There was a moment’s silence. Then,
“Nothing, I guess,” Dondero said quietly. His eyes came up, unfathomable. “You going to report him?”
“I don’t know.” Reardon ran a hand through his tousled hair and shook his head in disgust at things in general. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “Ah, to hell with it! Let’s go in and go to work.”
“Yeah,” Dondero said quietly, and led the way.
Chapter 3
Wednesday — 10:15 p.m.
It was a small bar with sloping floor, smelling of stale beer and with a faint background odor of urine, dimly lit, with thick dusty curtains across the two front windows preventing any view of the street. The mirror back of the bar was stained with flaking mercury, black slivers missing like gaping teeth; before it an irregular line of bottles, all cheap brands, stood at ease. One of the pictures on the wall was an autographed photograph of an ex-ring champ, crouching over, his gloves raised defensively, but unfortunately not enough to block the camera. The other pictures were fly-specked prints of old sailing ships, with one aerial view of San Francisco that must have been taken about the time of the earthquake. If the tavern dated from the time of that particular photograph, it was a very old tavern indeed.
An ancient jukebox flanked the door on one side; on the other side a line of small wooden tables with cheap plastic checkered tablecloths ran along the stamped metal wall, ending in a partition separating the front of the saloon from the rear area. Here, toward the partition, the odor of rancid fried cooking mingled with the smell of beer and urine. An old-fashioned cash register stood on the end of the bar; behind the bar and above it a brass ship’s bell in need of polishing hung askew on the wall. Flies droned restlessly in the damp air and haunted the musty window curtains.
The body lay where it had fallen, undisturbed by either civilian or official. It had apparently slid from the chair, attempted momentarily at least to gain some support from it, and had then brought the chair down with it in its final collapse. The crooked legs were sprawled awkwardly in death beneath the small, scarred wooden table; one arm was flung wide, still holding the corner of the plastic tablecloth it had dragged with it, while the other arm cushioned the tilted head. The expression on the dead man’s face was more pained than painful, as if the corpse couldn’t really see the necessity of murdering an upstanding, fine fellow such as he had been, and rightfully resented it. Blood had run from one corner of the slightly petulant mouth to join another thicker rivulet which had flowed from beneath the extended arm, but both branches had congealed in a brownish puddle along a fold of the crumpled tablecloth. The patrolman stepped away from the corpse at the entrance of the two plainclothes detectives. He stood at attention. Reardon nodded to him.
“Did the patrol car sergeant call in your change of duty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Reardon tipped his head. “You take the outside duty. The patrol car’s back in service. Keep people moving along.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, and went about his new job. Dondero marked the man’s badge number in his notebook and leaned back against one of the bar stools, lighting a cigarette.
Reardon studied the man’s face a moment and then squatted down beside the body, paying no attention to the other occupants of the room. He fumbled a wallet free from a trouser hip pocket without disturbing the delicate balance of the tablecloth, leafed through the papers there a moment, and then slid the wallet into his side pocket, coming to his feet. He nodded to Dondero.
“It’s our boy, all right.”
Dondero flicked ashes on the floor. “I know.”
Reardon turned toward the waiting bartender and then paused as several men came through the door weighed down with photographic equipment; the medical man followed, his black bag dangling, his young face the picture of disgust. And what do they expect me to find this man dead of? his expression seemed to ask — Dipsomania? Old age? Flat feet? He looked around the room in a bored manner, and then bent over the cadaver, obviously displeased with the man and the trouble he was causing.
Sergeant Frank Wilkins of the Technical Squad nodded to Reardon and then turned to consider the body over the doctor’s kneeling form. Wilkins was a heavyset man in his late forties; a frying pan across his face during the arrest of a drunken husband years before had squashed his nose beyond repair; it made his voice nasal and made him appear to be sneering when in fact he was the most modest and shy of all men. He was also succinct in speech, possibly because it gave him less opportunity to display his vocal handicap.
“Report said Jerry Capp.”
“Report was right.”
Reardon dug out the billfold and handed it over. Wilkins tucked it into one of his cavernous pockets without looking at it. Later, as Reardon knew, the contents would be carefully cataloged with all other personal effects and included in the final Technical Squad report on the murder. Frank Wilkins was an extremely capable officer. He studied the body for several more seconds in an impersonal manner and turned to Reardon once again.
“Who do we thank?”
“A good question,” Reardon conceded, and turned to the bartender as the doctor sighed unhappily and rolled the body over on its back. The tablecloth, dragged along by the clutching fingers of the dead man, tumbled down, covering the corpse. (“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Wilkins demanded nasally. “We haven’t taken pictures yet. All you’re supposed to do is to make sure he’s dead, right now. You can play with him later.” “Oh?” said the young doctor. “You need a medical man to tell you this stiff is dead? Well, don’t get your lower tract in an uproar, daddy. I’ll put him back for you. Grab the other end of this tablecloth, will you?”)
Wilkins, still grumbling under his breath, shoved the cloth back in place while his assistant began setting up the photographic equipment for pictures. Three men, apparently customers of the tavern at the time of the stabbing, watched silently and a bit owlishly from the end of the bar, well out of the way. Reardon studied the bartender.
“What’s your name?”
“Alfred Sullivan.” He was a small, dapper, elderly man with a hairline mustache, a pink shirt whose sleeves were held up with old-fashioned armbands, gray hair combed stiffly back in military style, and wearing suspenders. Reardon thought that with a jacket on he would look much more like a river-boat gambler than a bartender in a cheap saloon.
“All right, Sullivan. I’m Lieutenant Reardon of Homicide.” Sullivan did not look surprised. “What happened?”
“I told the sergeant from the patrol car—”
“Tell me all over again,” Reardon said quietly. “Everything. Stuff you forgot to tell the sergeant.” Dondero had his notebook ready and was waiting.
The small, dapper bartender wasn’t at all put out by the request; he would have been amazed had it been otherwise. “Well,” he said, “like I told the sergeant, this character comes in—”
“How big was he?”
“Bigger than me, but—” Alfred Sullivan shrugged, to indicate that the fact that most people were bigger than him, but that it didn’t really bother him greatly. He had other attributes. He pointed to Dondero. “About his size; maybe a little smaller.” He waited for more questions; the lieutenant remained silent. Dondero made a note in his book; his height was five-nine. Sullivan went on.
“Anyway, he comes in but he doesn’t head for the bar; he turns like he was going to the back room, like. We got a toilet there, and a phone on the wall, guys come in sometimes to use. So I don’t think nothing of it, see? Anyway, he goes by them tables and he bumps into Mr. Capp, like it was kind of an accident, see? And Mr. Capp says something to him, and then he says something back, and then before Mr. Capp can say anything else, this guy pulls this knife, see — and wham. That’s all there is to it. He shoves it into Mr. Capp, just like that. For no reason.”