“Sounds uncomfortable,” Reardon commented.
“Yeah, I suppose so. Anyway, after Martin was dead, all the guy had to do was put Martin’s car down the street a bit, close the garage doors and be on his merry way.”
“Why not just leave the car in the garage?”
“Probably because if the old lady comes down and finds the car, and no hubby, she starts to howl eight hours early.”
“True,” Reardon conceded. “Couldn’t she hear the garage doors being opened and closed, though?”
“No,” Dondero said a bit smugly, “because I thought of that and checked. They built them apartments pretty well out there.”
“I’m pleased for the tenants,” Reardon said. “What else?”
“That’s it,” Dondero said, and snapped his notebook shut.
“What about the state trooper’s report?”
Dondero pointed. “It’s that one there on your desk. It says about zero. They figure whoever tossed him over must have gotten paint on his clothes, because the bridge was painted that afternoon and the smear on the railing was too big to be accounted for just by the paint on Martin’s body.”
“So what do we look for now?” Reardon asked curiously. “A red plaid lumber jacket with green paint on it?”
“Blue,” Dondero said. “They’re experimenting. Blue is more soothing to motorists, I guess. Next week they’ll probably try yellow, but this week it was blue. And if it makes any difference, the painters say the paint is damn slow drying stuff — still damp after two, three days — but that it lasts a long time in that salt air. Although,” he added, “I don’t see what difference that makes, if they keep changing colors every other week.”
“It could make the difference that it might be hard to get off a lumber jacket, or anything else.”
“Including a skirt?” Dondero asked shrewdly.
“Including anything.” The lieutenant thought a moment. “Does the report say anything about the troopers in the plaza, or the collectors — or anybody — seeing anything? Like a car stopping on the bridge? Or paint on anyone going through the toll stations?”
“No.” Dondero shook his head. “The autopsy puts the death between midnight and three in the morning, and there were no reports of a car stopped on the bridge during those hours — although that means nothing. Maybe someone will call in after they see the papers, but so far there hasn’t been anything. There was a trooper at the toll plaza, but he says he didn’t see anything, and besides, if I were going to pull a stunt like this, I’d use the Exact Change booth—”
“And you figure the killer isn’t any more stupid than you?”
“Right!” Dondero said, and then considered. “Unless he was a nut, of course, and I’m thinking this character was a nut less and less as time goes on.”
“I’m not sure Mr. Sekara agrees with you,” Reardon said, and fell into thought. He looked up at last. “All right, Don. There are a few other people to be checked out, but I’ll go with you on them. Just a second.” He reached for the telephone, dialed for an outside line, and then dialed again. The call was answered almost immediately, the voice exuding helpfulness.
“Telephone company. May I help you, please?”
“Mr. Jamison, please.”
Dondero crushed out his cigarette and leaned back in his chair, watching the lieutenant and waiting. The extension at the other end of the line was finally lifted; a brusque voice answered.
“Jamison, here.”
“Jamie? Jim Reardon—”
“Jimmy, my boy!” The brusqueness disappeared. “What’s on your mind?”
“I need an address and telephone number for an unlisted person on Greenwich Street. The name is Lillian Messer.”
“What’s the matter, James? Jan given up on you?”
“Jamie, when I have time for trading gags with you, I’ll call you at home. This is business. Get off your duff and get me the information I want before I cancel my subscription.”
“Temper, temper,” Jamison said chidingly, and put the telephone on his desk with a click that was audible to Reardon. The lieutenant waited patiently; there was a slight delay before the sound came of the receiver at the other end being lifted from the desk.
“Hello, James? We have a listing for an L. Messer at 539½ Greenwich. Dames are finally getting smart and listing under initials—”
“And the number?”
“The number is 889-5642,” Jamison said, “but if you make any obscene calls, I ought to warn you we catch them pretty quick. And, besides, I’ll tell Jan. I’ve had my eye on her for a long time—”
“Good-by, you old goat. And I suppose I should say thanks.”
“Don’t strain,” Jamison said. “Take care.” The line was disconnected.
“Visit number one,” Reardon said with satisfaction, and glanced at his watch. “Assuming we catch L. Messer in, we can wrap this one up before dinner, and handle the other one afterwards.”
“Jim—”
Reardon had started to rise, pleased with the information he had received and with the fact that at long last at least there was someone to interview, if nothing else; but something in Dondero’s tone made him pause. He sank down into his chair again.
“Yes?”
“About tonight—” Dondero seemed a bit embarrassed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to call off our double date. If you want, I’ll call Jan and explain in person, but I’m sorry. I can’t make it.”
“Why? Just because we disagreed about something?” Reardon shook his head. “Come on, Don! Forget it. Sure, sometimes I think you talk out of turn, but I’ve got a lousy temper and we both know it. You know I don’t mean anything by it. Hell, you’re entitled to your opinion.” He suddenly grinned. “As long as you don’t voice it, that is...”
Dondero didn’t respond to the grin.
“It isn’t that, Jim. It’s... well, it’s just that something else has come up. Something I feel I ought to do.”
“Oh? What?”
“Well,” Dondero said, looking his superior in the eye, “if you really must know, Tom Bennett is having a surprise birthday party tossed for him tonight—”
Reardon stared at him. “How did you find out?”
“He told me.” Dondero shrugged, but there was a bit of defiance in the shrug, as well. “You keep thinking the old man is stupid, Jim, and I keep telling you he isn’t. He figured it out because his daughter is staying home from work today — undoubtedly to do the cooking — and because when he checked the cupboard where they keep the birthday candles, they weren’t there.” He smiled suddenly. “And also, I guess, because they’ve had a surprise party for him each birthday for the past five years.”
“Logical,” Reardon said, his face and voice expressionless.
“Anyway,” Dondero said, “he asked me to drop in and — well, I said I would.” He looked rueful. “I’ll make my excuses to Jan. And whoever she had lined up for me.”
“You make it tough for me,” Reardon said soberly, and came to his feet. “However, Jan instructed me to pull rank on you, if necessary, to get you to come; and you feel I pull rank around here too much as it is. Well, it might be a good lesson for you both if I don’t insist.” He smiled forgivingly. “Anyway, that’s tonight. Right now we have a job to do...”
He put a friendly arm on Dondero’s shoulder and led the way from the room, grinning inwardly.
Chapter 12
Friday — 4:20 p.m.
Greenwich Street sloped murderously upwards from Columbus to terminate in Telegraph Hill with its Coit Tower protected by ancient railings and surrounded by grass which, at the moment, looked nearly as old. Lieutenant Reardon, turning into it from Jones Street and driving up in ultra-low gear, searching for a place to park, came to the firm conclusion that Lillian Messer, if she did her shopping afoot at the bottom of the hill, had to turn out to have a pretty good figure, if nothing else. Greenwich Street, here in the upper reaches beyond Mason, had not been built for fat people; either they moved away or they quickly changed the fat to muscle.