Just ahead, Greenwich Street began a tight uphill curve that ended in the tourist parking circle that served Coit Tower, on the crest of Telegraph Hill. The circle was less than two blocks from 2851. Following a green Porsche, I drove to the crest and made a circuit of the parking area, finally pulling into a red zone. Using my walkie-talkie, I told Marsten to pull in beside me. I rolled down my window.
“I’ll leave my car here, and walk back. You follow me in your car, a half block behind. If it looks all right, I’ll go in by myself. There’s a gate beside the house that leads back to the apartment. When I go through the gate, I’ll leave it open. You take up your position opposite the gate. Stay in your car. Clear?”
“Yessir.”
“I don’t think there’ll be a problem. He’s scared, probably, and wants to talk. He might talk to one man, rather than two.”
“Right,” Marsten said shortly. Displeasure was plain in his voice. He’d been hoping for action. Marsten was still in his thirties — a hard-working, ambitious, savvy cop. But he was hot-tempered. He’d grown up a tough kid, and hadn’t changed. Working on the vice squad, his street sense had helped him second-guess the hoods and the whores and the hustlers. In Homicide, though, his temper worked against him. He was too quick with his fists — and his gun, too. As a partner, Marsten was a calculated risk.
I raised my walkie-talkie. “We’ll stay on channel ten.”
“Right.”
I locked my car, slipped the walkie-talkie into my inside pocket and began walking back the way I’d come. It was a clear, warm Saturday afternoon, and the observation circle was crowded with tourists. But, despite the balmy weather, most of the tourists remained in their cars, staring at the sights through their windshields. A few of them — children, mostly — clung to the big coinoperated telescopes, focusing on Alcatraz, or the Golden Gate Bridge, or the ships sailing into San Francisco Bay. Some of the tourists emerged from their cars long enough to take a shapshot or pose for one. Then they quickly returned to their cars.
As I walked down Greenwich Street, I glanced to my right, down the steepest slope of Telegraph Hill. The rock slope was overgrown with wind-stunted laurel and juniper, as impenetrable as a forest thicket. Yet, despite the steepness of the terrain and the denseness of the undergrowth, I could see tunnels burrowed through the tangled branches. The small, twisting tunnels could have been made by animals — but weren’t. They were made by children, playing. I’d grown up in San Francisco. I could remember playing on this same wild slope during a time when tourists were a novelty, not a nuisance. One of the tall rock outcroppings had been my Indian fortress. I’d been a cowboy, stalking the enemy, attacking with shrilly shouted “bangs” and “pows,” followed by equally shrill arguments and arbitrations.
Thirty-five years later, I was still stalking the enemy.
I paused at the side gate of 2851 Greenwich, and casually looked up and down the street. On both sides, the sidewalks were deserted. From my right, a station wagon filled with squirming children came up the hill. From my left, Marsten’s car was coasting down toward me.
The gate was made of thick redwood planks, secured by a simple black iron latch. I tripped the latch and pushed the heavy gate slowly open. A flight of cement steps led down to a redwood deck. The stairs were about three feet wide. On my right was a high wooden fence. The stucco side of the house rose on my left, a sheer wall with only two small, high windows. Pine and laurel grew across the top of the redwood fence, touching the stucco of the house. Even though the time was only three-thirty, the fence and the overhanging foliage and the high stucco wall cut off much of the afternoon light.
I tried to leave the gate open, but it was spring loaded. I looked for a hook to latch it back, but couldn’t find one. As Marsten drew to a stop at the curb, I let the gate swing free, shrugged and raised my walkie-talkie, signaling for him to listen.
“It won’t stay open,” I said. “So listen for me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I slipped the walkie-talkie into my pocket and began descending the cement steps. I saw a door leading from the redwood deck to the garden apartment. Beginning on the far side of the deck, a flight of wooden stairs ran down the hill to a tall privet hedge that probably marked the lower boundary of the lot. Except for a single huge pine tree, nothing grew on the property. The ground was covered with thick-growing ivy. A small wooden gate was set into the privet hedge.
The deck was about fifteen feet below street level. Before I stepped on the first of the deck’s redwood planks, I stopped to look — and listen. I didn’t like the silence — didn’t like the feeling of the place. I was confined by a fence on one side and a stucco wall on the other. I was isolated by trees and darkening foliage and an ominous silence. I felt closed in, cut off — threatened.
Why?
Was it because there wasn’t a sidewalk in front and an alley behind — because I didn’t have a man beside me, and men in the rear?
Did a city cop draw his strength and his courage from the pavements — from cars and radios and, most of all, from other cops close at hand?
I was on the deck now, walking lightly toward the door, moving one slow, cautious step at a time. I’d unbuttoned my jacket. My revolver was loose in its holster.
The door was half glass, but curtained. Beside the door was a narrow window, also curtained. The door opened inward. A small brass knocker was mounted on the door-frame to the right of the door. With my left hand I reached across my body for the knocker, so my right arm would be free. Another step, and…
The door flew open. An arm held a black iron poker raised against me. I threw myself back, pivoting away. My left shoulder struck a concrete bulkhead, hard. In the dim light, the figure of a man filled the doorway — a big man, still with the poker raised. My gun was in my hand as I dropped to a crouch.
Ready to kill him.
“Jesus, Frank!”
The private detective — Bill.
“What the hell—” Wrathfully, I holstered my revolver. “Where the—” I realized that I was sputtering. I straightened, brushing leaves and dirt from my left shoulder.
A big man spoke urgently. “A guy just tried to get to Alex — tried to get in the basement window. He’s about thirty, thin face, sandy hair, fighter’s nose.” He pointed down the hill, toward the small gate set into the privet hedge. “He came up from down there. He was carrying a handgun. He went back the way he came — through that wooden gate.”
It was Mal Howard. The description fitted perfectly.
“Is Alex all right?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“All right, get back inside.” Through the door, I’d seen a telephone in the entryway. I stepped inside and switched on my walkie-talkie. Bill closed the door behind us.
“Marsten?”
“Yessir.”
“Come down here. Bring your walkie-talkie and a shotgun.”
“Yessir.”
I went to the telephone and called Halliday, ordering him to dispatch two black and white units to the scene. The officers were to remain in their cars until I contacted them on channel ten — or until they heard shooting.
I saw Bill pull the door open. Carrying a shotgun across his chest, Marsten stood in the doorway. I explained the situation to him, then turned to Bill. “Stay with Alex,” I ordered. “Don’t let him take off again. And lock the door behind us.”
A moment later Marsten and I were cautiously descending the steep wooden steps that led down from the deck to the gate below. Taking the lead, I constantly scanned the base of the privet hedge. If Mal Howard was waiting for us, lying flat on the ground and shooting through the hedge, we’d be easy targets.