“That would be real smart, wouldn’t it?” Reardon frowned at the telephone as if it had somehow contributed to the position he was in. “No; I’ll make it. I’ll tell you what you can do, though, Don. Forget about going home, come over here and keep Jan company until I get back.” He smiled. “You can even have the five-course special. On me.”
“Aw, gee, thanks, mister,” Dondero said. “It’ll mean missing ‘Superman’ on television, but for you — plus the five-course special — I’ll do it. The only thing is, what does a cop like me talk to an architect about? Especially a lady architect?”
“Lady architecture, naturally,” Reardon said dryly and hung up. He walked to the small bamboo-lined alcove, slipped into his loafers, and went back to the table. Jan had been staring across Jefferson Street, watching the street vendors on the Wharf, and the colored lights bobbing on the masts of fishing boats tied up to the pier. She turned at his approach, smiling; one glance at the shoes he wore and the smile disappeared. Her wide hazel eyes studied his face with sudden coldness.
“Well, Lieutenant Reardon? What now? Duty calling?”
“A meeting I forgot all about, honey.”
“A meeting you forgot about?”
“Well, I was pretty occupied this afternoon, remember?” Reardon grinned at her. His grin being rewarded with a blank look, he straightened his face. “Sorry. I had a notice on my desk when I checked out this noon, but I guess I forgot it. The meeting was for seven-thirty. I don’t know what it’s all about, but it shouldn’t last long.” Her expression was one of mild curiosity, as if wondering why he was bothering to explain. “Anyway,” he added, almost defensively, “Don will be over in a few minutes and he’ll have dinner with you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Which would be wonderful if I were in love with Sergeant Dondero,” Jan said calmly. “Instead of you. Unfortunately, that just isn’t the way it is.”
“I’m sorry, Jan. I’m really sorry, honey, but there isn’t anything I can do about it.”
“There are a number of things you could do about it,” Jan said steadily, her large eyes studying his face impersonally. “But you won’t. That’s the pity of it.” She sighed and shrugged, looking even smaller than her small self, but also looking very strong and self-possessed. “Well, Lieutenant, what am I supposed to say? Hurry back?”
Reardon met her gaze. “Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s what you’re supposed to say.”
“Hurry back,” she said obediently and turned to look out of the window.
He stared at the clipped hair on the back of her small head a moment and then turned away, moving toward the door before Jan might turn and add something that could only hurt. Their discussions about the demands as well as the dangers of his job were usually kept under control, but at times they formed a wedge between them leading to arguments neither enjoyed, but which neither seemed to be able to avoid. Lieutenant James Reardon had worked hard to earn his rating at his age, and he could not picture himself in any other kind of work; besides, he believed in the necessity of his job. For a moment he tried to persuade himself that Jan also recognized the necessity as well as his fitness in his chosen line of work, but that was nonsense and he knew it.
With a sigh he became aware of a sympathetic Mr. Noguchi holding the door open for him. He muttered an unintelligible apology for leaving before enjoying the excellent food; Mr. Noguchi bowed in understanding. With a shake of his head Reardon clattered down the steps of the restaurant to the street.
Chapter 2
Tuesday — 8:15 P.M.
“You’re late for some meeting, Lieutenant,” the uniformed patrolman at the information desk said, as Reardon came through the heavy glass doors into the red marbled lobby of the Hall of Justice.
“I know,” Reardon said flatly. He ducked under the rope that cordoned off the lobby and the upper floors to nonofficial personnel at night and then paused. “Where is it?”
“Fifth floor auditorium. Line-up room.”
“Right,” Reardon said and walked around one of the massive pillars, going to the double bank of elevators. He punched a button and waited impatiently until a door finally swung back and then stepped back to allow a fellow officer to emerge before entering.
“Say, Jim,” the other said, holding the door a moment. “Captain Tower has been—”
“I know,” Reardon said coldly and pushed the button for the fifth floor. He left the elevator, walking rapidly, turning right into the corridor, and almost ran into a young patrolman from the city cell block.
“Hey, Lieutenant—”
“Damn it, I know!” Reardon said savagely and pushed through the doors into the sloping auditorium, slamming the door behind him. The air shock on the door took the jar uncomplainingly, easing the door closed gently, almost reprovingly. There were roughly two dozen men in the large auditorium, all of his rank or higher. On the stage, standing before the large striped line-up board, and facing a blackboard on which he was writing, was a stranger. Reardon noted an empty chair next to Captain Tower in the front row and moved to it, sliding into it. Behind him in the second row he could feel the eyes of the assistant chief of police, Boynton, boring into the back of his neck. Reardon knew the fact of his late arrival was filed away in Boynton’s mind for instant reference whenever it would be required, even twenty years hence.
He leaned over, whispering. “What’s the meeting all about, Captain?”
Tower kept his voice low. “Smuggling.”
“Smuggling?” Reardon frowned at him. For this he missed a good meal and chanced a fight with Jan? “What do we have to do with smuggling? That’s a federal problem.”
Captain Tower shrugged. He was a giant of a man with grizzled hair and hands the size of boxing gloves. His face was heavy and slightly pock-marked but his eyes were bright and alert. “If you’ll listen to the man,” he said quietly, “maybe you’ll get your answer.”
Reardon slumped back dispiritedly. The stranger at the blackboard on the stage finished the list he had been compiling and turned back to face his audience, dusting his fingers fastidiously. He was a youngish man with light hair and a certain prissiness about him; his voice, when he spoke, was a trifle high and thin. Reardon, knowing the type, had a hunch the young man scored very high on the monthly pistol range check-outs.
“That’s the problem,” the young man said and tapped the blackboard with one knuckle. The chalk on it seemed to offend him and he wiped it off against his palm. “Every day a frightening amount of narcotics comes into the United States in one form or another, and a disproportionate amount comes in through the port — and that includes the airport — of San Francisco. These figures here are just the amount of the various shipments we’ve managed to intercept. The official figures usually given to the press is that we stop about one out of two shipments. I wish, sincerely, that the true figures were that optimistic.” He checked his knuckle, found it clean, and continued, relieved. “My personal feeling is that we’re lucky if we stop one out of three or even four shipments. What we don’t stop we never know, of course. And what we don’t stop has to be located by the Narcotics Division of the Treasury Department.”
Reardon shook his head sourly. So why aren’t you out talking to the Narcotics Division? he thought, so I can go back to the Little Tokyo and finish my martini? Finish it? Start it, I mean. The young man paid no attention to the unspoken advice.