Captain Tower was walking in his direction.
“Hello, Jim.” His voice was deceptively friendly.
“Hello, Captain.” Reardon looked surprised. “Did the meeting last this long?”
“The meeting? No. It ended a few minutes after you left. Incidentally, how’s the Traffic Department?”
“Well, sir, there wasn’t anyone else available—”
Captain Tower looked at him sternly for a moment and then his face broke into a rueful grin. “Jim, one of these days one of your cute stunts is going to get you into trouble. Why did you do it? You didn’t even know what it was all about.”
“I knew what it wasn’t all about. It wasn’t a meeting, and that was enough.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Captain, but I got punished.”
“Why? Was it a bad one?”
“No,” Reardon said. “It was an automobile accident. A man stepped off the curb in front of a car and got killed. But it got me in a jam with Jan.”
Captain Tower smiled. “You get in jams with her fairly often, don’t you?” He shook his head. “Why don’t you let her make an honest man out of you, Jim?”
“One reason,” Reardon explained, “is that right now she isn’t even talking to me. And a better one is that she doesn’t think police work is the sort of thing she wants hung around her lovely neck for the rest of her life.” He put the thought to one side, changing the subject. “About this accident, Captain—”
“Yes?”
“There are couple of things that bug me about it.”
Captain Tower studied the younger man shrewdly. Lieutenant Jim Reardon was one of his best men, with initiative, understanding, and a genuine devotion to his work, and the captain knew and appreciated it. He also respected hunches, not only his own, but those of his men. True, on occasion, such as this evening, Lieutenant James Reardon had a tendency to bend the rules a bit, but it wasn’t the first time and the captain knew it probably wouldn’t be the last. Still, the lieutenant usually managed to come up smiling, and the captain didn’t believe it could all be luck.
“What’s on your mind?” He noticed the other’s hesitation, and added, “Would you like to sit down and talk about it?”
“If you’ve got the time,” Reardon said. He led the way back into his darkened office, flipping the light switch, dropping into his chair back of the desk. Behind him, through the window, the lights of San Francisco at night climbed the hills in strings of pearls. Captain Tower took a chair beside the desk, watching the younger man.
“Well?”
Reardon picked up a pencil and began to play with it absently, thinking.
“For one thing, Captain,” he said slowly, “the man who was killed didn’t carry any identification. He had money on him in a money clip, and he had keys and the normal things you carry in your pockets, but he didn’t have a wallet. He didn’t have anything with his name on it.”
“Well,” Captain Tower said thoughtfully, “I can picture one circumstance at least when a man might not have his wallet on him. Haven’t you ever gone across the street for a pack of cigarettes or a paper and not bothered taking your wallet with you? When you have change, or money like he did?”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t,” Reardon said evenly. “My badge is in my wallet, and my I.D. card. I doubt if you ever have, Captain. But I could still understand what you mean, except this accident took place on Indiana near Eighteenth, down near the docks. It isn’t a residential neighborhood by a long shot — not a house in sight. And no stores around to buy anything. And the way this man was dressed — the victim — he looked as if he was on his way to a night on the town.” He frowned. “That’s also odd. He had twenty-eight dollars on him, plus some change. That doesn’t pay for much of a night on this town.”
“So maybe he wasn’t on his way to a night on the town. What else?”
“Well, this Ralph Crocker — he was driving the car — was on Army Street in a restaurant and on his way home to the Martinique Apartments on Second between Harrison and Folsom. Now the Skyway runs from almost where he was to where he was going, but he was driving those dark, dockside roads, full of holes and half of them blocked with construction. I asked him why, and he said he was scared of the traffic on the freeways...”
“Lots of people are, you know,” Captain Tower said.
“But at that hour they’re practically empty. Somehow it just struck me as odd. And another thing, when I finished questioning him I suggested he stay in a cell here for the night — a trustee’s cell with the door open, but a cell just the same — and not call his lawyer until after his hearing in Municipal Court tomorrow afternoon. And he agreed. Or at least he didn’t call a lawyer.”
Reardon leaned forward, putting the pencil aside, staring at the captain.
“Now, that is odd. To me, that is extremely odd. I know I haven’t been on the force half as long as a lot of others, but I’ve been on it long enough to know that no man involved in an accident — especially one where a life is lost — is not going to call for help no matter what the time of the day or night, and no matter how much it inconveniences anyone. But Crocker let it go at that.”
“Did you book him?”
“No, sir. As I said, he’s in an open cell. Just spending the night as our guest.”
“Who was on the APB car?”
“Frank Wilkins, sir. Sergeant Wilkins.”
“He’s a good man. Did he give you any reason to believe it wasn’t an accident?” He paused significantly. “In other words, any reason our department should be involved?”
“No. As a matter of fact, Frank is convinced it was an accident.”
“Do you have any reason to disagree with him?”
Reardon hesitated a moment and then shook his head. “Just the ones I’ve given you, sir.”
Captain Tower came to his feet with an air of finality.
“In that case, Jim, I suggest you release the man on his own cognizance and turn the whole business over to Traffic. They’ll have him in court tomorrow and it’s their baby.” He shook his head. “Captain Clark in Traffic is going to be unhappy enough with your sticking your nose into their business, but that’s the least of it. Some reporter fresh out of journalism school could get hold of a story like this and make a big thing out of nothing at all. A man in a cell without a charge in a case where our own accident squad sergeant says it’s a clear-cut accident — well, it’s precisely the sort of publicity the police department doesn’t need. Especially in these days.”
Reardon picked up his pencil, twiddling it.
“All right, Captain. But I’d like to see that old Buick impounded—”
“Is that the accident car? Didn’t Wilkins examine it?”
“He didn’t have time tonight. But I’d like a real checkup on that car, not just a quick one-two-three.” He caught the captain’s quizzical eye on him and smiled faintly. “No, sir; I don’t know why.”
“Jim,” Captain Tower said, “let me tell you something. First, I think you’re trying to justify doing something tonight that was against regulations; if you can make even the slightest case for anything other than accident, even if it doesn’t stick in court, you figure you’re off the hook. Well, you won’t be — not with Captain Clark nor with me. Second, I also think you’re mad at the driver because his accident managed to get you in a scrape with Jan.” The captain was serious and Reardon knew it. “Well, the first is bad police work and the second is frivolous. You send Crocker home and tell him to be here for Municipal Court at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”