of disappointment in the tone, as if in sincere regret for Reardon’s thick-headedness. “I am quite serious. I said that Sergeant Michael Holland has been kidnapped. By us. I mean it. He has been abducted. Spirited off. Snatched, if you prefer the vernacular.”
Reardon opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. He looked at the phone in a slightly dazed manner and tried again.
“Just what in hell are you talking about?”
“What an oddly neutral response!” the man said, and sounded quite sincere. He sighed. “Still, I suppose it’s understandable. You’re probably half in the bag yourself, by this time. I knew we shouldn’t have delayed this call, but poor old Sergeant Holland insisted on telling us the story of his life. As he saw it, of course.”
Reardon gritted his teeth. “Look, pal! What sort of a gag is this?”
“My, you are stubborn, aren’t you? Here — possibly this will help to convince you.” There was a slight pause; then in a muffled but clearly recognizable tone, Reardon heard, “...listen, you dumb baboons! I told you before, I’m a police officer! I don’t know who you think you got, but I’m a cop! Can’t you get it through your thick skulls? Now who in the name of sweet Mary and Jesus is going to give a plugged dime for an old cop...?” The voice returned. “Recognize it? I’m sure you do. Taped just moments ago.” The voice turned sardonically apologetic. “The fidelity isn’t all one might wish, but it’s a new recorder and I expect it will take a little time to get used to it.”
Reardon realized that Dondero was standing beside him, drinks in hand, staring at him with an odd expression on his face. He cupped the mouthpiece without removing the receiver from his ear.
“Get on another phone and trace this call!”
Dondero didn’t waste precious time asking questions, he put the drinks on the desk hastily, slopping good liquor on the blotter, and hurried from the room, dragging the thick door closed behind him. Reardon returned to his call, trying to sound the same.
“I’m not sure I got everything you were trying to say, chum. You were saying about Pop Holland...?”
There was a delicious laugh from the telephone.
“Lieutenant, you are delightful! Not subtle, not particularly bright, but delightful! Your delay in answering was obvious, not to mention the fact that the tone changes slightly when one puts his hand over the mouthpiece and speaks. So I can only assume you were relaying the situation to a confederate, and asking him to trace the call, no doubt.” The laugh was repeated, delicate, refined, sardonic. “You know, you’re not as familiar with Marty’s Oyster House as you should be. They have only the one telephone, and you’re using it. The one on the maître d’s desk is an extension, you know. And the nearest other telephone is a block away, and I’m afraid when your friend gets to it, he’ll find it out of order. A pity, but we had to do it. On the other hand, we own no shares in A.T.&T. And, of course, I’ll be long gone from this booth before your friend can locate any other means of tracing me.”
Reardon stared at the instrument, feeling helpless. There wasn’t even a squad car around for its radio; it had been decided it would look better for the public if the patrol cars were left where they belonged, either in service or in the garage, and not around Marty’s, looking like a raid.
“What do you want?”
“Oh, that?” The man sounded surprised that it had taken Reardon so long to come to the point. “Well, we didn’t want all you dedicated public servants to waste an entire evening waiting for Sergeant Holland, when he won’t be able to attend. Much better you should all be out on the streets protecting us citizens from those nasty criminals, you know...”
“You bastard!”
“Language,” said the other man, and laughed genially.
Reardon brought his temper under control. One day, he promised himself, he’d get his hands on this joker, and that would be time enough either for language or reprisals.
“All right,” he said tightly. “What do you want?”
“I just told you—”
“For Pop Holland!”
“Oh, that! Well, you’ll receive a tape in the morning mail, Lieutenant, addressed to you. It seems to be the modern method of relaying demands. The tape will explain our requirements quite clearly. And now, I’m afraid I can’t stay on the line much longer. Your friend might know of a telephone in the neighborhood that I don’t.”
“Hold on a second—”
“And one more thing...” The voice turned cold, deadly serious. “Let’s keep the newspapers out of this. Or any other medium. That’s if you care for Holland’s health.”
“Don’t hang up—”
“I’m afraid I must. So good-bye. Or, better, au revoir.” There was the briefest of pauses, then a faint laugh, the caller’s good humor restored. “And, of course, considering your banquet — bon appetit.”
There was a quiet click as the other man placed the receiver in its cradle gently. Reardon pumped the button furiously, and then forced himself to refrain from attacking the instrument long enough to permit the telephone to respond with a dial tone. He dialed for the operator quickly, and waited. And waited and waited and waited. At long last the distant ringing stopped and a bored voice came on the line.
“This is your operator. May I help you?”
Reardon managed to bite back his first furious comment.
“Yes! This is the Police Department. We want to have a call traced.”
“One moment. I’ll connect you with the supervisor...”
“Wait...!” Too late! God, Reardon thought savagely, glaring at the instrument, where do they dredge up some of these zombies, anyway? There was another prolonged bout of ringing somewhere in limbo, while Reardon fumed helplessly. Then, when he was on the verge of ripping the instrument from the wall and stomping on it, the receiver at the other end was finally lifted.
“Supervisor...”
Reardon took a deep breath, trying to moderate his tone of voice.
“Supervisor, this is urgent! My name is Lieutenant Reardon of the Police Department. We want a call traced. It was made” — he consulted his watch — “at 10:02. Terminated, that is. The call was made to the number 664-0398. The party disconnected a few minutes ago.” Or maybe more, he thought bitterly, considering the time it takes any of you clowns down at the phone company to lift a receiver!
“Was it a toll call or a local call?”
Good God! “I haven’t the slightest idea. There weren’t any coins dropped, if that’s what you mean.” The situation came back to him. “And you’re wasting time, damn it!”