Assistant Chief Boynton frowned. “I’m not sure I buy that bit,” he said slowly.
“Well, sir,” Reardon said, equally slowly, “when you take it by itself, maybe not; but when you add it as one more link in the chain of evidence, I don’t think there’s much doubt that it fits in.”
“Maybe.” Boynton was noncommittal. He wiped the ash from his cigar and replaced it in his mouth. “I suppose it’s possible. Go ahead.”
“Yes, sir. Well, there were two questions in my mind — and I’m sure in yours. The first one was, how could he know Cooke would be there, right where he wanted him for killing? And the second one — and the big one, of course — is, why did he do it?”
He looked about the room a moment, wondering if his logic would convince the others. Captain Tower was looking at him encouragingly; Captain Clark expressionlessly, and the assistant chief didn’t seem to be looking at him at all. He plunged ahead.
“I think he knew Cooke would be there because he had an appointment to meet him there. I know that means he must have known the man, even though we can’t prove it, but he must have. Cooke’s ship was at Pier 26, under the Bay Bridge; he was killed at Indiana and Eighteenth, a block or so from the Central Basin docks. That’s miles away, and south. He had left his ship to meet someone at the Fairmont; a girl. That’s in the opposite direction. Why did he go to Indiana and Eighteenth? What was he doing there?”
“And also, how did he get there?” That was Captain Tower.
“By cab, almost certainly. We’re looking for the driver who carried him; he might have said something in the cab. But no matter how he got there, he wouldn’t have gone without a reason. And the most logical reason would be to meet someone.”
“It’s logical,” Assistant Chief Boynton admitted. “That doesn’t make it factual. Any more than even if Crocker killed Cooke purposely, it necessarily means he knew him personally. He could be a professional gun.” For the second time he removed his cigar and opened his eyes wider. He used the cigar as a pointer in Reardon’s direction. “If you want to use logic, use logic. If you want to use facts, use facts. If you want to use guesswork, use guesswork.” He replaced his cigar as if relenting. His eyes assumed their half-slit condition. “For example: suppose Cooke went to Indiana and Eighteenth to meet John Paul Jones to discuss the possibility of switching from the Mandarin to the Serapis; and suppose that Crocker just happened to have the ill fortune to be coming down the street at that time? While John Paul Jones was unavoidably detained?”
“No, sir.” Reardon refused the bait. “As I said before, maybe one little thing can be put down to coincidence, and maybe a second, but all together they can’t be handled that simply. Crocker had an appointment with Bob Cooke. He waited for him — the oil slicks prove it — and he kept his appointment. By running Cooke down.”
Assistant Chief Boynton wasn’t perturbed in the least. He nodded equably, his cigar bobbing. “I merely asked a question. Now, suppose you tell us why.”
Reardon started to lean forward in his chair, and then forced himself to relax and lean back again. He avoided Captain Clark’s eye as he answered.
“Well, sir, he got suspicious by Merkel asking for a continuance of his case, which he certainly hadn’t expected. He knew we didn’t have enough to hold him, or we would have. But he also knew I wasn’t happy about the case, or somebody wasn’t happy, or he would have been released at once, which is what he had expected. So he obviously knew we would be digging like mad between Wednesday and Friday, when he had to be back in court. He had no idea we might discover he’d faked fifteen minutes of alibi at that coffeepot, or traded a VW for a big Buick, or even that we might discover the true motive for the killing—”
“Which you still haven’t,” the assistant chief said dryly.
“Which we still haven’t,” Reardon admitted. “But Crocker didn’t know we hadn’t, or wouldn’t. But despite all this, where was the first place he headed after he skipped?” He paused a moment, unconsciously seeking effect. “The first place he went was to the police garage to get the Buick!”
“So he needed wheels. So?”
The lieutenant was well aware that the assistant chief was needling him but he refused to be drawn in. He also knew the old man wanted the facts, despite his tone.
“He went to the police garage downstairs to get the Buick, not because he needed wheels, but because he needed the Buick. Specifically! Remember, it was a pretty dangerous gamble; for all he knew we’d found our proof and were looking for him; but he still comes here to the Hall of Justice. And he slugged Morrison from behind to get the car away, and that was even more of a gamble, because if he doesn’t take Morrison the first time, Morrison will eat him for breakfast and still want coffee. So we can only assume there was something in that car valuable enough for him to take those chances.”
Captain Clark came erect from his slumped position in his chair, suddenly realizing the implications of the other’s accusation. His face began to redden.
“Now, look here, Lieutenant! Are you implying—?”
“I’m not implying anything, Captain. I’m just saying he wanted something that was in that car!” Reardon’s voice was low and stubborn, refusing to be intimidated by the other’s rank. “And since the technical squad couldn’t find anything except dust and a few hairpins which I’m sure must be at least thirty years old, then whatever he was looking for is still there. Or was two hours ago when the tow truck brought it in.”
Clark was white-faced at this insubordination. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Captain, that I have Sergeants Lundahl and Dondero searching the wreck down in the garage at this moment,” Reardon said flatly. His hands were resting lightly on his knees in the posture of one ready to use them actively if need be, and damned to the consequences. “And I mean searching it!” He dropped his voice, relaxing once again. “Because it’s obvious the squad missed something.”
“What do you mean? They didn’t miss a thing! Do you think this is the first car the squad went over and searched? Or the second, or the thousandth?” Clark’s voice reached for heavy sarcasm but somehow failed to make it. He really didn’t sound too sure of himself; he sounded as if he knew something had slipped in his jurisdiction, but he didn’t know who, why, where or when. And didn’t like not knowing, but promised disaster to those who had put him in this position.
“Maybe this is the first car they ever searched where they were told they were wasting their time before they even started,” Captain Tower suggested dryly.
“Now, look here, Tower!” Captain Clark was on weak ground and he knew it. He also knew the slit eyes of Assistant Chief Boynton were recording the scene photographically. “There was nothing to indicate it was murder at the time—”
“Except the Lieutenant told me he thought it was murder; that the car had killed the man deliberately,” Captain Tower said imperturbably. “Your technical squad tackled the car on that basis — or were supposed to. Did you think Lieutenant Reardon made up the murder angle to make work for himself? Or for publicity?”
“I thought—”
“And does the squad check out cars on that basis in any event?”
Clark opened his mouth to retort, but paused as persistent but quiet rapping came on the door. The assistant chief raised his voice.
“Come in!”