“But why would he skip?” Dondero was frowning at him. “He’s supposed to be in court tomorrow!”
“I hope nobody holds their breath until he gets there.” Reardon’s voice was scathing in his self-blame. “He skipped because I had to be a big brain and a big shot and ask Merkel to get us a continuance — as if that made the slightest goddamn difference! Crocker knew damned well something was fishy when I did that; he had the deal figured out just right. He should have been released at once; that’s why he didn’t bother having a lawyer with him in court. A lawyer might make the court look at something twice. He figured to walk out the door free and clear, and when Merkel asked for an extension — and got it — he knew it wasn’t normal. So he figured he’d slipped up somewhere. He didn’t know where, but I have a feeling prudence is a large part of Mr. Crocker’s make-up. So he simply blew.”
“But what could you have done?”
“I should have let him walk out with a lecture by the judge. He would still have been liable for a murder charge when I had the goods on him. And he would still be around in the meantime. But, no! I had to ask for a continuance!”
Dondero knew better than to commiserate with Jim Reardon at a time like this. The best thing to do was to change the subject, and he hurried to do it.
“You going to get the technical boys down here?”
“Looking for what? Bedbugs? Cockroaches? Secret passageways? I can picture Captain Clark if I did. I can hear him like it was yesterday.” He stalked over to the telephone and raised it, listening. “Well, at least he skipped out on a phone bill too. Thank God.” He dialed a familiar number and waited impatiently. The phone was answered almost at once.
“San Francisco Police Department. Sergeant Holland speaking.”
“Bill? This is Jim Reardon. I want to put out an all-points on a man named Ralph Crocker. He—” He paused, thinking. “Is Stan Lundahl there?”
“One moment, Lieutenant.” There was a brief pause; Reardon could see the sergeant’s finger going down the assignment list. “Yes, sir. He should be in the building somewheres.”
“Fine. He can give you a detailed description of the man.”
“Yes, sir. What’s this man wanted for?”
“Murder. Hell probably be using either public transportation or taxis. Or he may be across the bay by now halfway to Seattle, because we don’t know when he blew. Get hold of the taxi dispatchers and see if any of the drivers in town remember him. You can check the airport too. He should be carrying at least one suitcase, maybe two. I’m at his apartment and I’m going to talk to the superintendent and the neighbors. They may have some ideas, but I doubt it.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant didn’t hang up, a sign he had something further to add. There was a moment’s pause as he apparently asked someone to contact Lundahl; then he went on. “Lieutenant — Morrison down in the garage has been trying to get hold of you for the last couple of minutes. He rang your office and then us—”
“Switch me over to him.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a click and another telephone began to ring. It rang for a full minute before it was finally answered.
“Yeah?”
“Morrison? This is Lieutenant Reardon. You wanted me?”
“I sure did, Lieutenant. That character’s been giving me a real hard time. He’s got some sort of paper, but I’m no lawyer. It looks like one of them forms you buy in a stationery store; legal-looking and all that, but I don’t know. I’d feel a lot better if you come downstairs and give it your personal okay.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“About this character,” Morrison said, his tone of voice clearly expecting to be understood. He remembered something else, and disappointment entered his voice. “And another thing, he don’t want to sell the car under no circumstances. I told him about the transmission seal, but he couldn’t care less. He just wants to drive it away, and he’s got this paper—”
Reardon finally woke up. “Morrison! Is there a man there trying to take out that Buick?”
“That’s what I been trying to tell you, Lieutenant,” Morrison said, deservedly aggrieved. “He’s got this here paper—”
“Keep quiet! Listen! That’s Ralph Crocker; that man is wanted for murder. There’s an all-points out on him. Grab him and hang onto him. I’m not in the building, but I’ll be there in damned few minutes!”
He hung up and moved swiftly to the door. Dondero, who had heard and understood, was ahead of him, holding the door open. They forewent the elevator in favor of speed and clattered down the bare staircase, pivoting around the landings and the floor areas, hitting the first floor on the double, bursting through the lobby doors into the street. Behind them the mailman paused in his labors and frowned a moment before returning to feeding “Resident” envelopes to the poor inhabitants of the building. Whatever had those hard-looking characters running, he wanted no part of it.
Reardon was at the wheel and had the engine roaring in seconds; the car left the curb with an impulsive leap as Dondero slammed the door behind him and leaned forward, bracing himself with his huge hands against the padded dashboard, prepared for anything.
They shot down Harrison at full speed, not speaking to each other. The high beams were on, a warning signal in the dark mistiness of the day; both of Reardon’s thick thumbs pressed tightly on the horn ring even as his strong hands handled the wildly twisting wheel, flashing past stop lights with no regard for cross traffic, blaring the klaxon in warning, swerving past slower traffic, urging more speed from the car. He swung into Seventh, going contrary to the one-way traffic, nearly hitting a Greyhound bus, skidding past it into the entrance to the police garage, sluing to a stop blocking the ramp, the tires squealing in protest. Dondreo opened his eyes, sweating, and got down from the car a split second after his superior.
The two men ran down the ramp, guns in hand.
“Don — you take this aisle! I’ll take the other one.”
They separated and pounded down the broad spaces separating the neat rows of parked cars, dashing toward the highly lighted area in front of the garage office. Even as he ran Reardon knew something was wrong. Their noisy entrance had evoked no response of any kind. He passed the spot where the Buick had stood the afternoon before. It was empty; only a glistening pool of oil marked where it had stood. Reardon kept running toward the office area, arriving just as Dondero came in from the other aisle. The two men paused, panting, catching their breath, staring at Morrison sprawled on the oil-stained concrete, his head looking oddly lumpy with blood edging from it. A stained wrench lay beside him.
Reardon drew several deep breaths to steady his voice.
“Don, you get help for Morrison. And then wait to hear from me. Stay in Communications.”
He turned and ran back the way he came, stowing his revolver in his belt holster as he ran, cursing the luck that had permitted Crocker to hit the garage when nobody but Morrison was around. An automobile horn echoed hollowly from the garage entrance, blaring its protest against the blockage of the passageway by the Charger. Reardon trotted up the ramp, catching his breath, passing the Charger to see who wanted to get in. It was a ten-car from Southern, with a sergeant named Pilcher at the wheel. Beside him sat a cadet. Reardon knew Pilcher and liked him. Luck, he thought, and about time too! He paused at the side of the patrol car, drawing in deep draughts of air, finally getting control of his speaking.
“Sergeant, is your car in good order?”
“Yes, sir.” Pilcher understood the reason for the question. “I’m here because we’re to check out at eleven this morning.”