Let’s Hear It For The Deaf Man

3

The manila envelope was addressed in typescript to Detective Steven Louis Carella, 87th Squad, 41 Grover Avenue. There was no return address on the envelope. It had been postmarked in Isola the day before. The picture was inside the envelope, neatly sandwiched between two pieces of gray shirt cardboard.

“That’s J. Edgar Hoover, isn’t it?” Meyer asked.

“That’s who it is,” Carella said.

“Why a photograph of him?”

“It isn’t even a photograph,” Carella said. “It’s a photostat.”

“Federal government is undoubtedly cutting back on expenses,” Meyer said. “Recession, you know.”

“Undoubtedly,” Carella said.

“What do you think?” Meyer asked seriously.

“I think it’s our friend.”

“So do I.”

“His opening gun.”

“Why Hoover?”

“Why not?”

Meyer scratched his bald pate. “What’s he trying to tell us, Steve?”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion,” Carella said.

“Well, figure it out, figure it out.”

“Well,” Carella said, “he told me yesterday that he plans to steal half a million dollars on the last day of April. So now,” he said, and glanced at the wall clock, “at exactly nine twenty-two the next morning, we receive a photostat of J. Edgar Hoover. He’s either trying to tell us something, or trying to tell us nothing, or trying to tell us something that means nothing.”

“That’s brilliant reasoning,” Meyer said. “Have you ever thought of going into police work?”

“I’m basing my deduction upon his past M.O. Remember that first job, whenever the hell it was?”

“More than ten years ago.”

“Right. He led us to believe he was going to hit one bank when he was really after another. Incidentally, wasn’t that hit also scheduled for the last day of April?”

“It was.”

“And he damn near got away with it.”

“Damn near.”

“He lets us know what he’s planning to do, but he doesn’t really let us know. It’s no fun for him otherwise. Look at what he did on his next job. Announced each of his planned murders beforehand, knocked off two city officials in a row, and threatened to knock off the mayor himself. But only because he was trying to extort money from other people, and was using those high-caliber murders as warnings. It’s all misdirected direction, Meyer. Which is why I say this picture can mean everything or it can mean nothing.”

Meyer looked at the photostat again. “Hoover,” he said blankly.

The locksmith’s name was Stanislaw Janik.

His shop was an eight-by-ten cubicle wedged between a hockshop and a dry-cleaning store on Culver Avenue. The wall behind his counter was made of pegboard upon which hung blank keys. Each blank was identified by a code number that corresponded to a similar number in the manufacturer’s catalog. In the case of automobile keys, the blanks were coded according to year and make. There were six full-grown cats in the shop. The place stank of cat shit.

Janik himself resembled a cross-eyed Siamese, blue eyes magnified behind bifocals, bald save for a tuft of black hair behind each ear. A man in his early fifties, he sat on a stool behind the counter, wearing a tan sweater over a white shirt open at the throat, cutting a key as Kling came into the shop. The bell over the door tinkled, and a cat who had been lying just behind the door growled angrily and leaped halfway across the room.

“Mr. Janik?” Kling said.

Janik looked up from the key and turned off the duplicating machine. His teeth were nicotine-stained; a Sherlock Holmes pipe rested in an ashtray near the machine. The counter top was covered with brass filings. He brushed them aside with the back of his hand and said, “Yes, can I help you?” His speech was faintly accented; Kling could not place the country of origin. He reached into his pocket, opened his wallet to where his shield was pinned to a leather flap opposite his lucite-encased I.D. card, and said, “Police officer. I’d like to ask you some questions, please.”

“What’s the matter?” Janik asked.

“I’m investigating some burglaries on Richardson Drive.”

“Yes?”

“I understand you installed a lock for one of the burglary victims.”

“Who would that be?” Janik asked. A black and white cat leaped suddenly from the floor to the counter and offered its back to Janik. He began stroking the cat idly, not looking at the animal, watching Kling instead from behind his thick spectacles.

“A Mr. Joseph Angieri,” Kling said. “At 638 Richardson.”

“Yes, I installed a lock for him,” Janik said, stroking the cat’s arched back.

“What kind of a lock was it?”

“A simple cylinder lock. Not good enough,” Janik said, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?”

“I told Mr. Angieri. He was having the lock changed because of the burglaries, do you understand? So I told him this type of cylinder lock was not sufficient protection, that he should allow me to put in a deadlock. Are you familiar with this lock?”

“I am,” Kling said.

“It would have been adequate protection. Even if you remove the cylinder on a deadlock, there is a shutter guard that prevents entry. I suggested a Fox lock, too, as an added precaution. If he was afraid of burglary...”

“You seem to know a lot about burglary, Mr. Janik.”

“Locks are my business,” Janik said, and shrugged. He pushed the cat off the counter. Startled, the cat landed on the floor, scowled up at him, stretched, and stalked off into the corner, where it began licking the ear of a tan Angora. “I told Mr. Angieri that the little extra money would be worth it. For the deadlock, I mean. He said no, he wasn’t interested in that kind of investment. So now his place is broken into. So he saved a little money on a cheaper lock, and he lost all his valuable possessions. What kind of thrift is that? Senseless,” Janik said, and shook his head again.

“Would you have any idea what his loss was, Mr. Janik?”

“None.”

“Then... why do you say he lost valuable possessions?”

“I assume if someone breaks into an apartment, it is not to open a piggy bank and steal a few pennies. What are you trying to say, young man?”

“Have you installed locks for anyone else in this neighborhood, Mr. Janik?”

“As I told you before, locks are my business. Of course I have installed other locks in the neighborhood. My shop is in the neighborhood, where would you expect me to install locks? In California?”

“Have you installed other locks on Richardson Drive?”

“I have.”

“Where on Richardson Drive? Which apartments?”

“I would have to consult my records.”

“Would you please?”

“No, I would not.”

“Mr. Janik...”

“I don’t believe I care for your manner, young man. I’m very busy, and I don’t have time to go through my bills to see just which apartments had locks installed by me. I ask you again, what are you trying to say?”

“Mr. Janik...” Kling said, and hesitated.

“Yes?”

“Would you happen to have duplicate keys for the locks you’ve installed?”

“I would not. Are you suggesting I’m a thief?”

“No, sir. I merely...”

“I came to this country from Poland in 1948. My wife and children were killed by the Germans, and I am alone in the world. I earn a meager living, but I earn it honestly. Even in Poland, when I was starving, I never stole so much as a crust of bread. I am not a thief, young man, and I do not choose to show you my bills. I will thank you to leave my shop.”

“I may be back, Mr. Janik.”

“You are free to return. Provided you come with a warrant. I have had enough of storm troopers in my lifetime.”

“I’m sure you understand, Mr. Janik...”

“I understand nothing. Please go.”

“Thank you,” Kling said, and walked to the door. He turned, started to say something else, and then opened the door instead. The bell tinkled, and one of the cats almost ran out onto the sidewalk. Kling hastily closed the door behind him and began walking the six blocks to the station house. He felt he had handled the whole thing badly. He felt like a goddamn Nazi. It was a bright spring day, and the air was clean and fresh, but the stink of cat shit lingered in his nostrils.

At 3:30 P.M., fifteen minutes before Kling was supposed to be relieved, the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up and said:

“87th Squad, Kling.”

“Bert, this is Murchison on the desk. Just got a call from Patrolman Ingersoll at 657 Richardson Drive. He’s in 11D with a lady who just got back from a trip abroad. The apartment’s been ripped off.”

“I’ll get right over there,” Kling said.

He walked to where Hal Willis was sitting at his own desk, two dozen forged checks spread out before him, and said, “Hal, I’ve got another burglary on Richardson. I’ll probably head straight home from there.”

“Right,” Willis said, and went back to comparing the signatures on the checks against a suspect signature on a motel registration card. “This guy’s been hanging paper all over town,” he said conversationally, without looking up.

“Did you hear me?” Kling asked.

“Yeah, burglary on Richardson, heading straight home,” Willis said.

“See you,” Kling said, and went out of the squadroom.

His car was illegally parked on Grover, two blocks from the station house. The visor on the driver’s side was down and a hand-lettered sign clipped to it read: POLICE DEPARTMENT VEHICLE. Each time he came back to it at the end of his tour he expected to find it decorated with a parking citation from some overzealous uniformed cop. He checked the windshield now, unlocked the door, shoved the visor up, and drove over to Richardson, where he double-parked alongside a tobacco-brown Mercedes-Benz. He told the doorman he was a police officer, and explained where he had left the car. The doorman promised to call him in apartment 11D if the owner of the Mercedes wanted to get out.

Mike Ingersoll opened the door on Kling’s second ring. He was a handsome cop in his late thirties, slightly older than Kling, with curly black hair, brown eyes, and a nose as straight and as swift as a machete slash. He looked in his uniform the way a lot of patrolmen thought they looked, but didn’t. He wore it with casual pride, as though it had been tailored exclusively for him in a fancy shop on Hall Avenue, rather than picked off a ready-to-wear rack in a store across the street from the Police Academy downtown. “You got here fast,” he said to Kling, and stepped out of the doorway to let him in. His voice, in contrast to his size, was quite soft and came as a distinct surprise; one expected something fuller and rounder to rumble up out of his barrel chest. “Lady’s in the living room,” he said. “Place is a complete mess. The guy really cleaned her out.”

“Same one?”

“I think so. No marks on the windows or door, a white kitten on the bedroom dresser.”

“Well,” Kling said, and sighed. “Let’s talk to the lady.”

The lady was sitting on the living-room sofa.

The lady had long red hair and green eyes and a deep suntan. She was wearing a dark green sweater, a short brown skirt, and brown boots. Her legs crossed, she kept staring at the wall as Kling came into the room, and then turned to face him. His first impression was one of total harmony, a casual perfection of color and design, russet and green, hair and eyes, sweater and skirt, boots blending with the smoothness of her tan, the long sleek grace of crossed legs, the inquisitively angled head, the red hair cascading in clean vertical descent. Her face and figure came as residuals to his brief course in art appreciation. High cheekbones, eyes slanting up from them, fiercely green against the tan, tilted nose gently drawing the upper lip away from partially exposed, even white teeth. Her sweater swelled over breasts firm without a bra, the wool cinched tightly at her waist with a brown, brass-studded belt, hip softly carving an arc against the nubby sofa back, skirt revealing a secret thigh as she turned more fully toward him.

He had never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.

“I’m Detective Kling,” he said. “How do you do?”

“Hullo,” she said dully. She seemed on the edge of tears. Her green eyes glistened, she extended her hand to him, and he took it clumsily, and they exchanged handshakes, and he could not take his eyes from her face. He realized all at once that he was still holding her hand. He dropped it abruptly, cleared his throat, and reached into his pocket for his pad.

“I don’t believe I have your name, miss,” he said.

“Augusta Blair,” she said. “Did you see the mess inside? In the bedroom?”

“I’ll take a look in a minute,” Kling said. “When did you discover the theft, Miss Blair?”

“I got home about half an hour ago.”

“From where?”

“Austria.”

“Nice thing to come home to,” Ingersoll said, and shook his head.

“Was the door locked when you got here?” Kling asked.

“Yes.”

“You used your key to get in?”

“Yes.”

“Anybody in the apartment?”

“No.”

“Did you hear anything? Any sound at all?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I came in, and I left the door open behind me because I knew the doorman was coming up with my bags. Then I took off my coat and hung it in the hall closet, and then I went to the john, and then I went into the bedroom. Everything looked all right until then. The minute I stepped in there, I felt... invaded.”

“You’d better take a look at it, Bert,” Ingersoll said. “The guy went sort of berserk.”

“That it?” Kling asked, indicating a doorway across the room.

“Yes,” Augusta said, and rose from the couch. She was a tall girl, at least five-seven, perhaps five-eight, and she moved with swift grace, preceding him to the bedroom door, looking inside once again, and then turning away in dismay. Kling went into the room, but she did not follow him. She stood in the doorframe instead, worrying her lip, her shoulder against the jamb.

The burglar had slashed through the room like a hurricane. The dresser drawers had all been pulled out and dumped onto the rug — slips, bras, panties, sweaters, stockings, scarves, blouses, spilling across the room in a dazzle of color. Similarly, the clothes on hangers had been yanked out of the closet and flung helter-skelter — coats, suits, skirts, gowns, robes strewn over the floor, bed, and chairs. A jewelry box had been overturned in the center of the bed, and bracelets, rings, beads, pendants, chokers glittered amid a swirl of chiffon, silk, nylon, and wool. A white kitten sat on the dresser top, mewing.

“Did he find what he was looking for?” Kling asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “My good jewelry was wrapped in a red silk scarf at the back of the top drawer. It’s gone.”

“Anything else?”

“Two furs. A leopard and an otter.”

“He’s selective,” Ingersoll said.

“Mmm,” Kling said. “Any radios, phonographs, stuff like that?”

“No. The hi-fi equipment’s in the living room. He didn’t touch it.”

“I’ll need a list of the jewelry and coats, Miss Blair.”

“What for?”

“Well, so we can get working on it. Also, I’m sure you want to report this to your insurance company.”

“None of it was insured.”

“Oh, boy,” Kling said.

“I just never thought anything like this would happen,” Augusta said.

“How long have you been living here?” Kling asked incredulously.

“The city or the apartment?”

“Both.”

“I’ve lived in the city for a year and a half. The apartment for eight months.”

“Where are you from originally?”

“Seattle.”

“Are you presently employed?” Kling said, and took out his pad.

“Yes.”

“Can you give me the name of the firm?”

“I’m a model,” Augusta said. “I’m represented by the Cutler Agency.”

“Were you in Austria on a modeling assignment?”

“No, vacation. Skiing.”

“I thought you looked familiar,” Ingersoll said. “I’ll bet I’ve seen your picture in the magazines.”

“Mmm,” Augusta said without interest.

“How long were you gone?” Kling asked.

“Two weeks. Well, sixteen days, actually.”

“Nice thing to come home to,” Ingersoll said again, and again shook his head.

“I moved here because it had a doorman,” Augusta said. “I thought buildings with doormen were safe.”

“None of the buildings on this side of the city are safe,” Ingersoll said.

“Not many of them, anyway,” Kling said.

“I couldn’t afford anything across the park,” Augusta said. “I haven’t been modeling a very long time, I don’t really get many bookings.” She saw the question on Kling’s face and said, “The furs were gifts from my mother, and the jewelry was left to me by my aunt. I saved six goddamn months for the trip to Austria,” she said, and suddenly burst into tears. “Oh, shit,” she said, “why’d he have to do this?”

Ingersoll and Kling stood by awkwardly. Augusta turned swiftly, walked past Ingersoll to the sofa, and took a handkerchief from her handbag. She noisily blew her nose, dried her eyes, and said, “I’m sorry.”

“If you’ll let me have the complete list...” Kling said.

“Yes, of course.”

“We’ll do what we can to get it back.”

“Sure,” Augusta said, and blew her nose again.