"Did you say there was a cop in the bar?" asked Kintyre.
"Beyond doubt," said Yamamura. "Or we can phone, of course. Only I'm carrying a parcel of smoke, and the neighborhood will be searched quite thoroughly if our friend here mentions it." He sat on his heels, chin in hand, for what seemed like a long time. Jimmy moaned, but did not stir.
"Bob," asked Yamamura finally, "do you know anyone living on this side who's mixed up in the affair?"
"Just Guido, if we rule out the Michaelises."
"So the big chief—and his next victim—are probably in the Eastbay. If another murder is to be forestalled, I wonder if we ought to spend time here chatting with a lot of well intentioned policemen who will first have to be convinced the Michaelises are innocent and this wasn't a simple stick-up. Especially when the papers will tell the big chief exactly what's happened. Or, even if they can be made to keep quiet, Jimmy will fail to report in; the gang will try to check for him in the San Francisco pokey, first of all; so we could do some trail-covering of our own."
"You mean to take this character to Berkeley, then? Isn't that pretty irregular? You don't want to jeopardize your license."
"It's as irregular as a German verb, and the police are going to be annoyed. But I do think we can flange up enough excuses to get by with it. Of course, the Berkeley force will call up the San Francisco force immediately, but that'll go on a higher level, chief to chief I imagine; we can explain the need for secrecy, as much secrecy as the law allows, and—Hell, Bob, let's stop mincing words. What we need is time to construct a story that'll cover Guido. And you."
Kintyre felt how the stone-rigid body he held began to come alive again. "Blessings," he murmured.
"We'll go to your place first, and then decide what's next."
"Can you finagle Jimmy across the bridge?"