“If it was a toll call,” the woman said, not at all perturbed by the thought of wasting time, nor at all prodded by the note of urgency in the other’s voice, “then we can check it. Unless, of course, it was made from a public booth, in which case I’m afraid it would be very difficult—”
“Look, miss, damn it! Will you...?”
“But you said you heard no coins drop, didn’t you? Well, we’ll do what we can. What number did you say the call was made to?”
Reardon gritted his teeth. “664-0398! Look, miss—”
“And that’s in the city proper?”
“Yes, damn it! It’s in the city! It’s a restaurant, Marty’s Oyster House! Look—”
“And to whom am I speaking?”
Reardon started to close his eyes and count to ten, or possibly a hundred, but then he realized he would only be aiding and abetting the imbecile in wasting time.
“My name is Reardon,” he said, amazed at his calmness and wondering how long it could last, “Lieutenant James Reardon. Of the Homicide Division,” he added significantly, hoping this fact might startle the woman into some form of useful activity. “And now, would you please get started on—”
“And what number are you calling from?”
“Goddamn it! I told you a dozen times! 664-0398!”
“You didn’t say that was the number you were using. You said that was the number where the call was received,” the woman said primly, overlooking his language since she was a lady. Reardon bit his lip. So he hadn’t told her exactly, but if she had enough brains to come out from under a falling safe, she could have figured it out. “In any event,” the woman went on calmly, “I’m afraid we can only trace calls when the authority to have the trace placed comes through the Police Department. Directly, that is,” she added, forestalling any argument, “from the Communications Center at the Hall of Justice.”
“What do you mean, directly? I’m a police officer! My shield number—”
“I mean, we have no means of identifying you as a police officer over the telephone, I’m afraid.”
“Miss,” Reardon said with a patience he was far from feeling, “who else would want a call traced, except the police?”
“Many people,” the supervisor said, and sniffed loudly at the memory of irate husbands and cheating wives, not to mention cheating husbands and irate wives. It was one of the major reasons she had never married, and nobody was ever going to convince her there were any other reasons. “I’m sorry, but if you’ll relay your request through proper police channels, we’ll be glad to see what we can do—”
Her tone clearly indicated that in her opinion if he was a policeman, she was Greta Garbo. Reardon stared at the wall. Well, the chances of tracing the call after this delay were undoubtedly zero in any event.
“Miss,” he said wearily. “What’s your name?”
“I’m afraid we’re not permitted to give out that information.”
“Now, look!” he began furiously, and then gave up. “Forget it,” he said, and dropped the receiver with a bang just as Dondero came back into the room in a rush, panting.
“Damn nearest phone’s a block away and the damn thing doesn’t work. Was going to cut in on you from the cashier’s desk, but I figured it would just screw things up. Just once I’d like to see a street phone that hasn’t been ripped off! Or a patrol car when you need one! Anyway, I figured you’d be off the line by this time...”
Reardon was still trying to bring himself under control. The day he bought stock in A.T.&T. would be a cold one in Panama, although it would be wonderful to be on the board of directors just long enough to fire about two million operators and supervisors.
“Never mind,” he said, and picked up the receiver again. “It’s probably about a week too late now, in any case.” He clicked the button several times. “And now where in hell’s the dial tone?”
“What gives?” Dondero asked, and picked up his waiting drink, marveling that it was still there after his absence. And not only his, but Reardon’s as well. Amazing! “What was all that mishagas about tracing the call? And all that about Pop?”
Reardon suddenly realized he also had a drink waiting. He picked it up, drank it down in one healthy gulp, shuddered a bit, and set the glass down. He also suddenly realized that Dondero didn’t know what the whole thing was all about.
“Pop Holland’s been kidnapped,” he said somberly, holding the receiver to his ear, wondering if he might have broken the idiot apparatus when he had smashed the receiver down. “Snatched.” Where the hell was the bloody dial tone?
“What?”
“That’s what the man said. He wasn’t fooling. He had Pop on tape.” The dial tone was suddenly in his ear and for a moment Reardon wondered if it had been there all along. Wake up, he advised himself sternly, and dialed a number.
Dondero was staring at him unbelievingly.
“Who the devil would want to kidnap Pop? Why, for Christ’s sake? He doesn’t have an enemy in the world—”
“I doubt it was a friend.”
Dondero hadn’t even heard. “...and as far as dough is concerned, he’s got no family, and outside his pension and the house, I doubt he’s got five bills in the bank! So, why...?”
A sexy, feminine voice answered the telephone. Reardon stared, and then barked into the telephone:
“Who’s this?”
There was a giggle. “It’s your nickel. You tell me first,” the sexy voice said, wheedlingly. “Who are you?”
“Damn!” Reardon said, and hung up, warning himself not to allow the phone company to get him down. Your nickel! He had to get octogenarian sex pots on his wrong numbers, yet! He clicked for the dial tone for what seemed to be the hundredth time, feeling as if he had spent the last three years of his life on the phone.
Dondero looked at him. “Who you calling?”
“The Hall, of course. Like I should have right off the bat.” He stared at Dondero sourly. “And don’t ask me if the kidnapper didn’t tell me not to contact the police...”
“Who, me?” Dondero was shocked. “Joke at a time like this?”
“You,” Reardon said. The dial tone came on and he finally managed to dial the proper number. “Go out and tell the guys the news. Let them eat and go home, or just go home. And then come back.” It was going to be a long, long night, he knew, and it would undoubtedly be made a lot longer by the fact that a large part of it would probably be spent in using the blaggedy blanged blumpery blithery instrument in his hand.
Chapter 3
Saturday — 1:10 A.M.
Frank Paul Oliver — Porky Frank or Porky Oliver to his friends, depending upon the closeness of the relationship — was a businessman with various interests, and one of his interests, in a minor fashion, was the collecting of information. It was not his principal business; his major interest was in running a small but honest handbook, but when in the course of his daily endeavors he ran into facts that could have a monetary value, Porky quite properly collected those facts and eventually sold them. To have done otherwise would have been unbusinesslike, and contrary to the “Waste Not, Want Not” philosophy instilled in him as a youth by an equally businesslike mother.
The standard word for a person who indulges in the sale of information for money is “stool pigeon,” but the word carries the wrong connotation. Years of conditioning by television, the movies, and cheap novels have left the public with the mental picture of a stool pigeon as a small, cringing man, usually with a terminal cough, dressed in a crumpled suit with frayed cuffs and upturned jacket collar, who whispers hoarsely from the corner of his mouth, normally past a stained cigarette plastered to his lower lip. Frank Paul Oliver would have smiled gently at the description. A large, well-built young man with a fine sense of humor and flair for the finer things in life, Porky had gained his nickname because of his ebullient self-confidence. To be honest, Porky was quite content with the propaganda of the movies and television. It obviously made it much easier to gather information when the people speaking in his presence were constantly looking over their shoulders for small cringing men with frayed cuffs and terminal coughs, and not paying the slightest attention to the well-dressed, self-confident people in the area.