Reardon looked at the stocky printer unbelievingly. It had been that easy!
Chapter 15
Tuesday — 12:00 NOON
Chief Boynton marched through the closely set desks as if they were obstacles to be overcome, following a prim Miss Tenefly, with Captain Tower on their heels. Miss Tenefly tapped once on the door of the corner office and then opened it, permitting her guests to enter. Once they had been properly delivered, she closed the door and returned to her desk, prepared — as anyone working for Mr. Maxwell had to be prepared — for anything.
Inside the office, Chief Boynton acknowledged the introductions and then frowned at the lieutenant.
“All right,” he said quietly. “What’s this all about? And if you’ve got something to report, why not at the Hall?”
“Because I think we can save ourselves a lot of trouble, with Mr. Maxwell’s help,” Reardon said. He was standing with his back to the window, looking at the chief evenly. He had had plenty of time since his call to the Hall to work things out. “If you’ll just take a seat...”
Chief Boynton looked for a moment as if he might object, but then he shrugged and sat down. Captain Tower considered his subordinate a moment and then found a chair and followed suit. Lieutenant Reardon had always done a good job, and the captain had a feeling this case was no exception. Reardon could almost read his mind. Well, he thought, it’s a damn good thing the captain doesn’t know how much luck played in this one!
“All right,” he said. “With the help of the Express, we’ve located the people we believe kidnapped Pop Holland. There’s very little room for doubt. The man in charge is named George Morrison, and the small man who ran down the wino in Pop’s car is named Harry Wittwer. Morrison runs a small printing plant called the Neighborhood Print Works, over on Galvez. Wittwer is his driver; Morrison apparently doesn’t like to drive. We think Pop and Dondero might be held there, at the—”
“Dondero!” It came as a chorus from both Tower and Boynton.
“Yes, sir. Dondero took Lazaretti out of the cell block, it’s true, but he didn’t torture or kill him. Morrison and Wittwer did that. Don took the man out to trade him for Pop Holland, and — well, the kidnapper has him, too.” And the statement, Reardon told himself, was true; it didn’t seem the time to go into details that had been abridged. “As I started to say, Pop Holland and Don may be in the building on Galvez, or they may not. My guess is they are. Now, we could surround the building with a dozen squad cars and end up with a shoot-’em-up, and somebody would get hurt, and that includes Pop and Dondero. Or, we can play it smart and ask Mr. Maxwell for his help.”
Boynton was quiet, trying to absorb the information he had just received. Tower frowned. “Mr. Maxwell’s help? How?”
“Well,” Reardon said, “I spoke with Davidson while you were on your way over here, and he’ll have men on the Neighborhood Print Works in the next fifteen minutes. They’re probably there now. They’ll be instructed not to be obvious. There are men on foot and cars, both, but if Dave knows his job — and he does — nobody at the print works will have any idea they’re covered. Then, as soon as Morrison and Wittwer leave—”
“How do you know they’re there?”
Reardon smiled. “Because Miss Tenefly, Mr. Maxwell’s invaluable secretary, just had a wrong number and spoke with Morrison. She was looking for the Neighborhood Dry Cleaning Company to register a complaint, and she wouldn’t believe they weren’t giving her a run around until she spoke with the boss. No, Morrison’s there.”
“And what makes you think they’ll leave?”
“That’s Mr. Maxwell’s part of the job.” Reardon looked at Maxwell. “Ready?”
“Ready,” the little man said. His eyes were twinkling with delight. He picked up the telephone, asked for an outside line, and dialed. There was a short wait; then the telephone at the other end was raised.
“Neighborhood Print Works.”
The humor died from Maxwell’s face. He looked to be exactly what he was; a tough experienced publisher. Tower and Boynton watched the small man with curiosity; Reardon smiled. Maxwell’s voice was harsh.
“I want to speak with Mr. Morrison.”
“Who wants to talk to him?”
“This is Ira Maxwell, publisher of the Express. Please tell Mr. Morrison this call is extremely important.” He cupped the receiver and winked jovially at the others, then straightened his face and removed his hand as another voice came on the line. “Morrison? Is this George Morrison? How are you? We’ve never met, but I’ve heard a lot about you, and I think you can help me out. And, in return, I think I can help you out.”
“Help you out? How?” Morrison sounded slightly amused by the call.
“I understand you run a nonunion shop. Well, we’re sitting here, me and my lawyers, talking about just that. We’re about to come up for negotiations and these damn fools here are ready to give away the whole damn plant! I thought if you could come over and join us for an hour or so, maybe you could give us some idea of how you operate. Damned if I’m going to give everything I’ve worked for to some damned union...!”
“I don’t know...” There was a brief pause while everyone in the room waited tensely. Then Morrison spoke. “And just what would be the quid pro quo you mentioned if I did help you out?”
Maxwell was quite prepared. He had a pencil in one hand and doodled as he spoke.
“You buy your newsprint through Western American, don’t you? Of course you do. I happen to be a major stockholder in Western American. How do you think I’ve stayed in business as long as I have against such competition as the Chronicle and the Examiner if I didn’t have an edge? Now, we had a board meeting of Western American not very long ago, and the question came up of a price rise—”
Morrison laughed, genuinely amused. “I’m not afraid of any price rise.”
“I don’t believe you understand,” Maxwell said, and Reardon was amazed at the toughness that had crept into the little man’s voice, a toughness he was sure Morrison would recognize. “The reason we are thinking of a price rise is that we have overcut our forests, and the concensus was we should raise prices and reduce output for a few years. The oil producers have done very well with this method, and we believe it would have equal advantages for us. That, of course, would mean dropping some customers...” He allowed his voice to drift off.
There was silence at the other end of the line for several moments. Then Morrison said quietly, “I’ll be in your office in twenty minutes, Mr. Maxwell.”
“Thank you,” Maxwell said graciously, but he was talking to a dead line. He hung up and turned to the others, smiling faintly. “Morrison will be here in twenty minutes.”
Reardon looked at that bright, shrewd, smiling face with the sharp blue eyes and hoped he would never have to face the little man on a business deal. He reached behind him, to his belt holster and removed his service revolver. He checked it carefully, slid it into his outside jacket pocket for easy access, then seated himself, waiting. Captain Tower did the same with his revolver and also placed it in his side pocket. Chief Boynton merely came to his feet and moved to the window, staring out.
The minutes ticked by. Then there was a rap on the door; it opened and a large bearded man stood on the threshold. His glance passed the other three men in the room and fastened on Maxwell. “You’re Mr. Maxwell...?” he started to say, and then did a rapid double take, turning swiftly to face Reardon. “You’re...!” His hand went to his pocket, but before either of the others could draw their guns, Chief Boynton had moved swiftly. His big hand slapped Morrison across the face with all his might. Morrison stood there a moment, dazed, and then slid to the floor, unconscious.