The door opened to admit Dondero and Lundahl; with them came the sharp odor of gasoline. Dondero’s hands were still damp with the stuff. He carried a handkerchief wrapped about something; he brought it over and handed it to the lieutenant.
“Jack pot, Jim,” he said triumphantly, and swiftly changed his form of address in view of the assorted company in the room. “I mean, Lieutenant. I don’t know what’s in it because I didn’t take time to look, but we found it in the gas tank where you said it would probably be!”
Reardon’s face showed nothing of his elation. He placed the sodden handkerchief on the desk and folded back the edges. A gasoline-soaked bag of chamois was revealed; he tugged the cords loose that puckered the mouth and upended it, shaking. Ten large translucent rich blue stones rolled out. Assistant Chief Boynton’s eyes opened wide; he set his cigar aside and leaned forward, exhibiting emotion for the first time.
“Sapphires, by God!” He picked one up, rolled his chair back from his desk to afford him access to his drawer, drew out a jeweler’s lens and screwed it into his eye socket. “A beauty! These things are worth a fortune!”
The lens came out of his eye. “Where did you say you found it?”
“In the gasoline tank, sir.”
“Find anything else?”
“No, sir. He didn’t have any luggage with him. We figure he probably checked it at the bus terminal or someplace before going to the garage. But he had a passport in the glove compartment.” Dondero reached into his pocket, withdrawing it, adding it to the gems on the desk. “It’s in the name of Ralph Crocker Rolf, which could well be his real name. Crocker was probably his mother’s name. Passports aren’t all that easy to get with fake information.” He looked down at the green booklet. “It’s got a visa in it for Brazil, a tourist’s visa.”
Boynton’s eyes held the sergeant. “Recent?”
“Yes, sir. They have to be. They’re only good for ninety days.”
The assistant chief swung his chair; the cigar was replaced in his mouth, his eyes went back to their slitted condition. The blue stones glittered from the desktop.
Reardon thought a moment and then began speaking slowly.
“They may have been in it together; Cooke bringing in the stones from Asia — they may even be stolen; Interpol should be able to give us information on that — and Crocker disposing of them. And Crocker — Rolf — got greedy. Or maybe the two men never did meet. Maybe they both worked for the Syndicate, or even a third party, because they would require financing, and Crocker decided to do a double cross and take off for Brazil with the stones. In a hurry.” He thought about it a moment. “I think I like that theory better.”
He nodded. “In any event, it was simple. He waited until Cooke showed, ran him down, dropped the stones into the gas tank, and called us up. A one-minute job. He expected to be released at once, take his stones, and” — he made a horizontal motion with his hand flat — “off to Rio de Janeiro. With nobody the wiser.”
Assistant Chief Boynton swung his chair a bit and then came back. He spoke without removing his cigar.
“I’ll buy it,” he said quietly. “Just one question, though, Lieutenant. Just suppose that Buick didn’t have a leaky transmission?”
“Then there would have been one more murderer walking the streets free and clear,” Reardon said with equal quietness.
Nobody disagreed.
Chapter 15
Thursday — 6:15 P.M.
“You should have been there,” Dondero told the girls, grinning. He was leaning back on the couch in Reardon’s apartment, one arm lightly about Penny’s shoulders, a martini in his other hand, his dark eyes twinkling. He laughed aloud. “You know Clark, don’t you?”
Jan sipped and nodded. She was curled up in a chair across from the other two, her feet tucked beneath her, her shoes lined up neatly on the floor beside the chair. “Captain Clark? I’ve met him.”
“Well,” Dondero said, “you should have seen his face when Stan and I walked in with that bag of stones from the gas tank! He was supposed to have had the car searched, but what a search! The old man didn’t say anything — he wouldn’t in front of other people, especially not lowly types like sergeants — but I know him. It all went down in that little black book he carries in his head.” His grin widened; it was apparent that Clark was not his favorite captain in the Hall of Justice. “And the beauty of it is that Clark can’t even raise hell with the squad. The old man’s going to be watching him, and he knows it. If he tries to pass the buck down the line—”
He paused, stuck with the choice of removing his arm from Penny’s shoulders or setting down his drink. He elected to set the drink down a moment, long enough to draw his forefinger across his throat, and then picked his glass up again. Penny smiled at him, grateful for his choice of hands in his demonstration.
Reardon came in from the kitchen carrying another Mason jar of martinis. Jan looked at him with affection; she glanced at Dondero.
“You mean my boy is a hero?”
Her hero smiled down at her.
“They may even give me my own wastebasket. A private key to the men’s room isn’t beyond the possibilities. Heavens; my name may even be in the newspapers, delivered every morning with the milk.”
He paused, his grin fading abruptly. Jan saw the sharp change of expression.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs, and began replenishing their glasses from the jar, decanting with care. He waited until his chore was finished before continuing. “Something just crossed my mind and then disappeared again.”
“No!” Dondero shook his head with mock despair and then explained for the benefit of the girls. “Lieutenant Reardon’s subconscious works overtime. It won’t let him go until he remembers something he’s forgotten. And in the meantime we all suffer.” He grinned up at Reardon. “Jim, why don’t you take Harry Lorayne’s memory course?”
“Well,” Reardon said with a grin, “it worked once. I thought it might work again. But we won’t bother with it tonight. Tonight is for celebration — mad, drunken, orgy celebration.”
“Unless you have a meeting you’ve forgotten.” Jan smiled at him. “Is that what your brain is trying to tell you?”
“Not this time. And if it is, I’m purposely forgetting. Where would you girls like to eat as a start to the evening?”
There was a moment’s pause; then the two girls spoke at the same time.
“I never did get to eat sukiyaki Tuesday night—” They stopped together and looked at each other in surprise. Jan laughed; Penny smiled. “It looks like Little Tokyo,” Jan said.
“Which is fine with me,” Dondero said. “I didn’t get to eat at all that night. Because a cold cheese sandwich is not my idea of eating.”
“Little Tokyo it is. Drink up and we can get started. I’ll go in and change my shirt.” Reardon raised his glass as if in a toast. “That is, if I’ve got a clean shirt.”
He finished his drink with one swallow, winked at Jan and walked into the bedroom. He opened the dresser drawer and pulled out his last clean shirt, making a mental note to get to the laundry and pick up the batch he had there, and making a second note to remember the first mental note. And speaking of mental notes, what had struck him when he had mentioned having the newspaper delivered with the morning milk. Milk in the refrigerator? There was a bottle there, but so what? What on earth was he trying to remember?
He pulled off his turtleneck sweater and tossed it in the general direction of the closet holding his laundry bag, slipping into the clean shirt, buttoning it, tucking it into his trousers, reaching for a necktie. First it had been newspapers, now it was milk. James Reardon, he said to himself, you are slipping a cog!