“I wasn’t suggesting she stabbed anyone,” Reardon said mildly. “I was suggesting she fingered Capp for somebody else.”
“Then why all the stress on women?”
“Desperation,” Reardon said with honesty, and shook his head in discouragement. He looked from one man to the other. “So where does that leave us?”
Dondero shrugged. He reached into a pocket and brought out a cigarette, lighting it and looking at Reardon through a cloud of smoke. He looked faintly amused.
“What do you mean — Us — Paleface? You’re the chief in this tribe; we’re just Indians who happen to work the eight-to-four.”
Bennett looked surprised at this easy exchange between the two men, but kept his peace. Reardon sighed. “I suppose so. Well, what’s next?”
“How about lunch next?” Dondero suggested.
“Soon.” Reardon took out his notebook and studied it. He looked up. “Oh, yes... Don, this afternoon I’d like you and the sergeant to check out those men who were in the bar when Capp got hit, the ones who beat it before we got there. You got their names and addresses?”
“Most of them, plus that old dame they say was in there, the regular barfly, not the young girl. There’s a pretty standard crowd at these neighborhood bars. And most of the men I got work on the docks, so I can dig them up through the hiring hall if I have to.”
“Good. You know what to ask them. Then I want you — or one of you; you can split it up any way you want — to check on places that rent costumes—” Both Bennett and Dondero looked at him, mystified. “Places that sell things like fake beards and mustaches and fright wigs and stuff like that,” the lieutenant added patiently.
“Oh.”
“And then I’d like a check on the Salvation Army and the Goodwill Industries — just a simple phone call ought to handle that — to have their people on the lookout for a red plaid lumber jacket and that hunting cap — hell, you know what to tell them, Don. And give the sanitation department a call, too...”
Dondero looked up from his notebook, squinting past the smoke from the cigarette pasted in the corner of his mouth. It was too annoying; he removed it before speaking.
“That’s all? You’re sure? You wouldn’t like us to interview the painters on the Bay Bridge, or even give them a hand on that railing, or go down and help Henke cut up his next cadaver? Or maybe even wash your car, too, in our spare time?”
“It really isn’t all that much work,” Reardon said with a patience he wasn’t feeling. He knew that Dondero was purposely spooking him in front of Bennett because he thought the old man had had a rough deal, but he and Don were too close friends to allow him to take it seriously. He also knew that pulling rank would be a serious mistake at the moment. “You can do two thirds of it by phone, all except the guys and that old dame from the bar. And Stan will be in at three today and I’ll have him give you a hand. Call in and I’ll have him meet you someplace.” He started to pull the papers on his desk together, shaking his head sadly. “Me, I thought today was going to be a ball when I got up. I must have forgotten about the police department and their reports. I’ll be the rest of the day just reading these.”
“And why not?” Dondero asked. “Everyone else had to.” He came to his feet, closing his notebook and knotting it shut with the usual worn rubber band. He tucked it into his pocket and motioned Bennett toward the door. “If Stan comes in early, just send him downstairs.”
“Downstairs?” Reardon stared at him. “What are you going to be doing downstairs?”
“Eating,” Dondero said airily. “For the next few hours. In the cafeteria. They don’t serve martinis, so we won’t ask you to join us,” he added, winking broadly at Bennett, and escaped, taking the elderly sergeant with him, closing the door smartly behind him.
Reardon looked after him with a hardening frown. So Don had a gripe; there was still such a thing as discipline, especially in front of a temporary man such as Bennett. Don’t be so damned stuffy, Reardon, he told himself suddenly. Dondero didn’t know it, but if Jan had her matchmaking way, maybe he was shooting off his mouth in front of his future father-in-law. He grinned at the thought and reached for the telephone. Even before the reports there was the matter of speaking with Dutch Smarth at the Examiner, a chore he had completely forgotten until this moment.
Details, details, he thought with a despairing sigh, and clicked the receiver for the switchboard operator.
Thursday — 8:30 p.m.
“Ready?” Jan asked, poking her head from the small kitchen of her apartment on the edge of North Beach, a few blocks and fifty years in time from Reardon’s flat on Chestnut and Hyde. The lovely odor of the steak broiled to perfection escaped the tiny built-in-oven and filtered into the living room. She then proceeded to completely demolish any thought that her query had been anything but rhetorical. “You’d better be, in about two minutes,” she added flatly, “because that’s when it’s coming out of the oven.”
“Fire at will, Grubley,” Reardon said with consummate ease. He completed measuring enough gin into a pitcher for exactly two more martinis, added a dash of vermouth and some ice cubes, and then poured a liberal dose of additional gin in for good luck. He mixed the drinks carefully and decanted them; there was enough left over in the pitcher to allow him a quick and ample sip before refilling the glasses.
“I saw that,” Jan said firmly from the doorway.
“I’m going to have to mix martinis in the bathroom,” Reardon said plaintively, and carried the two brimming glasses to the card table set up for dining in the middle of the living room. “Which,” he added, thinking about it, “will be a major chore if we ever get to drinking Gremlin’s Grampas.”
Jan stared at him. “Gremlin’s What-pas?”
“If you’re really going to be grammatical,” Reardon said haughtily, “It should have been Gremlin’s Who-pas, not What-pas. And you a college graduate and me a dropout! Anyway, it’s Gremlin’s Grampas.”
“And what on earth are they?”
“A fair question,” Reardon conceded, and placed the glasses in place beside the dinner plates. His face sobered. “Actually, it’s as close as we have to what might laughingly be called a clue in the Falcone case. We think the boy scout — or girl scout — who helped him across the windowsill, drank a drink called a Gremlin’s Grampa. A weird concoction of gin and brandy and vermouth and Cointreau and vodka—”
“You can’t be serious!”
“It’s the truth. Do you really think I have enough imagination to invent a thing like that?”
“Well, no,” Jan said honestly.
“Thanks a lot,” Reardon said coldly, and made a motion of invitation toward her glass. “Be my guest.”
“Let me bring the steaks in.” She disappeared to return in moments with a large platter steaming from the two sizzling steaks that graced it, flanked by baked potatoes and simmering under a smothering coat of mushrooms and onions. She set it down, returned to the kitchen for the salad and placed that on the seat of a chair beside the card table. She sat down and picked up her drink.
Reardon also sat and raised his glass. “Here’s luck.”
Jan paused a moment and then nodded. “Friday,” she said, and sipped.
“Friday?” Reardon drank and then looked at her with raised eyebrows. “If that’s a toast, it’s a new one. Maybe the night bartender over at the Cranston Hotel would give you a free drink for that one.”
Jan put down her glass and began serving the salad.
“It isn’t a toast,” she said calmly. “I just remembered. Tomorrow is Friday and we’re having family dinner at the Bennett’s. It’s a surprise birthday party for Gabriella’s father, so don’t say anything.”