“Unless,” Reardon said, thinking about it, “he rented a full costume — say Blackbeard, or Ivan the Terrible — and just used the beard and the mustache...”
“It’s a thought,” Bennett said. He sounded irritated with himself for not having thought of it himself. “I’ll have to check them again, although my guess is still it’s a waste of time. If he planned the murder ahead of time, and it certainly sounds like it, then would he rent anything that would point to him when he returned it? Wouldn’t he buy it outright, and well in advance?”
“Hell,” Dondero said. “If he planned it long enough in advance, he could have grown his beard and mustache, and then just shaved them off afterwards.”
“They still sounded fake,” Reardon said stubbornly. “Anyway, we have to cover all the angles.”
“Well,” Bennett said a bit unhappily, “I’ll check them again, but they also told me you can buy wigs even in barbershops today, plus he didn’t have to even buy it in town. He could have gotten it anywhere on the peninsula — or even brought it with him from L.A. If it’s a fake at all,” he added darkly.
“True.” Reardon sighed and moved on. “What about the Salvation Army and that angle?”
“Well,” Dondero said, “we called them and left a message, and they’ll call back if they find anything. Same with Sanitation, but neither one of them make daily pickups, you know. It may be a week or more before we even know if they found anything, and a killer can go a long way in a week.”
“And we can bring him back.”
“All we need to know is what he looks like.” Dondero frowned across the desk. “Jim, I hate to repeat myself, but what if the guy just went home, shaved — or took off his beard if you insist — took off his glasses, and then went down to the docks and worked the graveyard turn, plaid lumber jacket and all?” He shrugged. “After all, red plaid lumber jackets on the docks are a dime a dozen.”
“You’re beginning to sound like Captain Tower,” Reardon said, “and I’ll tell you what I’ll tell him if he asks me again: in that case maybe we never get the guy. Do you like that answer better? And there’s still Pete Falcone and Ray Martin, and I don’t believe in coincidence to that extent.” He thought a moment. “We know where Falcone was before he died, but we haven’t much on Ray Martin. The squad car that notified his wife must have a report in by now, and also the state troopers. So why don’t you two check on that? Get as close a trace on his movements prior to his death as you can. That should keep you out of mischief for today.”
“It’ll help,” Dondero said.
“We’ve got a file on Martin that also might help. It might even help to dig out the folders on all four of Captain Tower’s bad boys and go over them. For luck, if nothing else.”
“Right.” Dondero came to his feet, followed by Bennett.
Reardon thought a moment. “And, Bennett, don’t waste any time on those costume shops. I think you’re right; whoever planned this wouldn’t leave that big a hole for himself to fall into. Work with Dondero.”
“Yes, sir.” The two men moved to the door; Bennett went through when Reardon called Dondero back.
“And Don—”
“Yeah?” The swarthy sergeant paused, one hand on the knob.
“You busy tonight?” Dondero shook his head. “Good,” Reardon said with satisfaction. “Keep it open.”
Dondero frowned. “Special job?”
Reardon grinned. “Above and beyond the call of duty. Jan has a date for you.”
Dondero smiled. “She hasn’t done badly by me up to now. Will do.” He winked and went out.
Reardon turned back to his paper work. Maybe taking Bennett off the costume shops was a mistake; very often it was just some silly thing like returning a rented beard that often caught a man who thought he had been clever and had covered all the angles. Still, Reardon thought, mama only has two hands and the man’s beard was one of the things that had to be dropped, at least at the moment. If it was a man at all...
Maybe I ought to have the boys checking the circus, he thought. For the Bearded Woman... He grinned and picked up the first report.
Friday — 11:03 a.m.
Porky Frank was holding down the fort, a clothed table this time, in a booth at the far end of Marty’s adjoining the back wall. He had been fortunate enough — or had used his newly discovered pull enough — to have arranged twin steins of ale, one of which was half empty by the time Reardon arrived. The stocky detective seated himself, nodded a greeting and picked up his stein, taking a long and refreshing draft. He set it down and looked across the table, studying the man there. The right size, he could not help but think; I wonder what Porky would look like in a beard and mustache?
Porky seemed to read his thoughts; he smiled sardonically.
“More suspicions, Lieutenant? You didn’t send me that letter ahead of time, you know.”
“Sorry.” Reardon made no attempt to deny the statement; his voice and face were expressionless. “What do you have?”
“Well,” Porky said, not at all put out, “let me say first what I don’t have. I don’t have the slightest indication that the mob wanted your three little friends harmed in the least. Actually, there’s a touch of consternation going the rounds, or at least on the surface, but my feeling is that it’s genuine. Normally, when changes are made in personnel in the Syndicate, replacements are lined up well ahead of time. Quite often, in fact, changes are made precisely to accommodate these replacements. This time everyone seems to have been caught off base. There is a running back and forth; there is an influx at airports of concerned gentry.”
Reardon nodded. “I never did have a strong feeling the mob was behind these killings. It doesn’t feel like a mob action.” He picked up his stein but didn’t drink. “All right; you’ve told me what you don’t have. Now tell me what you do have.”
“Well,” Porky said easily, “as you might well imagine, people who are pleased to see any single one of these particular three persons dead, are — to coin a phrase — legion.” One finger was raised. “However, individuals who would want all three of them dead — the same individual, I mean, of course — are another thing.” He paused, thinking. “Or should it be ‘are other things’? To accord with the plural of ‘individuals,’ I mean? However, never mind. To get back to business, Pete Falcone had a madame that quit him not long ago...”
Porky leaned back and took a long drink before continuing. He sounded musing.
“It’s quite a story. It seems that while this lady thought her daughter was being nicely educated at a convent down the peninsula, the girl was actually getting taken to the cleaners in one of Ray Martin’s clubs. She had the gambling bug, a dread disease. At any rate, when she was well in over her head, Ray steered the girl to Jerry Capp for financing, after which, of course, it was merely a question of time before Falcone got into the act.” He shook his head commiseratingly. “Poor Pete! He had no idea, naturally, that the girl’s mama was his trusted employee, Lily, and he can therefore scarcely be blamed for introducing Lily to her own daughter as their latest recruit. Although,” Porky added, considering the facts fairly, “I suppose Lily deserves a bit of the blame for telling her daughter she was a buyer for Sears. However—” Porky smiled sadly. “The story is it took weeks for Pete to recover from the verbal beating he took at Lily’s hands, and I shudder to think of the spanking that poor child must have caught. But if you want a suspect who had reasons to dislike all three of your victims, be my guest.”
Reardon had his notebook out. “What’s her name?”
“Lillian Messer. She has, or had, an apartment on Greenwich Street, I’m told, but it has, or had, an unlisted number. So it’s hard to say if she’s still there. However, I imagine you might have more success than me in finding out from the telephone company.”