“How many are there?”
“Roughly a trillion.” Thompson paused and then revamped his figures, realizing a trillion might be considered inaccuracy above and beyond the call of exaggeration. “Well, to be a little more exact, he takes about a hundred and fifty each trip on the night of the Captain’s Party, and in eighteen years at three trips a year, that’s—”
“It wouldn’t be eighteen years,” Reardon said, thinking about it. “Eighteen years ago Crocker would have been a kid of fifteen, scarcely taking cruises. Besides, I’m only interested in the years since Bob Cooke has been on the ship.”
“That cuts it down considerably.” Thompson did some mental calculations. “A thousand or so pictures. You want to see them?”
“Hold on a second.” Reardon cupped the receiver. “Don, see if Lundahl is around.”
Dondero shook his head. “He’s out on that mugger-killing over near Haight. I know; I was supposed to working with the Park Station boys and him on it.”
Reardon shrugged and got back on the phone. “Well, we’ve gone this far we might as well go all the way. I’ll either have someone who’s seen Crocker and recognizes him come to the ship in the morning or I’ll come myself. Are the pictures clear?”
“The ones from the Captain’s Party are,” Thompson said. “Our photographer takes his time with those; he catches people shaking hands with the captain in the main salon. The other ones he takes — masquerade parties and people at the pool — you wouldn’t recognize your own mother in one of those.”
“Good enough. Will you be there all morning?”
“Will I be here? Me? You’ve got to be kidding! Our office just sent over a tentative passenger list and their bookings, and they’ve got about six couples in one stateroom, not to mention various other assorted discrepancies. This is a well-run organization, I’ll have you know. I’ll be here, don’t worry.” Thompson’s glum voice brightened. “Why not come over and have lunch? With the passengers gone it’s about the only time you can eat in peace.”
Reardon smiled. “I’ll let you know. What’s the telephone number on board?” He pulled Wilkins’ report from his pocket, marked the number down on the back, and tucked the report back. “I’ll call you in the morning and let you know definitely. All right?”
“Sure. But try to make it. One thing this scow has is decent food. The only thing, I might mention. And bring your girl friend. I’ll tell her tales that will keep her from even riding ferry boats for life.”
Reardon laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. Thanks, Mr. Thompson.”
“Just call me Happy Harry. Service with a growl, that’s us.” Thompson chuckled and hung up.
Reardon came to his feet, his smile disappearing, glancing at his watch, wishing Thompson wasn’t quite so longwinded. Still, the way a policeman learned was listening, especially to long-winded people. He moved toward the door.
“Don! Let’s go!”
Wednesday — 5:15 P.M.
Middleton Motors was a large used-car lot on Folsom. The edges of the large lot were strung with a daisy chain of colored light bulbs that sagged over an assorted line of highly polished come-ons. The rows of cars in the rear looked more like used cars, tired and weary, wondering why they still had to serve who had served so much. A high sign in blue and gold rotated above the lot, proclaiming that the place was open until ten each night, and suggesting that bargains such as those offered by Middleton Motors were impossible to obtain elsewhere. At least, Reardon thought reasonably — as he pulled into the lot and parked beside the small shack that apparently served as office — at least the owner didn’t call himself Mad-Man Middle-ton, which was a point in his favor.
They had barely closed the doors of the Charger behind them when a spruce young man wearing a wide, striped necktie and tight pants was standing at their side, smiling at them with the brightness of a toothpaste ad. His one hand was patting the fender of the Charger tenderly, as if it were the flanks of a young girl.
“Not bad!” he said admiringly, appearing to look the Charger over carefully, appreciatively, but actually seeing only the two men from the corner of his eye. “Not bad at all. I’d say you took damned good care of it.” He dropped his voice a bit, taking them into his confidence. “Frankly, that’s more than I can say for the majority of our customers. But on this Charger — hmmm!” His smile widened in congratulation. “Well, I’m sure we can give you a trade-in you’ll find impossible to resist. What kind of a car are you thinking of trading for? Caddy? T-bird? I’ve got a three-year-old Caddy like new. They don’t build them new like that boat. It was owned by an old lady won it in a raffle and never learned to drive. I’m telling you — a steal.”
Dondero was getting more than tired of the spiel. “Look, son. We—”
Reardon interrupted smoothly.
“I’m afraid you got us wrong, friend. We’re looking to trade down, not up. Got us this spread up in the hills back of Big Sur and we need something high off the ground, like they don’t make any more. Old Packard, maybe, or Oldsmobile. Twenty-five, thirty years old. In condition to run, of course, and cheap — if possible.”
Dondero finally woke up, getting into the act. “Can’t be a Jeep, either. I’ve got this hernia, see, and the doctor says no hard rides.”
The young man shook his head. “That’s funny, you know?” For the moment his false cheerfulness and brassy salesmanship had been put aside; he seemed honestly surprised at what had to be, to him, a remarkable coincidence. In another business, Reardon suddenly thought with compassion, the young fellow would be quite a nice guy.
“What’s funny?”
“We had one like that, or almost like that, for almost a year and we figured we were stuck with it. You come in here a week ago, you could have made a real deal. I’m serious.” He nodded. “We took it in from some old character had a farm back off the main road up near Nicasio in Marin County. It was a 1940 Buick, just the sort of thing you guys want. It was the only thing high enough to get him around his farm. But he was moving to town, and I doubt if the thing was ever on concrete until he was driving it down here, so the thing didn’t have many miles on it. Actually, it was in damned good shape, so we took it in trade on a two-year-old LTD. We gave him a damned good deal on it, considering we figured we’re going to be stuck with it. We knew it wasn’t anywhere near old enough for the real old-car buffs, not by at least twenty years, and who else would ever want it?”
“You’re right about the age of old cars,” Reardon said approvingly. “I’ve got a magazine about them. Can’t afford them, but I like to read about the guys who can. So what happened?”
“Well, so about a week ago this guy walks in and grabs it. Says it’s just what he’s been looking for. He had to be some sort of collector.” He shrugged. “I never heard of collecting thirty-year-old cars, but maybe it’s something new.”
“A couple of guys are doing it for the future. Anyway, that’s that. Tough.” Reardon turned to Dondero giving him a wink. “Looks like we missed the boat.” He turned back. “You wouldn’t happen to know of any other used-car lot that might have what we want?”
“Not in a million years.” The young man sounded disdainful. “The 1940 cars go on the junk heap. Who wants them? I mean, other than guys with bad roads like you fellows, and most of them want Jeeps. This was a freak. Sat around in plain sight for over a year too. Better than plain sight. We put it in the front row between a couple of practically new Caddys, with a spotlight on it. Figured it would be a gag and make the Caddys look good. I’m surprised you guys never saw it. I thought everybody and his brother saw it, but nobody ever wanted to buy it. Until that character, and then a week later, you two.” He shook his head at the remarkable coincidence.