And, putting the matter aside of the Gremlin’s Grampa, there was still the matter of the paint on his pants. Well, that paint wasn’t egg on his face now!
He sighed and came to his feet, untying the cord of his robe, moving to a closet for clean trousers, and then paused, going instead to the bedroom, and picking up his old ones. He studied them awhile; Jan, watching from the bed, could not make out his expression; he seemed almost an automaton. He dropped them once again in a heap and went back to the living room, picking up the telephone and dialing a familiar number. The phone rang several times before it was answered.
“Hello?”
“Don? This is Jim Reardon—”
There was a deep sigh. “I was afraid of that. Don’t you ever sleep? Try hot milk—”
“Don, pull on your pants. I’ll be by to pick you up in ten minutes. Be ready.”
“My pants are on and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, but whatever fun you have in mind will have to wait. I’m watching the late-late-late show, I think. It’s The Mark of Zorro in the original, with Doug Fairbanks. They don’t know he’s Zorro, see, not even his old man; he keeps waving this handkerchief full of perfume, and he’s got this mustache looks like he’s been drinking grape juice—”
The only reason Reardon let him ramble was because he hadn’t been listening; his mind was still building his case. He came out of his dream world to find Dondero still talking.
“Keep quiet. Ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” Dondero said hopelessly, and then brightened. “What’s it all about? More killings?”
“You’re a ghoul. Let’s hope not,” Reardon said soberly.
“If you’re pulling rank, then I hope not, too,” Dondero said. “What about Tom Bennett?”
“We’ll stop for him after I pick you up.”
“I’m going to quit this job,” Dondero said conversationally. “I’m going to get a job with regular hours, or try for that fireman’s job again—” He paused and then subsided; he was speaking to a dial tone. With a sigh he hung up.
Reardon glanced at his watch, frowned at the telephone a moment as he tried to put his thoughts in order, and came to a decision. He dialed again, this time to the Hall of Justice. There was a brief wait while his credentials were established, and then he was speaking with Records. The night man on duty listened to the lieutenant’s request without any particular surprise; surprise was one of the things that had to be sacrificed if one wanted to work for the police department. He disappeared to rummage in a file, returned at last with a folder, opened it and began to read. Reardon nodded in satisfaction as he received the facts stored in the folder.
“Good,” he said quietly, when the recital was finished. “It’s what I finally figured, but I suppose I should have checked it a long time ago. In any event, thanks a lot.”
“Anytime, Lieutenant,” the night man said. He hadn’t a clue as to what the lieutenant needed the information for, or even what he had been talking about, but he did know lieutenants were higher than sergeants in the table of organization. “Anyways, it’s dead down here nights. A call breaks up the monotony.”
“Don’t knock monotony,” Reardon said fervently, and hung up. He slipped from his robe and pajamas and hurriedly began to dress. Ten minutes to pick up Don and another ten at least to get to Tom’s, and then — he dismissed the thought and sat down again to draw on his shoes. In the bedroom Jan listened quietly to the sounds from the lighted living room. When the front door closed softly behind him, she rolled over in bed, staring at the rectangle of light outlining the open doorway to the outer room, wondering, as always, when he’d be back. Or if he’d be back. Or if it really made much difference whether one worried about a husband or a boyfriend, so long as one worried about a person they loved...
Chapter 15
Saturday — 1:00 a.m.
The Bennett house was dark. Reardon descended and walked quickly up onto the porch, while Dondero, in the car, watched. Reardon pressed the bell; he could hear it ringing faintly from the kitchen, but no one came to the door. Dondero, in the car, frowned, and then called out, his voice soft in the night air.
“Jim — he dropped me off after he dropped you off. It must be a good forty minutes ago, I’d say. They should be home by now.”
Reardon didn’t answer. He pressed the bell again, his face showing strain and worry. He could hear the bell, but there was still no response, no movement from within. In the still of the night the bell sounded plaintive, audible now even to the man in the car. Reardon turned and called quietly.
“Don, come up here!”
There was an urgency in the lieutenant’s low tone that had Dondero out of the car in a hurry. He walked quickly up the sidewalk and took the porch steps two at a time, wondering what was up.
“What is it, Jim?”
“Do you have any picks with you? Or a spider?”
“You didn’t say to—”
“Damn it!” Reardon said fiercely, “just answer me! Can you get in or do we break the goddam door down?”
Dondero didn’t waste time answering. He pushed the door once, to get an idea of its strength, and then slipped off his jacket. He bunched it around his fist and crashed it through the window beside the door, reached carefully past the shards to unlatch it, and then pushed the sash up, wondering at the time just how much noise it took to get any of the Bennett neighbors to call the police, or at least show enough interest to turn on a light. A moment later and he had crawled through and opened the door to admit the lieutenant, after which he started switching on lights, going through the house, an unknown fear of what he might find accompanying him. Reardon was right behind him, breathing heavily.
The living room was as they had left it; the tray with their drink glasses on it still lay on top of the television set, the stain of tomato juice looking like blood trails inside the glasses. The ashtrays were still full, untouched. In the dining room the table was as they had left it, still cluttered with the unremoved silverware left when the birthday party was so abruptly abandoned, the crumbs still unbrushed from the tablecloth. The kitchen sink was loaded with dishes, the half-consumed birthday cake still occupied the counter beneath the cupboards, a fly buzzing about it, unconcerned at the late hour.
Reardon opened the door to a broom closet and closed it.
“Look in the basement,” he called, and started for the stairs on the double. He came to the top landing, hitting the light switches as he went; the hallway was clear. Four rooms and two baths adjoined the hall, as well as several closets. Each in turn was hastily inspected and hurriedly abandoned for the next; all were deserted. Reardon checked out dresser drawers; each seemed to be in order, their contents neatly arranged. As far as he could see nothing seemed to be missing, but not knowing what each drawer normally contained, made it impossible to be certain whether anything had been removed or not. He shook his head and went downstairs again.
Dondero was standing in the living room, looking relieved.
“Nothing funny in the basement,” he said. “Phew! From the way you’ve been acting, I figured you expected to find the place spattered with blood from floor to ceiling. They probably just stopped on the way home for a drink—”