“Did they, now!” Out of sheer perversity Reardon opened it and flashed the light about the bare space, and then snapped the small panel shut. He noted the mileage and frowned. Only eighteen thousand miles on a 1940 Buick? Second time around, probably, though it didn’t look that, either. He shrugged. The keys were in the switch; he turned them and watched the needles on the gauges come to life. The gas gauge moved to a quarter; he wondered idly what mileage the big car gave per gallon and turned the switch off, not knowing why he had even switched it on. He bent down, noting the registration on the steering column. He glanced over his shoulder at Morrison.
“They take a look at this?”
“Sure, Lieutenant, but they put it back. They put everything back, like the spare tire, and everything.”
Reardon bent in the car again, reading the registration information through the plastic window of the folder. Unsatisfied, he snapped the holder from the steering column, bringing it closer to the flashlight to study it. As he had already known, the car was registered to Ralph Crocker, hair etc., eyes etc., address etc. He turned the clear plastic envelope over, glancing at the back. He was about to return the folder to the steering column when he suddenly paused, looking at the back of the registration a second time. His eyes came up to Morrison’s face. The ex-mechanic, cum-garage-attendant was surprised at the expression.
“What’s the matter, Lieutenant?”
“The registration was transferred to Crocker only last week.” Reardon was frowning.
“So?”
“So he only bought this car last week!”
Morrison shrugged, unimpressed. “So he just happened to be lucky. You run into one of these jobs — in this good a shape — maybe once in a lifetime. A guy would be crazy not to grab it. Any guy who knows anything about cars, that is.”
“If he knew anything about cars...”
“Well, he had to,” Morrison said reasonably. “He grabbed it, didn’t he?”
“That’s true, he did,” Reardon said enigmatically, his brain racing. He looked at Morrison, a cold smile on his face. “Rather a coincidence, though, don’t you think? Getting it just in time to kill somebody with it?”
“Well,” Morrison said, “That’s how it goes.”
“Yes.” Reardon slipped the car registration into his pocket. He flashed the light about the interior once more and then shut the door. He crouched down, staring at the undercarriage of the high car. As Morrison had said, there was a slight leak from the transmission, but otherwise the underside looked clean; the springs looked in good shape and the muffler hadn’t rusted out. He straightened up, flicking off the flashlight, handing it to Morrison. “I guess that’s it.”
“Right. Say, Lieutenant—” Suddenly Morrison seemed diffident, hesitant.
“Yes?”
“Well—” Morrison seemed embarrassed, but then he overcame it, speaking out. “Well, sometimes, you know lots of guys don’t want to keep a car that killed somebody. Especially if they were driving. This guy Crocker, maybe hell feel that way too. You’ll be seeing him. Could you ask him for me? I’d give him a decent price,” Morrison added hastily. “I ain’t trying to gyp him, or take advantage of his tough luck. It’s just — well, I can replace them leaky seals in a matter of four, five hours — on my own time, that is — and have me a real winner. How about it, Lieutenant? Will you ask him?”
Reardon stared at the eager face before him and sighed.
“If I get a chance I’ll ask him,” he said quietly and turned away, walking toward the elevator back to the fourth floor.
Chapter 10
Wednesday — 4:30 P.M.
Dondero was sitting on the edge of an empty desk tossing paper clips into a waste basket across the room when Lieutenant Reardon returned to his office from the basement garage. The sergeant put the balance of the paper clips neatly back in the desk drawer and closed it, suggesting his recognition of the fact that one should not waste tax-payer’s money in plain view of a superior. He nodded, smiling pleasantly.
“I am informed through channels that I’m supposed to work with you a couple of days. A distinct pleasure. I imagine it’s because of my extensive experience in Traffic...”
Reardon stood beside his desk and checked his watch. He disregarded the sarcasm. His eyebrows went up. “I didn’t expect you back so soon, but I’m glad you’re here. We have a lot to do.”
“You told me to hurry back, and you know me. The Faithful Servant.” Dondero sighed. “But don’t think it was easy. My lousy luck I got green lights all the way out to her place. If I was going somewhere I was in a hurry to get to, it wouldn’t work that way.” His voice because serious; he almost sounded on the defensive. “She’s quite a girl, you know? We’re having dinner tonight. It’s just that — well, she’s sort of lost. She needs not to be alone for a while, not to think about what happened.”
“And you’re going to help her.”
“Well, sure.”
Reardon grinned. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t say no, did I? You’re both consenting adults.”
“You got it all wrong!” Dondero was insulted and sounded it. “She loses her boy friend one night, I make a pass the next? What kind of a guy do you think I am?” He took a deep breath and calmed down. “Tell you what — maybe we could all have dinner together, you and Jan and Penny and me. How about it?”
“It’s all right with me, and I’m sure Jan won’t mind. I’m meeting her at eight.”
“Swell,” Dondero said, pleased. “I told Penny eight to eight-thirty, so it’ll work out fine. I won’t even tag you for that meal you owe me from last night.” His face fell; he sounded on the defensive once again. “It’s not that I’m trying to saddle you and Jan with another couple if you want to be by yourselves, only I figure my first date with the girl, we oughtn’t to be alone. I don’t want her to think—”
“Quit apologizing,” Reardon said with a smile. He shook his head, running his fingers through his unruly mop of hair. “Dondero, the faithful and shy servant. That’ll be the day!” He forestalled any further comment with a raised hand. “We won’t be ready by either eight or eight-thirty if we keep on jabbering. We’ve got work to do.”
“What work?”
“Just tag along. You’ll find out.” Reardon fished Wilkins’ report from the pile of papers on his desk, folded it and creased it with complete disregard for the effect on the glossy photographs, wrapped a rubber band around it to prevent the bundle from spreading open, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“First to a used-car lot—” The telephone interrupted him. “Damn! Well never get started!” He reached over, dragging it closer by the cord, lifting the receiver. “Hello?”
“Lieutenant Reardon?”
“That’s me.”
“I didn’t recognize your voice. This is Harry Thompson of the magnificent S.S. Mandarin.”
Reardon settled himself on the corner of the desk. “Hello.”
“I went through all the passenger lists on the ship since she was commissioned, and nobody by the name of Crocker ever rode this bucket. The closest was a Mr. and Mrs. Corker, and I remember them. They were a couple in their sixties from Winnemucca, Nevada, wherever that is.” His voice seemed to indicate the Corkers hadn’t been a bad couple, considering their roots and the fact they had been passengers.
Reardon sighed. “Well, that’s how it goes. Thanks, anyhow.”
“Tell you what else I found, though,” Thompson said helpfully. “Just in case you’re looking for somebody who wasn’t using his right name — a shocking state of affairs that happens more often than you might think — I’ve got a mess of photographs from the night of the Captain’s Party. Got them from our photographer. We’ve got a photographer on this cruise ship who saves everything. A pack rat. Someday we’re going to have to leave off cargo or passengers so we’ll have room for his files. May it be passengers! Anyway, do you want to look through them?”