The Heckler

12.

HE SLAMMED THE PHONE DOWN angrily and said, “Raskin again! The heckler sent him thousands of redheads! I’m telling you, Bert, this is driving me nuts. All of a sudden, he’s concentrating on poor Dave. What does he want from the guy? What’s he after?”

Kling, working hard at his desk, looked up and said, “What’s a four-letter word for walking sticks?”

“Huh?”

“The puzzle,” Kling said, tapping the newspaper on his desk.

“Is that all you’ve got to do with your time?”

“What’s a four-letter—”

“There are no four-letter words in my vocabulary.”

“Come on. Walking sticks. A four-letter word.”

“Legs,” Meyer answered. “So what could that crazy nut want from Raskin? Why does he want him out of that loft?”

“You think itcould be?”

“Could be what? What are you talk—”

“Legs.”

“I don’t know. Don’t bother me. Why did he stop calling all the other guys? Twenty-three stores by the last count, and all of a sudden silence except for Raskin. What does he want from him? His money? But who keeps money in a loft? Where people keep money is in—”

Meyer stopped talking. A look of shocked recognition had crossed his face. His eyes had opened wide, and his mouth had dropped open in surprise. The word caught in his throat, refusing to budge.

“What’s a four-letter word that means a slope or acclivity?” Kling asked.

“A bank,” Meyer said breathlessly, pushing the word out of his mouth.

“Yeah, that’s right. Like the bank of a riv—”

“A bank,” Meyer said again, his mouth still hanging open, a dazed and glassy look in his eyes.

“I heard you the—”

“A bank!” he said. “The bank! The bank under the loft! The bank, Bert! The goddammed bank!”

“Huh? What?”

“That’s why he wants Raskin out! He wants to chop through that loft floor and come through the ceiling of the bank vault! That’s what those picks and shovels were for! But they were delivered too early by mistake! He’s going to rob that bank, but he’s got to do it before the thirtieth of April because the bank is moving then!That’s why all the pressure on Raskin! Oh man, how could I have—”

“Yeah, that was a good story,” Kling said, not looking up from his paper.

“Whatwas a good story?” Meyer asked confused.

“The Red-headed League,” Kling said.

Meyer shrugged. “Come on,” he said. “I want to talk to the lieutenant.

He grabbed Kling’s wrist and dragged him across the room. He almost forgot to knock on Byrnes’s door.

THE SQUADROOM WAS EMPTYwhen Carella entered it not five minutes later. He looked around, yelled “Anybody home?” and went to his desk. “Hey, where is everybody?” he yelled again.

The door to Byrnes’s office opened briefly. Meyer’s bald head appeared. “In here, Steve,” he said, and then closed the door again instantly.

Carella took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and frowned again. He had begun frowning a lot lately. He knew exactly why.

Ever since he had learned the dead man’s alias—the patently transparent “John Smith”—he had been going through the files of known criminals in an attempt to locate the man’s real name. He had found nothing even resembling the dead man. It was now the twenty-eighth of April and he seemed no closer to identifying his man—much less solving his case—than he’d been on the day the body was discovered in the park. He supposed that set some sort of record for inept detection but, by Christ, he was really trying, and nothing seemed to jell. He had considered the possibility that the shapely Lotte Constantine had done in the old man herself, and he had assigned Bert Kling to a surveillance of the girl while he himself had tried to get a line on her. From what he could gather, the girl was perfectly clean. She had come to the city from Indiana some four years back. She had held a series of unrelated jobs before landing the job as cigarette girl in the Harem Club two years back. She had never been in trouble with the police. Her employer at the Harem described her as “a lovely, quiet girl.” Her affection for the dead “John Smith” had apparently been very real. Her co-workers at the club informed Kling that since she’d met the man who called himself “Johnny,” she had not dated another man, even though men at the club were constantly asking her. Bert Kling, reporting on the girl’s movements, stated that she generally slept late, went to dancing school on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, dramatics classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and reported for work daily at the Harem at 8:00P.M . where she donned her abbreviated costume and black net stockings, not removing them until three in the morning, at which time she went directly home. Kling had been tailing her since April eighteenth and this was the twenty-eighth. In one of his reports, Bert Kling wrote,“She has a lovely behind, this girl, and I don’t mind tailing her. But Steve, I think she’s clean. I think I’m wasting my time.”

Carella was inclined to agree, but he decided to maintain the surveillance for at least a few more days.

But now, considering the seeming innocence of this girl, considering the fact that she and “John Smith” really did seem to be in love with each other, it occurred to him that the man might possibly have been telling her the truth. In fact, Carella could find no really good reason for assuming the man had lied. And, in thinking about the situation, Carella realized that he had fallen into the trap of accepting the nearest and easiest conclusion without bothering to search for the more elusive but perhaps more rewarding answer. And, as frequently happened in such cases, thereal truth was as close to hand as was theapparent truth. In this case, it was even closer.

John Smith was an obvious alias.

That was the apparent truth.

The girl Lotte Constantine had told Carella that John Smith was retired, and living on his social security checks. Carella pulled the Isola telephone directory to him and looked up “UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT” and, under that, “SOCIAL SECURITY ADMIN.” The small type advised Carella to “See US Govt Health Educ&Welfare Dept of,” so he looked up “HEALTH EDUC & WELFARE DEPT OF” on the same page but slightly to the left, under that he found:

Social Security Admin—

Bur of Old Age & Survivors Ins—

For Info Call The Office Nearest Your

Home—

Isola Dist Offices—

And beneath that were four listings for offices in Isola, none of which were near his home (which happened to be in Riverhead) but one of which was fairly close to the squadroom of the 87th Precinct, from whence he was making the phone call. Carella asked Murchison for an outside line, and he dialed the number. He identified himself, told the switchboard operator what information he was seeking, and was promptly connected to a woman with a kindly voice who said her name was Mary Goodery. Carella could not have invented a better name to have gone with that gentle voice. He told Mary Goodery what he wanted, and Mary Goodery asked him to wait.

When she came back onto the line, she said, “Yes, indeed, we do have records for a Mr. John Smith.”

“You do?” Carella said, amazed because he was certain the thing could not be as simple as all that.

“Yes, sir, we do.”

“This John Smith is how old, please?”

“Just one moment, sir,” Mary Goodery said, and she studied her record card, and then her voice came back to the telephone, “Sixty-six in March. He has been receiving Federal social security benefits for more than a year now.”

“Would you know if he was also working? I mean, in addition to receiving his checks?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. You understand, don’t you, that anyone who earns more than one hundred dollars a month—that’s twelve hundred dollars for the year—is automatically disqualified for social security benefits?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Yes,” Miss Goodery said.

“I see. But you wouldn’t know whether or not he was holding down a job which paid him less than a hundred a month, would you?”

“I have no record of that, sir, no.”

“Thank you, Miss Goodery.”

“Not at all,” she said, and she hung up.

Carella put the receiver back into the cradle and sat staring reflectively through the open window.

“Oh, my God!” he said suddenly, and he pulled the phone to him, got an outside line, and dialed rapidly.

“Social Security Administration,” a voice said.

“Would you get me Miss Goodery, please?” Carella said.

“Just a moment, sir.”

Carella waited, wondering how he’d ever got to be a detective, wondering how it happened that aklutz like him could manage to stay alive in a job which sometimes required quick thinking, wondering how…

“Miss Goodery,” that good woman said.

“This is Detective Carella again,” he admitted. “I forgot to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“Do you—do you have an address listed for John Smith?” Carella said, and he winced at his own stupidity.

“An address? Why, yes, I’m sure we do. If you’ll just wait while I get his folder again.”

“Certainly,” Carella said, and he leaned back to wait.

In a few moments, Mary Goodery came back with the address for an apartment building on Franklin Street.

FANNY GOT HER IDEAthat afternoon at lunch, and she moved on it as soon as she had discussed it with Teddy. “Discussed” is perhaps the wrong word. For, whereas Teddy was perfectly capable of having a discussion, the conversation which took place at the kitchen table that afternoon was not a discussion but a monologue.

The twins had already been fed and put in for their nap. Fanny had made a batch of scrambled eggs and onions for herself and Teddy, and the two women sat at the kitchen table now, eating in silence, the strong aroma of onions and eggs and hot coffee filling the large kitchen. Both women wore slacks, Teddy’s form-fitting and trim over a youthful body, Fanny’s form-fitting over a body which was thick and solid and which had served its mistress well for more than fifty years. Teddy was shoveling a forkful of eggs into her mouth when Fanny said, out of the blue, “Why would they first strip the uniform off him and then throw it into an incinerator?”

Teddy looked up inquisitively.

“I’m talking about Steve’s case,” Fanny said.

Teddy nodded.

“Obviously, that uniform is pretty damned important, wouldn’t you say? Otherwise, why bother to take it off the man? Whoever killed him left his shoes and socks on, isn’t that right? Navy shoes, mind you, but apparently the Navy part didn’t mean a damn or they’d have taken the shoes off of him, too. But they did take the uniform off. That they did. Now why? I’ll tell you why. Because that uniform probably had some kind of a marking on it, something that would have told any interested party something very important about the man who was wearing it. And maybe something about why he was killed. So what kind of a uniform could it be?”

Teddy shrugged and continued eating her eggs.

“Did you ever see a man in his sixties delivering mail, or driving a bus? I never did,” Fanny said. “But Ihave seen men in their sixties working as bank guards, or night watchmen, or elevator operators. And didn’t Steve say this John Smith was on his way towork the night Random met him in the bar? Isn’t that what Steve said? Sure, it is. So why hasn’t Steve thought of it before this? That man was a night watchman, or I’ll eat my hat. And for some reason, that uniform would identify the place where he was a watchman, and whoever killed the man doesn’t want that spot to be identified. Now that’s what I’m betting, Teddy, and I’m going to tell Steve the minute he gets here.” Fanny nodded emphatically. “In fact, I’m going to call and tell him right now.”

She went to the telephone and dialed Frederick 7-8024.

“Eighty-seventh Precinct, Sergeant Murchison.”

“This is Fanny Knowles. May I talk to Steve, please?”

“Fannywho?” Murchison said.

“Fanny Knowles, you dumb Irishman!” Fanny shouted. “Fanny Knowles who lives with the Carellas and who’s only called that run-down station house a hundred times already in the past year and spoken to yourself, you big jerk sitting on your fat butt! Fanny Knowles, now get me Steve Carella, would you please, dearie?”

“One of these days, Fanny…”

“Yes, dearie?” she said sweetly.

“Never mind. I can’t get you Steve because he’s gone out, said he wouldn’t be back until late this afternoon, if at all. Had an apartment on Franklin Street he wanted to check, and said it might take a bit of time.”

“That’s too bad,” Fanny said. “I had an idea for him, about the case he’s working on.”

“Well,” Murchison said with saccharine solicitude, “he’ll just have to struggle along without your assistance, I guess. Was there any other cop you want to offer help to today? We got a whole squadroom of them upstairs.”

“Go to the devil,” Fanny said, and she hung up.

The whole squadroom of cops was reallynone of them at the moment. Carella had gone out to look up the address given him by Mary Goodery, Parker was still on his candy store plant, Hernandez was out interrogating a buglary victim, and Meyer and Kling were in the lieutenant’s office. The squadroom was empty and stone silent. Anyone could have walked up there and marched out with all the typewriters and electric fans.

In Byrnes’s office, Meyer was divulging his sudden brainstorm, his eyes aglow. Byrnes sat behind his desk, his fingers before him in a small cathedral. Kling leaned against the wall and listened skeptically.

“It’sobvious that’s what he’s trying to pull,” Meyer said. “I’m surprised I didn’t see it before this.”

“It’s too obvious,” Kling said dryly.

“What do you mean?” Meyer answered, annoyed. “Don’t start telling me—”

“Let him talk, Meyer,” Byrnes said.

“All I know is that a guy who’s going to rob a bank isn’t going to point a finger at it. He’s not going to say, ‘This is it, fellas, so please be waiting for me when I blast in, okay?’ It’s just too damn obvious.”

“Then why were those shovels sent to the loft?”

“To let usthink he was going to break into that bank,” Kling said. “Aren’t you forgetting something? He’s been calling a bunch ofother stores, too.”

“Restaurants, clothing stores, a tie—”

“So what’s Raskin’s place? The Taj Mahal?” Kling said. “Raskin runs a wholesale dress business. What the hell does that matter? It’s not Raskin’s place he’s calling attention to. It’s the bank downstairs! Okay, how many of those other places are over banks, or next door to them?”

“I never thought of that,” Meyer said. “Where’s that list of stores?”

“On your desk,” Kling said.

Meyer ran out of the room. Kling shook his head and said, “It looks like a smoke screen to me, sir. I may be wrong, but it smells to high heaven. The man couldn’t be that stupid or that egotistical. He’s pointed an obvious finger at Raskin’s loft, right over the bank, and he’s even had some picks and shovels delivered there, supposedly by accident. And the redheads today. It’s just too obvious.”

“What about the redheads?” Meyer asked, coming back into the room with his list. He went directly to the phone, got an outside line and began dialing.

“The A. Conan Doyle story,” Kling said. “‘The Redheaded League.’”

“Stophocking me with your damn mysteries,” Meyer said. “We’re trying—Hello?” he said into the phone. “Mr. Lombardo? James Lombardo? This is Detective Meyer of the Eighty-seventh Squad. Listen, could you please tell me what’s next door to you? What? Oh, a lingerie shop. Well, thank y—What?What’s on the other side? Oh, I see. Thank you, Mr. Lombardo. No, nothing yet. Thank you.” He replaced the phone on its cradle.

“Well?” Byrnes said.

“A lingerie shop on one side of him, and a jewelry shop on the other.”

“Jewelry,” Kling said.

“Yeah.” Meyer looked at his list again. “Let me try another one of these.”

“Sure,” Kling said. “‘The Red-headed League.’ The son of a bitch is referring us to his source.”

“What do you mean, Bert?” Byrnes asked. Meyer, standing alongside him, was dialing again.

“You know the story, don’t you? These men run an ad in a London paper, advertising for redheads to fill a vacancy in the League. The idea is that the League will pay this man I-forget-how-many pounds a week for copying words from the encyclopedia, but the copying job must be done in the League’s offices. Well, this redheaded man applies for the position and gets it, and every day he trots out to the office and copies words.”

“It sounds implausible to me,” Meyer said. Into the phone, he said, “Let me talk to Mr. Chen, please.”

“Not implausible at all,” Kling said. Meyer suddenly began talking again, so he shifted his attention to Byrnes. “The reason they want the redhead out of his shop, you see, is because they’re digging a tunnel to the bank across the way. Finally, when they’re ready to rob the bank, the man loses his job. He contacts Holmes to see if he can’t do something about his being fired, and of course Sherlock figures out exactly what’s going on.”

“How the hell does he do that?” Meyer asked, hanging up. “That was the Chinese restaurant. It’s over an antique shop. Rare jade mostly. I’m gonna call one more place.” Rapidly, he began dialing again.

“So what’s happened here?” Kling asked Byrnes. “This guy called God knows how many stores which are alongside banks and jewelry shops and—”

“We’re not sure onall of them yet,” Meyer said, waiting for someone to pick up the phone on the other end.

“We’re pretty sure,” Kling said. “He calls all these guys and he hopes one of them’ll call the cops, or all of them. He wants them to call the cops. Why? Because there’re twenty-three stores so far, and who knows how many others who didn’t bother to call us. Then he directs attention to Raskin’s loft because he wants us to think he’s going to hitthat bank. And today he takes out an ad forredheads, making sure we don’t miss the significance of the Sherlock Holmes story. He draws a direct parallel. He wants us to tip, wants us to figure out he’s going to rob the bank under Raskin’s loft. Okay, why?”

Into the phone, Meyer said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Goldfarb. Yes, thank you.” He hung up. “The travel agency,” he said. “It’s next door to a bank.”

“Sure,” Kling said. “So you know why he’s doing this?”

“Why?” Byrnes asked.

“Because he’s not going to hit that bank under the loft at all. He’s going to hit one of the other twenty-three. The rest are just his smoke screen.”

“Which one is he gonna hit?” Meyer asked.

Kling shrugged. “That’s the big question, Meyer.”

“What do we do, Pete?”

“What’s today?” Byrnes asked.

“The twenty-eighth.”

“And his deadline is the thirtieth?”

“Yes.”

“That gives us two days. I imagine we can put some men on.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll cover those shops. I’ll have to get help from some of the other squads. One man to a shop. You say there are twenty-three of them?”

“So far.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of men to be throwing out of action,” Byrnes said. He shook his head. “I’d better call Headquarters on this. I’m going to need more help than the squads can give. We can’t put so many detectives out of action.”

“Why not patrolmen?” Kling said.

“They’d never catch him. He’d spot the uniforms.”

“Put them on special duty. Plainclothes. It’s only for two days.”

“That’s a good idea,” Byrnes said. “I’ll talk to Captain Frick.” He reached for the phone. “There’s only one thing that puzzles me,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“If none of these shopowners move—if none of them yield to his threat to get out by the thirtieth—how in hell will he pull his job?”

The men stared at each other blankly.

They had just asked the two-and-a-half-million-dollar question.

And none of them knew the answer.