The Gremlin's Grampa

by Robert L. Fish

  Despite having to return to the Hall of Justice for his car, the stocky detective lieutenant managed to reach Marty’s Oyster House with several minutes to spare. He parked in the lot beside the building and entered the side door. At ten-thirty in the morning even a bar as popular as Marty’s was not overly crowded; a few perennial barflies were pasted to stools at the long bar as if they had been installed with the plush walls and the brass spittoons—although this was scarcely possible, since Marty’s had only been open that day a matter of minutes. Reardon walked through the beery odor and the Gay Nineties decor and found himself a booth well to the rear, still unclothed at that early hour. The thought of a bottle of ale struck him favorably, and he was about to consider ways and means of enticing one of the pink-shirted and armbanded waiters when Porky Frank appeared, escorting one with a firm hand under the arm.

  “Ah, Mr. R.,” he said pleasantly, and seated himself opposite Reardon, transferring his grip expertly to an equally effective grasp on the sleeve of the waiter, a wise decision at Marty’s as both men knew. The waiters at Marty’s Oyster House were all expatriates from Ruben’s or Lindy’s in New York and had a tendency to be independent, to say the least. It struck Reardon that little Alfred Sullivan would have fitted in well here with his colorful shirt and armbands, although he probably would take care of customers, a crime in the eyes of the waiters at Marty’s. Porky smiled across the table.

  “What will you have?”

  “Just an ale, thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me—you’re paying.” Porky looked the waiter firmly in the eye. “Make that two large drafts of import ale—light. And sometime this week, if it doesn’t interfere with your schedule.”

  The waiter removed Porky’s hand from his sleeve with a gesture Henry the Eighth might have reserved for a wife whose seniority had expired. He flicked at the bare table with his napkin, demonstrating consummate unconcern, and walked away, sneering at the poor effort to intimidate him.

  “He’ll be back,” Porky said, leaning over the table confidently. “I have pull in this place.” He smiled and leaned back comfortably. “Well, Mr. R., I know the beer is good here, and the oysters are the best, but the beer and oysters aren’t all that bad down on Bryant near the Hall of Justice. So what happy fate brings us together again, as Jean Valjean is reputed not to have said to Inspector What’s-his-name?”

  He broke off in utter astonishment as their waiter came back with two foaming steins and placed them, insouciantly, on the table. He waited until they were alone once more before he spoke. There was a touch of awe in his voice.

  “I knew I had pull in this place, but this is precedent-setting! Two ales served the same day! Herb Caen shall hear of this. I’ll have to start taking advantage of it.” He thought of methods of taking advantage. “Next time a martini, and if that works, the time after something really challenging. Like a planter’s punch, say, or a whiskey sour …”

  Reardon smiled at him. “You mean, a beer this time-next time, the world?”

  “Exactly!”

  Reardon’s smile remained fixed. What did he have to lose? “Or even a—a Gremlin’s Grampa?”

  “If you insist,” Porky said expansively, and raised his glass.

  There was a moment’s pause. “I wouldn’t push my luck,” Reardon advised, and sipped his beer, his face sober. His gray eyes came up from the stein to his companion’s face. “Where did you hear of a Gremlin’s Grampa?”

  Porky’s eyes widened innocently. “From you. About three seconds ago. Is it a secret? Or does it taste as bad as it sounds? Or is it important in the least? Tune in next week—”

  “All right,” Reardon said, ending that line of attack. “Porky, question number one: You’ve heard about Jerry Capp getting hit?”

  Porky nodded without lowering his glass. His eyes were fixed quite expressionlessly on Reardon’s face over the brim as he continued to drink. The police lieutenant nodded in return and went on.

  “And Pete Falcone?”

  Porky’s hazel eyes widened a trifle, the maximum he allowed himself—or tried to allow himself—to exhibit emotion at unexpected news. He set down his stein.

  “I read about Falcone in the papers this morning, after you so rudely started unraveling the knitted sleeve of care—Shakespeare, more or less—but the papers didn’t say anything about it being a hit. The way they had it, I thought maybe he tried to fly, and forgot his wings.”

  “I didn’t say Falcone was a homicide,” Reardon said impassively. “I merely asked if you had heard of his death. Well, you have, and that was my question. Now, just this morning—”

  Porky Frank raised a neatly manicured hand, interrupting.

  “Mr. R.,” he said, with a touch of reproval in his voice, “trust is a two-way street, running somewhere between Bush and Sutter, if I’m not mistaken; although I could be, being a stranger in town.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, did Mr. Porfirio Falcone do his dive a cappella or did someone give him a hand?”

  “I was under the impression this was a buyer’s market,” Reardon said slowly. He shoved his glass around the Formica tabletop, staring at the wet rings and trails he was creating. “Since I’m paying, I thought I’d ask the questions—” He paused, took a long drink, and then put his stein down. His eyes came up. “And I’ll ask you the same question I asked you before: where did you hear of a drink called a Gremlin’s Grampa?”

  “And I’ll give you the same answer: from you. And add another question—why? Is it important?”

  For several moments Reardon contemplated his companion; then he sighed.

  “All right, Porky. Never mind why. I need your help, so I suppose I have to level with you. Everything indicates that Pete Falcone was pushed out of that window by some second party.” He could not keep the puzzlement from his voice, although he tried. “And everything indicates it was a girl who helped him.”

  “Well,” Porky said philosophically, “they helped him make his living, so I suppose it’s only fitting that one of them gave him a helping hand in dying.”

  “You don’t seem very surprised.”

  “The last time I was surprised,” Porky said, raising his stein and checking its dwindling contents before drinking, “was in the year fourteen ninety-two. I didn’t think old Chris would make it.” He started to bring the mug to his lips and paused. “What’s with this Gremlin’s Grampa bit?”

  “It seems it was her drink. Cointreau, brandy, gin—”

  “What?”

  “—vermouth and vodka—”

  “What?”

  “It’s the truth. Anyway, as I was saying before, first it was Jerry Capp and then Pete Falcone, and just a few hours ago Ray Martin was also found dead—”

  Porky Frank coughed, almost choking on his drink, spattering beer across himself and the table, barely keeping Reardon inviolate. He withdrew a pressed handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and attempted to repair the damage, at least to himself. His expression fought for a balance between his vaunted control and plain shock.

  “Ray Martin? Dead?”

  “This time you sound more surprised,” Reardon said casually.

  There was a brief pause as Porky Frank studied the lieutenant. He shoved his empty glass away from him and leaned back. When he spoke, a good deal of the lightness had departed his tone. He almost sounded severe.

  “Mr. R.,” he said evenly, “if we are going to do business, either now or in the future, possibly you would do well to recheck with our mutual friend in the Fifty-second Precinct in New York. If you expect me to exhibit guilty knowledge every time you make one of your pontifical statements, please send me a registered letter a day or so before, so I can prepare.” He placed both hands on the table, preparatory to rising. “Now, do we stop playing games and you tell me why you called me—and woke me—and what you want from me, if anything, or do I go home and try to make an honest dollar lying to someone less gullible than a bright young po
lice officer like yourself?”

  “I’m sorry,” Reardon said, and found that at least at the moment he honestly meant it. He pushed his empty glass to the center of the table, where it joined Porky’s, and leaned forward, dropping his voice more for emphasis than because there was any danger of their privacy being invaded—certainly not by a waiter. “Porky, Ray Martin was found in one of those painter’s safety nets hanging under the Bay Bridge. Out past Yerba Buena Island a few hundred yards. He—”

  “You mean he tried to jump? And missed?” Porky shook his head. “Ray never was too smart.”

  “He jumped the way Falcone did,” Reardon said flatly. “Who gets killed jumping ten or fifteen feet into a net? Up there you could freeze to death, and maybe he did, because I don’t have the autopsy report yet, but one will get you ten he was dead when he went over. He was murdered, to be blunt. Like Falcone. And like Capp.”

  “One will never get me ten on anything,” Porky said positively, “because I don’t take any odds longer than I give. But you know what I mean. As an old acquaintance of Ray Martin, I can’t picture him cutting himself down. Someone else, yes; but himself? No.”

  “That’s right,” Reardon said slowly. “You and Ray Martin were sort of competitors, weren’t you?” He tried to keep his voice conversational. Porky sighed.

  “There go those nasty suspicions again, Mr. R., together with your attempted nonchalance in voicing them. Take my advice and keep out of amateur theatricals unless you paint scenery. No, I wasn’t any competition to Ray Martin, and I wouldn’t have lasted very long if I had been. I make book, it’s true, but my clientele is small and select and that’s the way we both like it. Most of them are old friends from New York who moved out here like I did, and they wouldn’t deal with the Ray Martins of this world if they had to miss laying a bet, God forbid.” He looked ceilingward in supplication. Reardon remained silent; Porky continued.

  “Martin had the big horse parlors and he was welcome to them. With the telephone service the way it is today, it’s a wonder he didn’t die of ulcers before somebody knocked him off. And he handled the slots and the long flats in the private clubs, plus the floaters, of course.” He smiled, a rather tight, humorless smile. “No, Mr. R., I did not knock him off, nor do I stand to gain in the slightest from his demise. The Syndicate will have a replacement in here before the undertaker can fill him with embalming fluid; if he didn’t already use it for blood, that is.”

  Reardon smiled a bit shamefacedly. “Apology number two. I’m just a bit on edge this morning, I guess.”

  “Having to get along on one beer will always do it,” Porky said forgivingly. “I’d suggest a second, but we both know the percentages in trying to get a waiter.” He frowned slightly. “So I gather you want me to use my contacts, such as they are, and try to find out what particular individuals might have wanted to litter the cemeteries with our three friends, is that it?”

  “Plus—”

  “Plus, of course,” Porky added shrewdly, “whether it might have been the big bad wolf—the mob itself—that blew down our three little pigs, is that also it?”

  Reardon grinned at the phraseology. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  “I’m sure you couldn’t,” Porky said condescendingly, and came to his feet. “I’ll leave you with your deep thoughts, Mr. R. Plus the tab, of course.”

  “When will you be in touch?”

  “How rush is it?”

  “Rush, rush.”

  Porky nodded, completely serious once again. “Sometime tomorrow. I’ll call and set up a meet. All right?”

  “Fine,” Reardon said, and watched the well-built handsome young man walk away in his usual spritely manner. He fished in his pocket for money to put on the table, feeling much better. Porky Frank’s help was always welcome, and the man had ways and means of getting information that the police departments just could not duplicate. And his information could be trusted to be accurate.

  Unless, of course, Reardon thought sadly, such information might be a threat to Porky himself. Which would be a pity …

  CHAPTER 9

  Thursday—12:20 p.m.

  “No mickey in Falcone,” Dondero announced cheerfully, and tossed the autopsy report over toward Reardon. The lieutenant let it lie, merely straightening its edges to accord with a pile of similar reports cluttering his desk. “Stomach contents indicate a small quantity of alcohol consumed just prior to death; blood analysis indicates a larger consumption some time earlier, but certainly nothing that could be considered enough to make him not know what he was doing. Just normal for a steady drinker. As for the body, no gunshot wounds, no knife wounds, no Indian arrow poison; in fact, no poison at all. No arsenic, no cyanide; no fish, no rice, no coconut oil. And the condition of the body after hitting the pavement from fifteen stories up?” He shrugged. “Well, somebody could have clubbed him first, or he could have had a double hernia and died of it on the way down, but nobody will ever know of it now.”

  Reardon sighed. “So how did he go out the window?”

  “Maybe he was hypnotized,” Dondero suggested. “Or the dame drops her handkerchief out the window and like a gentleman he reached to pick it up.” He became serious. “My guess, Jim, is that the girl got him to show her the view, he stands at the window, pointing maybe, and one good push and he’s on his way.”

  “Which is probably just what happened,” Reardon said, and turned to stare out the window. The huge buildings growing in downtown San Francisco rose to mar the view. “But I suppose we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t try to complicate things for ourselves. What about the lab report on those two glasses?”

  “Alcohol, is about all they came out with. One had scotch—they probably arrived at that scientific conclusion by smelling it. The other all they could say was a mixture of various alcoholic beverages, but none containing sedative, poison or other injurious liquids. From what you tell me of that Gremlin’s Grampa,” he added, “I wonder what they call injurious?”

  “A good question,” Reardon said. “What about Martin?”

  Sergeant Bennett answered from the other side of the desk. His tone of voice indicated that he no longer resented his temporary transfer to Homicide; that, in fact, he even found it interesting. He held the report in his hand but didn’t refer to it.

  “We’re better off there, Lieutenant. First, of course, it seems the body had paint all over it, the clothes, that is, from the railing, but that’s beside the point. The direct cause of death was suffocation. Somebody apparently held a pillow over his face until he strangled—”

  “A pillow?” Reardon swiveled his chair around, frowning at the sergeant. “How do they know it was a pillow?”

  “Well,” the sergeant said almost apologetically, “actually, they assume it. They don’t say anything definite or positive in the whole report, but they found feather shards and particles in his lungs. Goose feathers. So they assume it was a pillow, although I suppose a quilt could have done it equally—”

  “Maybe someone hit him in the face with a live goose,” Dondero said, and then fell silent under the looks from the two men. Sergeant Bennett went on with his report.

  “Anyway, there were no bruises on his arms or legs to indicate a struggle, but there was a bruise on his neck which was caused before death, and the autopsy pathologist says—” He referred to the report for accuracy. “—which was inflicted—before death and was possibly caused by pressure applied to the carotid sinus, probably eliciting the Hering reflex, rendering the victim unconscious prior to smothering.” He looked up. “You’d think they would have just kept on pressing there, because the pathologist also says that prolonged pressure on the carotid sinus can result in cardiac stoppage and death.” He handed over the report. “That’s what it says, basically, Lieutenant.”

  Reardon added it to the pile of reports and pushed them all away. He looked at the sergeant. “What about the time of death?”

  “Between twelve midnight and three
in the morning. “That’s the closest they can make it, and that’s apparently based on what Mrs. Martin said about what they had for dinner. And when.”

  Reardon sighed. “And could a woman have done it?”

  Bennett looked at him blankly; there was a sort of shuffling movement on the part of Sergeant Dondero, indicating his surprise as well at the question, but the swarthy detective remained silent. Bennett shook his head, bewildered.

  “The report doesn’t say, Lieutenant.”

  “Well, then, let’s find out. Who signed the report?”

  Bennett shook his head. Reardon reached for the report, turned a page and checked for himself. “Dr. Henke. Good enough.” He dragged the telephone closer and dialed an internal number. There were a few moments delay while he spoke first to a secretary and then to an assistant. Finally the pathologist was on the line.

  “Doctor Henke here.”

  “Doctor, this is Lieutenant Reardon in Homicide. We’ve been discussing your postmortem report on Raymond Martin—”

  “Discussing it? Isn’t it clear?”

  “It’s clear, Doctor, but some questions have come up that aren’t covered in the report. Not that they necessarily should have been,” he added hastily, aware of the touchiness of doctors in general and pathologists like Henke in particular.

  “Such as?”

  “Well, in the first place, Doctor, could a woman have committed the crime?”