Let’s Hear It For The Deaf Man

9

On Saturday morning, while Carella was waiting for a lab report on the sneaker he had found in Elliot’s trash, he made a routine check of the three hospitals in the area, trying to discover if and when a man named Sanford Elliot had been treated for a sprained ankle. The idea of calling all the private physicians in the area was out of the question, of course; if Carella had not hit pay dirt with one of the hospitals, he would have given up this line of investigation at once. But sometimes you get lucky. On Saturday, April 24, Carella got lucky on the second call he made.

The intern on duty in the Emergency Room of Buenavista Hospital was a Japanese named Dr. Yukio Watanabe. He told Carella that business was slow at the moment and that he was free to check through the log; had Carella called an hour ago, he’d have been told to buzz off fast because the place had been thronged with victims of a three-car highway accident.

“You never saw so much blood in your life,” Watanabe said, almost gleefully, Carella thought. “Anyway, what period are you interested in? I’ve got the book right here in front of me.”

“This would have been sometime between the eighth and fifteenth,” Carella said.

“Of this month?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s take a look. What’d you say his name was?”

“Sanford Elliot.”

There was a long silence on the line. Carella waited.

“I’m checking,” Watanabe said. “Sprained ankle, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Nothing so far.”

“Where are you?”

“Through the eleventh,” Watanabe said, and fell silent again.

Carella waited.

“Nothing,” Watanabe said at last. “You sure it was between those dates?”

“Could you check a bit further for me?”

“How far?”

“Through the next week, if you’ve got time.”

“We’ve always got time here until somebody comes in with a broken head,” Watanabe said. “Okay, here we go. Sanford Elliot, right?”

“Right.”

Watanabe was silent. Carella could hear him turning pages.

“Sanford Elliot,” Watanabe said. “Here it is.”

“When did he come in?”

“Monday morning, April nineteenth.”

“What time?”

“Ten past seven. Treated by Dr. Goldstein.” Watanabe paused. “I thought you said it was a sprained ankle.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Not according to this. He was treated for third-degree burns. Foot, ankle, and calf of the left leg.”

“I see,” Carella said.

“Does that help you?”

“It confuses me. But thanks, anyway.”

“No problem,” Watanabe said, and hung up.

Carella stared at the telephone. It was always good to stare at the telephone when you didn’t have any ideas. There was something terribly reassuring about the knowledge that the telephone itself was worthless until a bell started ringing. Carella waited for a bell to start ringing. Instead, Miscolo came in with the morning mail.

The lady was lovely, to be sure, but nobody knew who she was. There was no question about what she was. She was a silent film star. There is a look about silent film stars that immediately identifies their profession and their era, even to people who have never watched any of their films. None of the detectives looking at the lady’s picture were old enough to have seen her films, but they knew immediately what she was, and so they began riffling through their memories, calling up ancient names and trying to associate them with printed photographs they’d seen accompanying articles probably titled “Whatever Happened To?”

“Gloria Swanson?” Hawes asked.

“No, I know what Gloria Swanson looks like,” Meyer said. “This is definitely not Gloria Swanson.”

“Dolores Del Rio?” Hawes said.

“No, Dolores Del Rio was very sexy,” Carella said. “Still is, as a matter of fact. I saw a recent picture of her only last month.”

“What’s the matter with this girl?” Meyer said. “I happen to think this girl is very sexy.”

“Norma Talmadge, do you think?” Hawes said.

“Who’s Norma Talmadge?” Kling asked.

“Get this bottle baby out of here, will you?” Meyer said.

“I mean it, who’s Norma Talmadge?”

“How about Marion Davies?”

“I don’t think so,” Carella said.

“Who’s Marion Davies?” Kling asked, and Meyer shook his head.

“Janet Gaynor?” Hawes said.

“No.”

“Pola Negri?”

“I know who Pola Negri is,” Kling said. “The Vamp.”

“Theda Bara was The Vamp,” Meyer said.

“Oh,” Kling said.

“Dolores Costello?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Mae Murray?”

“No.”

The telephone rang. Hawes picked up the receiver. “87th Squad,” he said, “Detective Hawes.” He listened silently for a moment, and then said, “Hold on, will you? I think you want Carella.” He handed the receiver to him, and said, “It’s the lab. They’ve got a report on your tennis sneaker.”

Through the plate-glass window of Sandy Elliot’s shop, Carella could see him inside with two bikies. He recognized one of them as Yank, the cigar-smoking heavyweight he had spoken to on Tuesday. Yank was wandering around the shop, examining the pieces of sculpture, paying scant attention to Elliot and the second bikie, who was wagging his finger in Elliot’s face like a district attorney in a grade-C flick. Elliot leaned on his crutches and listened solemnly to what was being said, occasionally nodding. At last the second bikie turned away from the counter, tapped Yank on the arm, and started out of the shop. Carella moved swiftly into the adjacent doorway. As the pair passed by, he caught a quick glimpse of Yank’s companion — short, brawny, with a pock-marked face and a sailor’s rolling gait, the name “Ox” lettered on the front of his jacket. As they went off, Carella heard Yank burst into laughter.

He waited several moments, came out of the doorway, and went into Elliot’s shop.

“See you had a couple of art lovers in here,” he said. “Did they buy anything?”

“No.”

“What did they want?”

“What do you want?” Elliot said.

“Some answers,” Carella said.

“I’ve given you all the answers I’ve got.”

“I haven’t given you all the questions yet.”

“Maybe you’d better advise me of my rights first.”

“This is a field investigation, and you haven’t been taken into custody or otherwise detained, so please don’t give me any bullshit about rights. Nobody’s violating your rights. I’ve got a few simple questions, and I want a few simple answers. How about it, Elliot? I’m investigating a homicide here.”

“I don’t know anything about any homicide.”

“Your sneaker was found at the scene of the crime.”

“Who says so?”

“I say so. And the police lab says so. How did it get there, Elliot?”

“I have no idea. I threw that pair of sneakers out two weeks ago. Somebody must’ve picked one of them out of the trash.”

“When I picked it out of the trash yesterday, you said you’d never seen it before. You can’t have it both ways, Elliot. Anyway, you couldn’t have thrown them out two weeks ago, because I saw you wearing one of them only two days ago. What do you say? You going to play ball, or do you want to take a trip to the station house?”

“For what? You going to charge me with murder?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t think you will,” Elliot said. “I’m not a lawyer, but I know you can’t build a case on a sneaker you found in a goddamn abandoned tenement.”

“How do you know where we found that sneaker?”

“I read about the murder in the papers.”

“How do you know which murder I’m investigating?”

“You showed me a picture, didn’t you? It doesn’t take a mastermind to tie the newspaper story to...”

“Get your hat, Elliot. I’m taking you to the station house.”

“You can’t arrest me,” Elliot said. “Who the hell do you think you’re kidding? You’ve got nothing to base a charge on.”

“Haven’t I?” Carella said. “Try this for size. It’s from the Code of Criminal Procedure. A peace officer may, without a warrant, arrest a person when he has reasonable cause for believing that a felony has been committed, and that the person arrested has committed it...”

“On the basis of a sneaker?” Elliot said.

“Though it should afterwards appear,” Carella continued, “that no felony has been committed, or, if committed, that the person arrested did not commit it. All right, Elliot, I know a felony was committed on the night of April eighteenth, and I know an article of clothing belonging to you was found at the scene of the crime, and that’s reasonable cause for believing you were there either before or after it happened. Either way, I think I’ve got justifiable cause for arrest. Would you like to tell me how you sprained your ankle? Or is it a torn Achilles’ tendon?”

“It’s a sprained ankle.”

“Want to tell me about it? Or shall we save it for the squadroom?”

“I would not like to tell you anything. And if you take me to the squadroom, you’ll be forced to advise me of my rights. Once you do that, I’ll refuse to answer any questions, and...”

“We’ll worry about that when we get there.”

“You’re wasting your time, Carella, and you know it.”

The men stared at each other. There was a faintly superior smirk on Elliot’s mouth, a confident challenge in his eyes. Against his better judgment, Carella decided to pick up the gauntlet.

“Your ankle isn’t sprained,” he said. “Buenavista Hospital reports having treated you for third-degree burns on April nineteenth, the morning after the murder.”

“I’ve never been to Buenavista Hospital in my life.”

“Then someone’s been using your name around town, Elliot.”

“Maybe so.”

“You want to unwrap that bandage and show me your foot?”

“No.”

“Am I going to need another warrant?”

“Yes. Why don’t you just go get yourself one?”

“There were remains of a small fire in one of the rooms...”

“Go get your warrant. I think we’re finished talking.”

“Is that where you had your accident, Elliot? Is that where you burned your foot?”

“I’ve got nothing more to say to you.”

“Okay, have it your way,” Carella said angrily, and opened the front door. “I’ll be back.”

He slammed the door shut behind him and went out onto the street, no closer to a solution than he had been when he walked into the shop. There were three incontrovertible facts that added up to evidence of a sort, but unfortunately not enough evidence for an arrest. The sneaker found in that tenement was unquestionably Elliot’s. It had been found in the corner of a room that contained the dead ashes of a recent fire. And Elliot had been treated for burns on April 19, the morning after the murder. Carella had hoped Elliot might be intimidated by these three seemingly related facts, and then either volunteer a confession or blurt out something that would move the investigation onto firmer ground. But Elliot had called the bluff. A charge on the basis of the existing evidence alone would be kicked out of court in three minutes flat. Moreover, Elliot’s rights were securely protected; if arrested, he would have to be warned against saying anything self-incriminating, and would undoubtedly refuse to answer any questions without an attorney present. Once a lawyer entered the squadroom, he would most certainly advise Elliot to remain silent, which would take them right back to where they’d started: a charge of murder based on evidence that indicated only possible presence at the scene of a crime.

Carella walked rapidly toward his parked car.

He was certain of only one thing: if Sanford Elliot really knew nothing at all about what had happened on the fifth floor of 433 North Harrison on the night of April 18, he would be answering any and all questions willingly and honestly. But he was not answering willingly, and he was lying whenever he did answer. Which brought Carella to the little lady with the long brown hair, the frightened brown eyes, and the face of an angel — Mary Margaret Ryan, as sweet a young lass as had ever crossed herself in the anonymous darkness of a confessional. Mary Margaret Ryan, bless her soul, had told Carella that she and Elliot had come down from Boston late Monday night. But Elliot’s foot had been treated at Buenavista on Monday morning. Which meant that Mary Margaret perhaps had something to tell her priest the next time she saw him. In the meantime, seeing as how Mary Margaret was a frightened, slender little wisp of a thing, Carella decided it was worth trying to frighten her a hell of a lot more.

He slammed the door of his car, stuck the key into the ignition switch, and started the engine.

The trouble was, Kling could not stop staring at her.

He had picked up Augusta at six o’clock sharp, and whereas she had warned him about the way she might look after a full day’s shooting, she looked nothing less than radiant. Red hair still a bit damp (she confessed to having caught a quick shower in Jerry Bloom’s own executive washroom), she came into the reception room to meet Kling, extended her hand to him, and then offered her cheek for a kiss he only belatedly realized was expected. Her cheek was cool and smooth, there was not a trace of makeup on her face except for the pale green shadow on her eyelids, the brownish liner just above her lashes. Her hair was brushed straight back from her forehead, falling to her shoulders without a part. She was wearing blue jeans, sandals, and a ribbed jersey top without a bra. A blue leather bag was slung over her right shoulder, but she shifted it immediately to the shoulder opposite, looped her right hand through his arm, and said, “Were you waiting long?”

“No, I just got here.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No. What do you mean?”

“The way you’re looking at me.”

“No. No, no, everything’s fine.”

But he could not stop staring at her. The film they went to see was Bullitt, which Kling had seen the first time it played the circuit, but which Augusta was intent on seeing in the presence of a real cop. Kling hesitated to tell her that, real cop or not, the first time he’d seen Bullitt he hadn’t for a moment known what the hell was going on. He had come out of the theater grateful that he hadn’t been the cop assigned to the case, partially because he wouldn’t have known where to begin unraveling it, and partially because fast car rides made him dizzy. He didn’t know what the movie was about this time either, but not because of any devious motivation or complicated plot twists. The simple fact was that he didn’t watch the picture; he watched Augusta instead. It was dark when they came out into the street. They walked in silence for several moments, and then Augusta said, “Listen, I think we’d better get something straight right away.”

“What’s that?” he said, afraid she would tell him she was married, or engaged, or living with a high-priced photographer.

“I know I’m beautiful,” she said.

“What?” he said.

“Bert,” she said, “I’m a model, and I get paid for being beautiful. It makes me very nervous to have you staring at me all the time.”

“Okay, I won’t...”

“No, please let me finish...”

“I thought you were finished.”

“No. I want to get this settled.”

“It’s settled,” he said. “Now we both know you’re beautiful.” He hesitated just an instant, and then added, “And modest besides.”

“Oh, boy,” she said. “I’m trying to relate as a goddamn person, and you’re...”

“I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable,” he said. “But the truth is...”

“Yes, what’s the truth?” Augusta said. “Let’s at least start with the truth, okay?”

“The truth is I’ve never in my life been out with a girl as beautiful as you are, that’s the truth. And I can’t get over it. So I keep staring at you. That’s the truth.”

“Well, you’ll have to get over it.”

“Why?”

“Because I think you’re beautiful, too,” Augusta said, “and we’d have one hell of a relationship if all we did was sit around and stare at each other all the time.”

She stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. Kling searched her face, hoping she would recognize that this was not the same as staring.

“I mean,” she said, “I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, and I’d like to think I’m permitted to sweat every now and then. I do sweat, you know.”

“Yes, I suppose you do,” he said, and smiled.

“Okay?” she said.

“Okay.”

“Let’s eat,” she said. “I’m famished.”

It was Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes himself who identified the photostat of the silent silver-screen star. This was only reasonable, since he was the oldest man on the squad.

“This is Vilma Banky,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Meyer asked.

“Positive. I saw her in The Awakening, and I also saw her in Two Lovers with Ronald Colman.” Byrnes cleared his throat. “I was, naturally, a very small child at the time.”

“Naturally,” Meyer said.

“Banky,” Hawes said. “He can’t be that goddamn corny, can he?”

“What do you mean?” Byrnes said.

“He isn’t telling us it’s a bank, is he?”

“I’ll bet he is,” Meyer said. “Of course he is.”

“I’ll be damned,” Byrnes said. “Put it up there on the bulletin board with the rest of them, Meyer. Let’s see what else we’ve got here.” He watched as Meyer tacked the picture to the end of the row. Two of Hoover, two of Washington, two of a Japanese Zero, and now Miss Banky. “All right, let’s dope it out,” Byrnes said.

“It’s her last name,” Hawes said. “Maybe we’re supposed to put together all the last names.”

“Yeah,” Meyer said. “And come up with the name of the bank.”

“Right, right.”

“Hoover Washington Zero Bank,” Byrnes said. “That’s some bank.”

“Or maybe the first names,” Hawes suggested.

“John George Japanese Bank,” Byrnes said. “Even better.”

The men looked at the photostats and then looked at each other.

“Listen, let’s not...”

“Right, right.”

“He’s not that smart. If he doped it out, we can dope it out.”

“Right.”

“So it isn’t the last names, and it isn’t the first names.”

“So what is it?” Byrnes said.

“I don’t know,” Hawes said.

“Anyway, Cotton, he is that smart,” Meyer said.

“That’s right, he is,” Byrnes said.

The men looked at the photostats again.

“J. Edgar Hoover,” Hawes said.

“Right.”

“Director of the FBI.”

“Right.”

“George Washington.”

“Right, right.”

“Father of the country.”

“Which gives us nothing,” Byrnes said.

“Zero,” Meyer said.

“Exactly,” Byrnes said.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Hawes said. “The first picture we got was Hoover’s, right?”

“Mmm.”

“And then Washington and the Zero,” Meyer said.

“All right, let’s associate,” Hawes said.

“What?”

“Let’s free-associate. What do you think of when I say Washington?”

“General.”

“President.”

“Martha.”

“Mount Vernon.”

“D.C.”

“State of.”

“Let’s take it back. General.”

“Revolution.”

“Valley Forge.”

“Delaware.”

“Cherry tree,” Meyer said.

“Cherry tree?”

“He chopped down a cherry tree, didn’t he?”

“How about president? What can we get from that?”

“Chief Executive.”

“Commander in Chief.”

“We’re getting no place,” Byrnes said.

“How about Hoover?”

“FBI.”

“Federal Bureau of...”

“Federal!” Hawes said, and snapped his fingers. “A federal bank!”

“Yes,” Byrnes said, and nodded, and the men fell silent.

“A federal bank in Washington?”

“Then why bother us with it?”

“What about the Zero?”

“Never mind the Zero, let’s get back to Washington.”

“No, wait a minute, maybe the Zero’s important.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s try it. Zero.”

“Nothing.”

“Goose egg.”

“Zip.”

“Zed.”

“Zed?”

“Isn’t that what they say in England?”

“For zero? I don’t think so.”

“Zero, zero...”

“Zero, one, two, three, four...”

“Love,” Meyer said.

“Love?”

“That’s zero in a tennis match.”

“Let’s get back to Washington.”

“It has to be a federal bank in Washington,” Byrnes said.

“Then why send us a picture of Washington himself? If he’s trying to identify a place...”

“A bank is a place, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but wouldn’t it have been easier to send a picture of the White House or the Capitol dome or...”

“Who says he’s trying to make it easy?”

“All right, let’s see what we’ve got so far, all right? Federal Washington Zero Bank.”

“Come on, Cotton, that doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“I know it doesn’t, but that’s the order they arrived in, so maybe...”

“Who says there has to be any special order?”

“Bank came last, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but...”

“So that’s where I’ve put it. Last.”

“And Hoover came first,” Meyer said. “So what?”

“So that’s where I’ve put him.”

“Federal Washington Zero Bank. It still doesn’t make sense.”

“Suppose the Zero means nothing at all? Literally zero. Suppose it’s just there to be canceled out?”

“Try it.”

“Federal Washington Bank.”

“That’s just what I said,” Byrnes said. “A federal bank in Washington.”

“If the bank’s in Washington, why’s he telling us about it?”

“Washington,” Hawes said.

“Here we go again,” Meyer said.

“Washington.”

“President?”

“Federal President Bank?”

“No, no.”

“General?”

“Federal General Bank?”

“Federal Martha Bank?”

“What the hell was he besides a general and the first president of the United...”

“First Federal Bank,” Meyer said.

“What?”

“First president, First goddamn Federal Bank!”

“That’s it,” Byrnes said.

“That’s got to be it.”

“First Federal Bank,” Meyer said, grinning.

“Get the phone book,” Byrnes said.

They were all quite naturally proud of the deductive reasoning that had led them to their solution. They now felt they knew the name of the bank as well as the exact date of the planned holdup. Gleefully, they began going through the Yellow Pages, confident that the rest would be simple.

There were twenty-one First Federal Banks in Isola alone, and none of them were located in the 87th Precinct.

There were seventeen First Federals in Calm’s Point.

There were nine in Riverhead, twelve in Majesta, and two in Bethtown, for a grand total of sixty-one banks.

It is sometimes not so good to work in a very big city.