Reardon stared. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Porky said calmly, “let’s face the dismal facts about the U.S. mails. This Mike Holland was snatched, according to you, either late in the afternoon or early in the evening. After delivery of the afternoon paper, at any rate. Correct?”
“That’s right.”
“And the taping of Sergeant Holland’s pain-filled voice had to be even later than that, right?”
“Obviously.”
“Well, let me ask you a question. Since when have you been able to mail a package — or a letter, for that matter — late one evening and have it delivered in the next morning’s mail? Or even the next afternoon’s mail? Probably not since 1930, if you want an honest answer. If then. Certainly not today.”
Reardon shook his head at his own stupidity. Porky was completely right.
“So where does that leave us?”
“I don’t know where it leaves you,” Porky said, “but it leaves me with the distinct idea that all packages being delivered tomorrow at the Hall of Justice addressed to you ought to get a more-than-usual consideration. Together with their bearers, of course.”
He shot one of his neatly linked cuffs and glanced at the wafer-thin gold watch that was revealed.
“Well, time marches on, to coin a phrase, and you look more tired by the moment. In any event, that’s about all the clues I can offer at the moment. I suggest you write them down.”
Reardon smiled. “Too tired.”
“A minor difficulty,” Porky said. He took a thin gold pen from his pocket, wrote “Newspaper” and “Mailman” on the corner of a napkin, tore it off, and leaned across the table, tucking it into the breast pocket of Reardon’s jacket. “When you get home, put this under the pillow, and the Napkin Fairy may give you the solution before morning. And do not feel badly that the clues I revealed were not spotted by you. After all,” he said in a kindly tone, “you’re tired, and this is the shank of the evening for me.”
“And where are you going now?”
“I go to listen, as per instructions, mon Capitaine — I wonder how you say Lieutenant? — and not, unfortunately, back to Sawicki’s,” Porky said sadly, and sighed at the memory of that open table.
Saturday — 2:50 A.M.
Lieutenant Reardon pulled his Charger into an empty space before the rococo Victorian edifice on the corner of Chestnut and Hyde that contained, among other equally spartan warrens, his own bachelor quarters. He was too weary even to be amazed that a parking space was available practically before his door; most times he was sure the residents of El Cerrito came all the way over here to park, simply to deny him the space. When in a more charitable mood he conceded their real reason was there was no space available nearer.
He swung the wheels to the curb, locked the emergency brake to its fullest — all standard precautions of any San Franciscan who did not want to wake up in the morning and find his car in the bay below — and climbed out, locking the car door. He struggled up the few feet of the steep incline to the worn wooden steps of his building, and regained his balance there, staring up at the house, wondering why he didn’t simply lie down on the stoop instead of climbing those mountainous stairs to his own aerie somewhere above. Still, sleeping on the stoop with his normal thrashing about meant taking the chance of ending up in the bay himself, and the thought of waking up under water was distasteful. Besides, he had to get up too early in the morning to waste time rolling down hills.
He let himself into the house with his key and wearily climbed the inside flight to his own personal portion of the ornate old mansion, his footsteps dragging on the worn carpeting, his eyes half closed. He let himself into his living room, switched on the lamp and closed the door, grateful for the silence. Almost three o’clock, which still left four lovely hours of slumber before having to get up and face the hectic meetings that were certain to mark the morning. Four wonderful hours of rest and relaxation before the holocaust! Not the longest time span in the world, but still the equivalent of almost twenty-four ten-minute naps. Why, the thought was practically sybaritic! Four beautiful, wonderful hours! God, a lifetime!
He allowed his jacket to drop unheeded from his shoulders; his necktie was dragged over his head and tossed somewhere in the general direction of a corner. His shoes were scraped off, his trousers allowed to collapse in a pile, his shirt permitted to lie where it fell. The lamp was switched off and he padded toward the bedroom in the dark. Pajamas and toothbrushes were all right in their place, but their place was not here and now; the shade of his mother might scold and threaten eventual dentures, but at the moment sleep was more important.
The mattress felt wonderful as he sank down upon it. He swung his tired legs onto the bed, welcoming the comfort, pulled the covers to his chin, and rolled over, nestling comfortably against the warm figure lying there. “Good night, dear,” he murmured absently under his breath, and allowed himself to relax, his mind automatically seeking a means to avoid the problem of Mike Holland’s kidnapping, looking for a line of concentration that would lead to soporific release. The answer, he decided, would lie in mentally replaying the front nine of the San Francisco Golf Club course; he usually managed to be sound asleep before he came up to the fifth tee, assuming he didn’t get buried in that trap on the fairway leading up to the fourth green—
He sat up in bed abruptly, reached up to turn on the light, and stared down in surprise at the pert little face looking up at him demurely from the pillow.
“Jan!”
“Hello, darling.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you, dear. You look tired.” Jan smiled at him tenderly. “Get some rest. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“But...” Reardon fumbled with words. “Does this mean you’ve changed your mind about getting married?”
“In the morning, darling. Go to sleep.”
“But...”
“In the morning.”
“All right,” Reardon said, not quite sure. “If you say so.” He lay back again, reached up and switched off the light. So he’d get up at six-thirty instead of seven — what the hell! The night was practically shot, anyway, and it would still be the equivalent of twenty-two or twenty-three ten-minute naps. He smiled at the thought in the darkness and reached out to put his arm around a warm and soft Jan as he drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 4
Saturday — 8:00 A.M.
The men sitting around the conference room on the fifth floor of the Hall of Justice, waiting for Chief Boynton to arrive, represented the major departments of the Police Department, with both the division head and his chief assistant present. The men had been called in from many endeavors, some from time off, some from duty, some from sleep, but they were all there. Lieutenant Reardon, seated beside the head of Homicide, Captain Tower, leaned back and took advantage of the delay to relive the lovely reunion he had unfortunately been forced to leave such a brief time before.
Jan! How had he ever been lucky enough to find himself a girl like Jan? It wasn’t just that she was rapidly becoming known as one of the best of the rising crop of young architects in town; it wasn’t just that despite the considerable difference in their education she actually made him feel smart at times; it wasn’t even her wonderful looks, with the short boyish hair topping off that lovely face, and the whole kissable head topping off that incredible body; it was — well, he didn’t know exactly what it was, but he promised himself he would never again jeopardize their relationship by insisting on marriage if Jan didn’t want to marry a cop. When he was really honest about it, he didn’t blame her. Just suppose, for instance, that Kate Holland was still alive; picture her at this moment, sitting home, wondering what some nut was doing to her husband, wondering is she’d ever see him alive again...