“Is this Maxwell in the building?”
“No. He... he hasn’t come in, yet.”
Just one more thing and we’ll have it all tied up! Reardon thought. “And tell me this — does Mr. Maxwell happen to have a beard? And does he smoke cigars?”
There was the sound of the twin glass doors being opened before the girl could answer; Reardon turned to find a small, portly white-haired gentleman dressed in extremely mod clothes for one his age come bustling up to the desk. He looked like Charlie Winninger to Reardon’s eyes, and he wished the little man had waited a moment longer before breaking into his interview. The newcomer beamed at the girl.
“Ah, Jane! Good morning! How’s everything this morning?” The little beaming man seemed to notice for the first time that the girl had been crying. He glanced at Reardon sharply, as if to determine if this man might be the cause of the girl’s unhappiness, and then brought his attention back to the receptionist. “Is something the matter?”
It was too much for the girl. She burst into tears again. “Oh, Mr. Maxwell...!”
Maxwell frowned and turned to Reardon. “What on earth seems to be bothering the girl? Did you do something, or say something?”
Reardon felt his face getting red. His theory disintegrated about him. He brought out his billfold for the second time and opened it for Mr. Maxwell’s inspection. Maxwell looked puzzled.
“Are you going to arrest her? On what grounds? I’m afraid we’ll have to have our company attorneys look into this. I’ve known Jane since she was a child. Her father—”
“No, no!” Reardon said hurriedly, and felt foolish. “It has nothing to do with the girl. It’s... well, sir, I was asking her questions about you.”
“About me?” Maxwell’s deep blue eyes considered Reardon sharply. “I see. Well, the one to properly ask questions about me would be me, don’t you think? Come along.” He turned and trotted off about the back of the reception desk in the direction of the elevators, calling back over his shoulder, “It’s all right, Jane. It’s all right...”
Reardon followed the small man into the elevator. They rose in silence to the top floor, and emerged into a room filled with desks and people and noise; the steady ringing of telephones drowned out the strange rhythmic sound of the presses downstairs, but the faint bumping could still be felt through the floor. Maxwell pressed through the crowded room without paying the slightest attention to the racket about him, nor did anyone bother to look up or greet him as the small man and Reardon passed. They reached a corner office and Maxwell courteously held the door open until his guest had entered; he then followed along, leaving a small hissing cylinder to shut the door, and trotted to his desk, seating himself and gesturing toward a chair, all in the same motion. He smiled at his guest and pressed a button on his intercommunicator.
“Miss Tenefly? No calls, no interruptions. I’ll be in conference until further notice.” He clicked the button upward and leaned back in his chair, fixing Reardon with a shrewd look. “All right, Lieutenant. Suppose you tell me what this is all about.” A sudden thought came to him and he leaned forward, frowning. “Reardon! Lieutenant Reardon! Good God, I hope it had nothing to do with that column about the police! But I wrote an editorial the same day—” He stopped abruptly. “I mean—”
Reardon smiled. “The girl downstairs told me. I’ll keep it a secret.” His smile disappeared. “No, it has nothing to do with that column. Or it does, actually, in a way...”
And it did, in a way, he thought, because if Porky Frank hadn’t kept harping on that column, he didn’t know whether he would have been here or not. He stared at the round little man a moment and then pulled up a chair and sat down across the desk from him. He watched the steady shrewd blue eyes a moment and made up his mind. After all, you had to trust somebody in this world, and if you couldn’t trust the Charlie Winninger types, who could you trust? He wasn’t sure that Captain Tower or Chief Boynton would have agreed with him, but the fact was that time was rapidly running out. He took a deep breath.
“Mr. Maxwell, I need help. That’s why I came here this morning, but when I got here I got sidetracked with a stupid idea, and that’s how I came to upset your receptionist. I think I’m back on the track now. I’ve got a story to tell you, but first I want to tell you — not ask you — that it cannot be published without our permission. Is that understood?”
Maxwell nodded. “Understood. Provided when permission is granted, the Express gets first crack.”
“If you prove helpful,” Reardon said flatly, and went on. “I’ll put it very briefly. Four days ago we had a police officer kidnapped, and last night another one was taken. The kidnapper was very insistent that no publicity be given, which is why you have not heard of this before, although we would have held back on publicity regardless of his instructions. That’s also why I asked you not to publish anything of what I am telling you, without permission.”
He paused to put his thoughts in order and then continued.
“Now, whoever is holding these two officers has offered to release them in exchange for certain men in our custody. The crimes for which the men in our custody are being held are very minor, and I doubt if you would recognize their names if you heard them.” He paused, thinking. “Or maybe you would. Guillermo Lazaretti and Vito Patrone.”
Maxwell shook his head. “The names ring no bells.”
“I didn’t expect them to. However, I may ask you later to see if possibly one of your stringers turned in a story about their arrest, but at the moment it’s not too important. At any rate the decision was made by the Hall of Justice not to accede to what amounted to blackmail demands on the part of kidnappers; the feeling was that if we began trading kidnapped officers for criminals in custody, no officer would be safe in the future.”
“I agree,” Maxwell said bluntly.
“I suppose I do, too. In any event, we received several messages from the kidnapper, the first one being on tape. We also recovered the automobile in which the first officer was kidnapped. The details of how our laboratory got their results are unimportant, but I can say that we were able to determine that the kidnapper is a fairly well-educated man who we believe was raised in the bay area and who is bearded and smokes cigars. He is accompanied by an accomplice who drove the kidnap car, who we believe is about five-foot-four inches tall.”
Maxwell smiled bleakly. “About my size.”
“I’d put you at closer to five-foot-six,” Reardon said, and smiled mischievously. “However, just for fun, where were you last Saturday morning between nine and ten o’clock?”
Maxwell was not at all disturbed by the inquiry. He swung around in his swivel chair and reached for his desk diary, flipping it open. He leafed through a few pages and paused.
“Saturday, September fourth,” he said. “At that hour I was having breakfast at the Peninsula Golf Club with the mayor, prior to a round of golf.” He closed the book and swiveled back. “Our waiter was Tom. I had shirred eggs and a sweet roll. Now, you were saying?”
Reardon started to smile and then wiped it away.
“Does the description I just gave you ring any particular bell?”
Maxwell shook his head. “I’m afraid it also rings no bell.”
Reardon sighed and plowed on, wondering if he was wasting his time. “I mentioned Saturday because at that hour the smaller accomplice was killing someone up in Potrero. However, to get back to the story — we also have evidence that indicates the kidnapper taped his message to us in a building where printing presses were in operation.”
Maxwell tented his fingers and watched Reardon thoughtfully over them. He almost seemed to be composing the first line of either his column or an editorial, probably, Reardon thought, on the dangers in the street or the idiocy of the police. He went on: