“But why would he do it? Why?” Penny bit her lip; her dark eyes were beginning to mist dangerously. She shook her head, angry at her display of emotion, and then looked at Reardon in misery. “But why?”
“I don’t know,” Reardon said evenly. “But well find out. And he’ll pay for it.” He turned away, referring to the number on the report, dialing it. There was a brief wait and then an answer. “Hello? Is the chief purser, Mr. Thompson, there?”
“One minute, please...”
Reardon glanced at Penny sympathetically; Dondero was holding her hand. The lieutenant looked down at the floor, putting his thoughts in order; then Thompson was on the line.
“Hello? Chief purser here.”
“Mr. Thompson? This is Lieutenant Reardon—”
“Harry to you, Lieutenant.” His voice had lost the tenseness with which Harry Thompson always faced potential telephone messages from passengers. “I might need police protection someday and I’d like to be on a first-name basis when that day comes. May it never! What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to tell you I can’t make it to the ship this morning, but I still want to see those pictures, so I’ll definitely get out there sometime this afternoon. What dock did you say you were at? I marked it down, but it’s on my desk at the office.”
“Pier 26.”
“That’s at the Central Basin docks, isn’t it?”
At the other end of the line Thompson’s bushy eyebrows rose in amazement.
“Good Lord, no! We’re far enough from the bright lights and civilization as it is. What are you trying to wish on us? The Central Basin docks? They’re halfway to San Mateo, if not Bakersfield. No; we’re between Harrison and Bryant — on the Embarcadero, needless to say.”
“What!”
Thompson was mystified at the other’s tone. “That’s right; Harrison and Bryant. Why? Aren’t we supposed to be here? My God, don’t tell the captain!”
Reardon was not amused. “Harrison and Bryant... My God, but I’m stupid!”
“You’re stupid because we’re down here? Maybe,” Thompson conceded, “but I claim we’re even more stupid, because we’re smack dab under the Bay Bridge, and if the thing falls down, we’re in for it. No place to duck.”
“Sorry,” Reardon said, in no mood for lightness at the moment. “I’ve got to run. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Make it late and try to stay for dinner,” Thompson suggested. “Bring the girl friend of yours. I’m tired of eating alone or with the chief engineer. He’s a noisy eater and he also always smells of diesel fuel.”
“Well see,” Reardon said abruptly and hung up. The smile that normally would have been on his face after a conversation with Harry Thompson was conspicuously absent. His eyes moved to Dondero’s questioning face. “Don — let’s go!”
“Sure,” Dondero said. He gave Penny’s fingers a slight squeeze of reassurance; Reardon nodded to Penny and walked quickly down the hallway with the sergeant immediately behind him. He trotted down the steps and across the street; he slid into the Charger, started the engine, and was backing up before Dondero had the door completely closed. When he spoke his voice was bitter with self-denunciation.
“God, but I’m stupid! They ought to put me on a beat, but a beat where nobody might ask any questions requiring intelligent answers. We’re going to solve this case and put Mr. Crocker where he belongs — which is in the gas chamber at San Quentin — but it won’t be because of any great stroke of genius on my part. His lawyer could sue me on the basis of being luckier than I deserve!”
“What’s eating you?”
Reardon glanced at his companion a moment and then brought his eyes back to the road. He stepped on the gas; Dondero braced himself as he listened. He’d driven with Lieutenant Reardon when the lieutenant was in one of these moods before, and he knew it would be hectic. And with the heavy fog and the damp streets and the intermittent drizzle, it was quite apt to be something even more.
“We couldn’t figure out how he knew Cooke would be there, just in the right place at the right time to be hit and killed,” Reardon said bitterly. “Well, that’s because we didn’t use our heads. It was just too simple, and that’s what stumped us. We figured Cooke had to be walking up from the Central Basin docks. Well, the ship he worked on is docked at Pier 26. That’s under the Bay Bridge, miles away.”
“I could have told you where Pier 26 is,” Dondero said.
“I’m sure you could.” Reardon continued to marvel at his own idiocy. “So could about twenty million other people, if I’d had brains enough to ask them. But I was so damned sure, I just automatically assumed it was the closest point to where Cooke was killed. So I didn’t ask any logical questions and, naturally, didn’t get any useful answers.”
Dondero still didn’t get it. “So what difference does it make where the ship was — and is — docked?”
Reardon risked a quick turn of his head to see if Dondero was serious.
“What do you mean, what difference does it make? What was Cooke doing over at Indiana and Eighteenth? He had a date with Penny at the Fairmont, and it’s nowhere near his route. It’s the opposite direction. There’s only one possible reason for him to be there: he had a meeting set up with Crocker!”
He swung the car into Van Ness, heading for the bay and the Embarcadero as being the quickest way to the Martinique Apartments at that hour.
“Crocker was waiting on the corner with his lights out. He’d set up a time alibi to explain the time he had to wait for Cooke to get there. It must have been like shooting carp in a rain barrel. When Cooke showed — and now that we know what the score is we’ll find the cab that took him there, or near there, because he certainly didn’t walk — Crocker probably flashed his lights to show where he was, and began edging the car slowly forward. So Cooke started to cross the street toward the car, and that big Buick picked up speed in a hurry! And wham!” His jaw tightened at the thought. “Our friend Crocker then backs up slowly, drives at twenty-five miles an hour down the street, and jams on his brakes as hard as he can, swerving the wheels. He then pulls Mr. Cooke back from whereever he was, arranges him neatly against the curb, and comes screaming hysterically to the police for help!”
Dondero frowned. “But if the Mandarin is docked at the foot of Harrison and Crocker lives in a hotel off Folsom, just a couple of blocks away, why go all the way down to Indiana to set up the meet?”
“Because it’s generally conceded to be poor planning, killing somebody on your own doorstep,” Reardon said sardonically. “And besides, Harrison carries a lot of traffic; it isn’t deserted like Indiana. True, if he could have arranged it in front of witnesses it might have helped him, but if it didn’t go exactly right he’d be hanging himself.”
He turned into the Embarcadero, increasing his speed. A motorcycle policeman cut over toward him, recognized the car and driver, and turned away.
“But if Crocker killed Cooke deliberately,” Dondero said after some thought, “and he picked a spot for it where nobody was anywhere near, why does he stick around? Why call the cops? It’s dead enough down there. Why doesn’t he simply blow?”
Reardon smiled a cold smile and shook his head.
“Don, you were in Traffic — you ought to know the answer to that. You know the percentage of guys who get away with hit-and-run. Damned few; and it’s the one crime we can keep accurate statistics on. It’s like shooting a policeman; it’s one of the things we never let go of. But a man who sticks around after an accident and even calls the police — well, the court is usually sympathetic if he hasn’t been drinking. He may get a lecture, and if he was speeding a little he may lose his license for a while, but if he has any kind of story, the chances are he walks out a few minutes after he walks in. And he’s clean. Forever. Nobody after him.”