Let’s Hear It For The Deaf Man

6

At ten minutes to one on Wednesday afternoon, Augusta Blair called the squadroom and asked to talk to Detective Kling, who was on his lunch hour and down the hall in the locker room, taking a nap. Meyer asked if Kling could call her back and she breathlessly told him she had only a minute and would appreciate it if he could be called to the phone. It had to do with the burglary, she said. Meyer went down the hall and reluctantly awakened Kling, who did not seem to mind at all. In fact, he hurried to his desk, picked up the receiver, and said, quite cheerfully, “Hello, Miss Blair, how are you?”

“Fine, thank you,” she said. “I’ve been trying to call you all day long, Mr. Kling, but this is the first break we’ve had. We started at nine this morning, and I didn’t know if you got to work that early.”

“Yes, I was here,” Kling said.

“I guess I should have called then. Anyway, here I am now. And I’ve got to be back in a minute. Do you think you can come down here?”

“Where are you, Miss Blair?”

“Schaeffer Photography at 580 Hall Avenue. The fifth floor.”

“What’s this about?”

“When I was cleaning up the mess in the apartment, I found something that wasn’t mine. I figure the burglar may have dropped it.”

“I’ll be right there,” Kling said. “What was it you found?”

“Well, I’ll show you when you get here,” she said. “I’ve got to run, Mr. Kling.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll...”

But she was gone.

Schaeffer Photography occupied the entire fifth floor of 580 Hall. The receptionist, a pert blonde with a marked German accent, informed Kling that Augusta had said he would be coming, and then directed him to the studio, which was at the end of a long hallway hung with samples of Schaeffer’s work. Judging from the selection, Schaeffer did mostly fashion photography; no avid reader of Vogue, Kling nonetheless recognized the faces of half the models, and searched in vain for a picture of Augusta. Apparently she had been telling the truth when she said she’d been in the business only a short while.

The door to the studio was closed. Kling eased it open, and found himself in an enormous room overhung by a skylight. A platform was at the far end of the room, the wall behind it hung with red backing paper. Four power packs rested on the floor, with cables running to strobe lights on stands, their gray, umbrella-shaped reflectors angled toward the platform. Redheaded Augusta Blair, wearing a red blouse, a short red jumper, red knee socks, and red patent leather pumps, stood before the red backing paper. A young girl in jeans and a Snoopy sweatshirt stood to the right of the platform, her arms folded across her chest. The photographer and his assistant were hunched over a tripod-mounted Polaroid. They took several pictures, strobe lights flashing for a fraction of a second each time they pressed the shutter release, and then, apparently satisfied with the exposure setting, removed the Polaroid from its mount and replaced it with a Nikon. Augusta spotted Kling standing near the door, grinned, and waggled the fingers of her right hand at him. The photographer turned.

“Yes?” he said.

“He’s a friend of mine,” Augusta said.

“Oh, okay,” the photographer said in dismissal. “Make yourself comfortable, keep it quiet. You ready, honey? Where’s David?”

“David!” the assistant called, and a man rushed over from where he’d been standing at a wall phone, partially hidden by a screen over which was draped a pair of purple pantyhose. He went directly to Augusta, combed her hair swiftly, and then stepped off the platform.

“Okay?” the photographer asked.

“Ready,” Augusta said.

“The headline is ‘Red On Red,’ God help us, and the idea—”

“What’s the matter with the headline?” the girl in the Snoopy sweatshirt asked.

“Nothing, Helen, far be it from me to cast aspersions on your magazine. Gussie, the idea is to get this big red feeling, you know what I mean? Everything bursting and screaming and, you know, red as hell, okay? You know what I want?”

“I think so,” Augusta said.

“We want red,” Helen said.

“What the hell’s this proxar doing on here?” the photographer asked.

“I thought we’d be doing close stuff,” his assistant said.

“No, Eddie, get it off here, will you?”

“Sure,” Eddie said, and began unscrewing the lens.

“David, get that hair off her forehead, will you?”

“Where?”

“Right there, hanging over her eye, don’t you see it there?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Yeah, that’s it, thank you. Eddie, how we doing?”

“You’ve got it.”

“Gussie?”

“Yep.”

“Okay then, here we go, now give me that big red, Gussie, that’s what I want, I want this thing to yell red all over town, that’s the girl, more of that, now tilt the head, that’s good, Gussie, smile now, more teeth, honey, red, red, throw your arms wide, good, good, that’s it, now you’re beginning to feel it, let it bubble up, honey, let it burst out of your fingertips, nice, I like that, give me that with a, that’s it, good, now the other side, the head the other way, no, no, keep the arms out, fine, that’s good, all right now come toward me, no, honey, don’t slink, this isn’t blue, it’s red, you’ve got to explode toward, yes, that’s it, yes, yes, good, now with more hip, Gussie, fine, I like that, I like it, eyes wider, toss the hair, good, honey...”

For the next half hour Kling watched as Augusta exhibited to the camera a wide variety of facial expressions, body positions, and acrobatic contortions, looking nothing less than beautiful in every pose she struck. The only sounds in the huge room were the photographer’s voice and the clicking of his camera. Coaxing, scolding, persuading, approving, suggesting, chiding, cajoling, the voice went on and on, barely audible except to Augusta, while the tiny clicking of the camera accompanied the running patter like a soft-shoe routine. Kling was fascinated. In Augusta’s apartment the other night, he had been overwhelmed by her beauty, but had not suspected her vitality. Reacting to the burglary, she had presented a solemn, dispirited facade, so that her beauty seemed unmarred but essentially lifeless. Now, as Kling watched her bursting with energy and ideas to convey the concept of red, the camera clicking, the photographer circling her and talking to her, she seemed another person entirely, and he wondered suddenly how many faces Augusta Blair owned, and how many of them he would get to know.

“Okay, great, Gussie,” the photographer said, “let’s break for ten minutes. Then we’ll do those sailing outfits, Helen. Eddie, can we get some coffee?”

“Right away.”

Augusta came down off the platform and walked to where Kling was standing at the back of the room. “Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

“I enjoyed it,” Kling said.

“It was kind of fun,” Augusta said. “Most of them aren’t.”

“Which of these do you want her in first, Helen?” the photographer asked.

“The one with the striped top.”

“You do want me to shoot both of them, right?”

“Yes. The two tops. There’s only one pair of pants,” Helen said.

“Okay, both tops, the striped one first. You going to introduce me to your friend, Gussie?” he said, and walked to where Kling and Augusta were standing.

“Rick Schaeffer,” she said, “this is Detective Kling. I’m sorry, I don’t know your first name.”

“Bert,” he said.

“Nice to meet you,” Schaeffer said, and extended his hand. The men shook hands briefly, and Schaeffer said, “Is this about the burglary?”

“Yes,” Kling said.

“Well, look, I won’t take up your time,” Schaeffer said. “Gussie, honey, we’ll be shooting the striped top first.”

“Okay.”

“I want to go as soon as we change the no-seam.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Right. Nice meeting you, Bert.”

He walked off briskly toward where two men were carrying a roll of blue backing paper to the platform.

“What did you find in the apartment?” Kling asked.

“I’ve got it in my bag,” Augusta said. She began walking toward a bench on the side of the room, Kling following. “Listen, I must apologize for the rush act, but they’re paying me twenty-five dollars an hour, and they don’t like me sitting around.”

“I understand,” Kling said.

Augusta dug into her bag and pulled out a ballpoint pen, which she handed to Kling and which, despite the fact that her fingerprints were already all over it, he accepted on a tented handkerchief. The top half of the pen was made of metal, brass-plated to resemble gold. The bottom half of the pen was made of black plastic. The pen was obviously a give-away item. Stamped onto the plastic in white letters were the words:

“You’re sure it isn’t yours?” Kling asked.

“Positive. Will it help you?”

“It’s a start.”

“Good.” She glanced over her shoulder toward where the men were rolling down the blue seamless. “What time is it, Bert?”

Kling looked at his watch. “Almost two. What do I call you? Augusta or Gussie?”

“Depends on what we’re doing,” she said, and smiled.

“What are we doing tonight?” Kling asked immediately.

“I’m busy,” Augusta said.

“How about tomorrow?”

She looked at him for a moment, seemed to make a swift decision, and then said, “Let me check my book.” She reached into her bag for an appointment calendar, opened it, said, “What’s tomorrow, Thursday?” and without waiting for his answer, flipped open to the page marked Thursday, April 22. “No, not tomorrow, either,” she said, and Kling figured he had got the message loud and clear. “I’m free Saturday night, though,” she said, surprising him. “How’s Saturday?”

“Saturday’s fine,” he said quickly. “Dinner?”

“I’d love to.”

“And maybe a movie later.”

“Why don’t we do it the other way around? If you won’t mind how I look, you can pick me up at the studio...”

“Fine...”

“Around six, six-fifteen, and we can catch an early movie, and then maybe grab a hamburger or something later on. What time do you quit work?”

“I’ll certainly be free by six.”

“Okay, the photographer’s name is Jerry Bloom, and he’s at 1204 Concord. The second floor, I think. Aren’t you going to write it down?”

“Jerry Bloom,” Kling said, “1204 Concord, the second floor, at six o’clock.”

“Gussie, let’s go!” Schaeffer shouted.

“Saturday,” she said and, to Kling’s vast amazement, touched her fingers to her lips, blew him an unmistakable kiss, grinned, and walked swiftly to where Rick Schaeffer was waiting.

Kling blinked.

Ashmead Avenue was in the shadow of the elevated structure in downtown Calm’s Point, not far from the bustling business section and the Academy of Music. When Kling was seventeen years old he had dated a girl from Calm’s Point, and had sworn never again. The date had been for eight-thirty, and he had left Riverhead at seven sharp, taking the train on Allen and riding for an hour and a half before getting off at Kingston Parkway as she had instructed him. He had then proceeded to lose himself in the labyrinthine streets with their alien names, arriving at her house at 10 P.M., to be told by her mother that she had gone to a movie with a girlfriend. He had asked if he should wait, and the girl’s mother had looked at him as though he were retarded and had said simply, “I would not suggest it.” Rarely did he come to Calm’s Point anymore, unless he was called there on an investigation.

Sulzbacher Realty was in a two-story brick building sandwiched between a supermarket and a liquor store. The entrance door was between two plate-glass windows adorned with photographs of houses in and around the area. Through the glass Kling could see a pair of desks. A man sat at one of them studying an open book before him. He looked up as Kling came into the office.

“Good afternoon,” he said, “may I help you?”

He was wearing a brown business suit, a white shirt, and a striped tie. A local Chamber of Commerce pin was in his lapel, and the tops of several cigars protruded from the breast pocket of his jacket.

“I hope so,” Kling said. He took out his wallet, and opened it. “I’m Detective Kling,” he said, “87th Squad. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Have a seat,” the man answered, and indicated the wooden chair alongside his desk. “I’m Fred Lipton, be happy to help you any way I can.”

“Mr. Lipton, one of your company pens was found at the scene of a burglary, and we...”

“Company pens?”

“Yes, sir. The name of the company lettered on the barrel.”

“Oh, yes. Those. The ones Nat bought to advertise the business.”

“Nat?”

“Nat Sulzbacher. He owns the company. I’m just a salesman.” Lipton opened the top drawer of his desk, reached into it, opened his hand, and dropped a half-dozen ballpoint pens onto the desk top. “Are these the ones you mean?”

Kling picked one up and looked at it. “Yes,” he said, “a pen similar to these.”

The front door opened, and a tall, dark-haired man entered the room. “Afternoon, Fred,” he said. “Selling lots of houses?”

“Mr. Sulzbacher, this is Detective...”

“Kling.”

“Kling. He’s investigating a burglary.”

“Yeah?” Sulzbacher said, and raised his eyebrows in appreciation.

“They found one of our pens at the scene of the crime.”

“One of ours?” Sulzbacher said. “May I see it, please?”

“I don’t have it with me right now.”

“Then how do I know it’s ours?”

“Our name’s on it,” Lipton said.

“Oh. So what would you like to know, young man?”

“Since the pen was found at the scene of a crime...”

“You don’t think we’re criminals here, do you?”

“No. I was merely wondering...”

“Because if that’s what you think, you’re mistaken. We’re real estate agents here. That’s what we are.”

“No one’s suggesting you or Mr. Lipton burglarized an apartment. All I wanted to know is whether you give these pens to anybody special, or whether...”

“You know how many of these pens I ordered?” Sulzbacher asked.

“How many?”

“Five thousand.”

“Oh,” Kling said.

“You know how many of them we’ve given out in the past six months? At least half that amount. Certainly two thousand, anyway. So you expect us to remember who we gave them to?”

“Were these customers or...?”

“Customers, sure, but also strangers. Somebody comes in, asks about a house, we give him a little pen so he won’t forget the name. There are a lot of real estate agents in Calm’s Point, you know.”

“Mmm,” Kling said.

“I’m sorry,” Sulzbacher said.

“Yeah,” Kling said. “Me too.”

This time, they did not think it was a mistake.

The duplicate photostat arrived in the afternoon mail, and was promptly added to the gallery on the bulletin board, so that the squad now proudly possessed two pictures of J. Edgar Hoover and two pictures of George Washington.

“What do you think he’s driving at?” Hawes asked.

“I don’t know,” Carella said.

“It’s deliberate, that’s for sure,” Meyer said.

“No question.”

The three men stood before the bulletin board, hands on hips, studying the photostats as though they were hanging on the wall of a museum.

“Where do you suppose he got the pictures?” Hawes asked.

“Newspapers, I would guess. Books. Magazines.”

“Any help for us there?”

“I doubt it. Even if we located the source, what good...?”

“Yeah.”

“The important thing is what he’s trying to tell us.”

“What do we know so far?” Meyer asked.

“So far we know he’s going to steal half a million dollars on April thirtieth,” Hawes said.

“No, that’s not it exactly,” Carella said.

“What is it exactly?”

“He said, ‘With your assistance...’ remember? ‘With your assistance, I’m going to steal five hundred thousand dollars on the last day of April.’ ”

“Whose assistance?” Meyer asked.

“Ours, I guess,” Carella said.

“Or maybe yours personally,” Hawes said. “You’re the one he was talking to.”

“That’s right, yeah,” Carella said.

“And the pictures have all been addressed to you.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe he figures you’ve got something in common. Maybe all this crap is pegged directly at you.”

“We have got something in common,” Carella said.

“What’s that?”

“We shot each other. And survived.”

“So what do you think?” Hawes said.

“What do you mean?”

“If he’s pegging it at you, what do you think? Have you got any ideas?”

“Not a single one,” Carella said.

“Hoover and Washington,” Meyer said thoughtfully. “What have they got in common?”