The Heckler

14.

CARELLA STOOD IN the bedroom with the telephone receiver in one hand, the blueprint on the night table before him, the sound of the turning lock clicking into his mind. He put down the phone at once, turned off the light and moved to the right of the door, his hand going instantly to his service revolver. He flattened himself against the wall, the gun in his right hand, waiting. He heard the front door open, and then close again.

The apartment was silent for a moment.

Then he heard the cushioned sound of footsteps against the rug.

Did I leave that living-room window open?he wondered.

The footsteps hesitated, and then stopped.

Did I leave the desk open?he wondered.

He heard the footsteps again, heard a board squeak in the flooring, and then heard the sound of another door opening. A fine sheen of sweat covered his face now, clung to his chest beneath his shirt. The .38 Police Special was slippery in his fist. He could hear his own heart leaping in his chest with the erratic rhythm of an African bongo. He heard the door closing again, a closet he imagined, and then footsteps once more, and he wonderedDoes he know I’m here? Does he know? DOES HE KNOW? And then he heard a sound which was not familiar to him, a clicking metallic sound, as of metal grating against metal, an unfamiliar sound and yet a sound which was curiously familiar, and then the floor board squeaked again, and the cushioned footsteps came closer to the open arch at the end of the living room, and hesitated, and stopped.

Carella waited.

The footsteps retreated.

He heard another click, and then a twenty-second spell of dead silence; and then music erupted into the apartment, loud and raucous, and Carella instantly knew this man in the apartment was armed and would begin shooting within the next few moments, hoping to use the music as a cover. He did not intend to give his opponent the opportunity of being the one to start the festivities. He hefted the gun in his right hand, sucked in a deep breath, and stepped into the arch.

The man turned from the hi-fi unit alongside the wall.

In a split second, Carella saw the hearing aid in the man’s right ear, and then the shotgun the man was holding, and suddenly it was too late, suddenly the shotgun exploded into sound.

Carella whirled away from the blast. He could hear the whistling pellets as they screamed across the confined space of the apartment, and then he felt them lash into his shoulder like a hundred angry wasps, and he thought onlyOh Jesus, not again! and fired at the tall blond man who was already sprinting across the apartment. His shoulder felt suddenly numb. He tried to lift the hand with the gun and quickly found he couldn’t and just as quickly shifted the gun to his left hand and triggered off another shot, high and wide, as the deaf man raised the shotgun and swung the stock at Carella’s head. A single barrel, Carella thought in the split second before the stock collided with the side of his head, a single barrel, no time to reload, and a sudden flashing explosion of rocketing yellow pain, slam the stock again, suns revolving, a universe slam the stock, Oh Jesus, oh Jesus! and tears sprang into his eyes because the pain was so fierce, the pain of his shoulder and the awful pain of the heavy wooden stock of the shotgun crashing into crashing into—oh God oh mother oh God oh God

WHEN CARELLA WAS CARRIEDto the hospital later that day, the doctors there knew that he was still alive, but most of them were unwilling to venture a guess as to how long he would remain that way. He had lost a lot of blood on the floor of that apartment. He had not been discovered lying there unconscious until some three hours after he’d been repeatedly clobbered with the rather unbending stock of the shotgun. It was the doorman of the building, Joey, who had discovered him at six o’clock that evening. Lieutenant Byrnes, interrogating the doorman in the presence of a police stenographer, got the following information:

BYRNES: What made you go up there, anyway?

JOEY: Well, like I told you, he’d been up there a very long time. And I had already seen Mr. Smith come downstairs again. So I—

BYRNES: Can you describe this Mr. Smith?

JOEY: Sure. He’s around my height, maybe six-one, six-two, and I guess he weighs around a hun’ eighty, a hun’ ninety pounds. He’s got blond hair and blue eyes, and he wears this hearing aid in his right ear. He’s a little deaf. He come downstairs carrying something wrapped in newspaper.

BYRNES: Carrying what?

JOEY: I don’t know. Something long. Maybe a fishing rod or something like that.

BYRNES: Maybe a rifle? Or a shotgun?

JOEY: Maybe. I didn’t see what was under the paper.

BYRNES: What time did he come down?

JOEY: Around three, three-thirty, I guess.

BYRNES: And when did you remember that Detective Carella was still in the apartment?

JOEY: That’s hard to say, exactly. I had gone over to the candy store where there’s this very cute little blonde, she works behind the counter. And I was shooting the breeze with her while I had an egg cream, and then I guess I went back to the building, and I wondered if Car—What’s his name?

BYRNES: Carella.

JOEY: He’s Italian?

BYRNES: Yes.

JOEY: How about that? I’m Italian, too. Apaisan, huh? How about that?

BYRNES: That’s amazing.

JOEY: How about that? So I wondered if he was still up there, and I buzzed the apartment. No answer. Then—I don’t know—I guess I was just curious, I mean, Mr. Smith having come down already and all that, so I hopped in the elevator and went up to the sixth floor and knocked on the door. There was no answer and the door was locked.

BYRNES: What’d you do then?

JOEY: I remembered that Car—What’s his name?

BYRNES: Carella, Carella.

JOEY: Yeah, Carella, how about that? I remembered he’d gone up on the roof, so I figured I’d go take a look up there, which I done. Then, while I was up there, I figured I might as well go down the fire escape and take a peek into 6C, which I also done. And that was when I seen him laying on the floor.

BYRNES: What’d you do?

JOEY: I opened the window, and I went into the apartment. Man, I never seen so much blood in my life. I thought he was dead. I thought the poor bast—Are you taking downeverything I’m saying?

STENO: What?

BYRNES: Yes, he’s taking down everything you say.

JOEY: Then cut out that word, huh? Bastard, I mean. That don’t look nice.

BYRNES: What did you think when you found Carella?

JOEY: I thought he was dead. All that blood. Also, his head looked caved in.

BYRNES: What did you do? (No answer) I said what did you do then?

JOEY: I passed out cold.

As it turned out, not only had Joey passed out cold, but he had later revived and been sick all over the thick living-room rug, and had only then managed to pull himself to a telephone to call the police. The police had got to the apartment ten minutes after Joey had made the call. By this time, the living-room rug had sopped up a goodly amount of Carella’s blood, and he looked dead. Lying there pale and unmoving, he looked dead. The first patrolman to see him almost tagged the body D.O.A. The second patrolman felt for a pulse, found a feeble one, and instantly called in for a meat wagon. The interne who admitted Carella to the Emergency Section of the Rhodes Clinic estimated that he would be dead within the hour. The other doctors refused to commit themselves in this day and age of scientific miracles. Instead, they began pumping plasma into him and treating him for multiple concussion and extreme shock. Somebody in the front office put his name on the critical list, and somebody else called his wife. Fanny Knowles took the call. She said, “Oh, sweet loving mother of Jesus!” Both she and Teddy arrived at the hospital not a half hour later. Lieutenant Byrnes was already there waiting. At 1A.M . on April 29, Lieutenant Byrnes sent both Teddy and Fanny home. Steve Carella was still on the critical list. At 8A.M ., Lieutenant Byrnes called Frankie Hernandez at home.

“Frankie,” he said, “did I wake you?”

“Huh? Wha’? Who’s this?”

“This is me. Pete.”

“Pete who? Oh, oh, OH! Hello, Lieutenant. Whattsa matter? Something wrong?”

“You awake?”

“Is he dead?” Hernandez asked.

“What?”

“Steve. Is he all right?”

“He’s still in coma. They won’t know for a while yet.”

“Oh, man, I was just having a dream,” Hernandez said. “I dreamt he was dead. I dreamt he was laying face down on the sidewalk in a puddle of blood, and I went over to him, crying for him, saying ‘Steve, Steve, Steve’ again and again, and then I rolled him over, and Pete, it wasn’t Steve’s face looking up at me, it was my own. Oh man, that gave me the creeps. I hope he pulls through this.”

“Yeah.”

Both men were silent for several seconds. Then Byrnes said, “You awake?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“I wouldn’t cut in on what’s supposed to be your day off, Frankie. I know you were up all last night…”

“What is it, Pete?”

“I want you to check out the apartment where Steve got it. I wouldn’t ask you ordinarily, Frankie, but I’m in one hell of a bind here. You know, we’ve got these damn stores under surveillance because Meyer and Kling’ve got me convinced this nut’s gonna hit one of them. Well, Captain Frick let me have the patrolmen I needed, but he reserved the right to pull them if he needs them anyplace else. So I had to work out some kind of a system where a team of detectives would be on the prowl ready to relieve any of these cops if something else came up. I couldn’t pull Parker out of the candy store, and I couldn’t get those two men back from Washington where they’re taking that damn FBI course, so I had to pull two men off vacation, and I’ve got these two teams cruising around now, Meyer and Kling, and this other pair, ready to either relieve or assist, whichever is necessary. I’m practically running the squad single-handed, Frankie. Steve’s in the hospital, and I’m going out of my mind worrying about him, that guy is like a son to me, Frankie. I’d check this out myself, believe me, but I got to go down to City Hall this afternoon to make arrangements for that damn ball game tomorrow—of all times the Governor’s got to come down to throw out the ball, and the damn ball park has to be in my precinct, so that’ll mean—I don’t know where I’m gonna get all the men, Frankie. I just don’t know.”

He paused.

There was another long silence.

“His face is all smashed in,” Byrnes said at last. “Did you see him, Frankie?”

“I didn’t get a chance to go over there yet, Pete. I had—”

“All smashed in,” Byrnes said.

The silence came back. Byrnes sighed.

“You can see what a bind I’m in. I’ve got to ask you to do me the favor, Frankie.”

“Whatever you say, Pete.”

“Would you check that apartment? The lab’s already been through it, but I want one of my own boys to go over it thoroughly. Will you?”

“Sure. What’s the address?”

“Four fifty-seven Franklin Street.”

“I’ll just have some breakfast and get dressed, Pete. Then I’ll go right over.”

“Thanks. Will you phone in later?”

“I’ll keep in touch.”

“Okay, fine. Frankie, you know, you’ve been on the case with Steve, you know what his thinking on it has been, so I thought…”

“I don’t mind at all, Pete.”

“Good. Call me later.”

“Right,” Hernandez said, and he hung up.

Hernandez did not, in truth, mind being called on his day off. To begin with, he knew that all policemen are on duty twenty-four hours a day every day of the year, and he further knew that Lieutenant Byrnes knew this. And knowing this, Byrnes did not have to ask Hernandez for a favor, all he had to do was say, “Get in here, I need you.” But hehad asked Hernandez if he’d mind, he had put it to him as a matter of choice, and Hernandez appreciated this immensely. Too, he had never heard the lieutenant sound quite so upset in all the time he’d been working for him. He had seen Peter Byrnes on the edge of total collapse, after three days without sleep, the man’s eyes shot with red, weariness in his mouth and his posture and his hands. He had heard his voice rapping out orders hoarsely, had seen his fingers trembling as he lifted a cup of coffee, had indeed known him at times when panic seemed but a hairsbreadth away. But he had never heard Byrnes the way he sounded this morning. Never.

There was something of weariness in his voice, yes, and something of panic, yes, and something of despair, but these elements did not combine to form the whole; the whole had been something else again, the whole had been something frightening which transmitted itself across the copper telephone wires and burst from the receiver on the other end with a bone-chilling sentience of its own. The whole had been as if—as if Byrnes were staring into the eyes of death, as if Byrnes were choking on the stench of death in his nostrils, as if Byrnes had a foreknowledge of what would happen to Steve Carella, a foreknowledge so strong that it leaped telephone wires and made the blood run suddenly cold.

In his tenement flat, with the sounds of the city coming alive outside his window, Frankie Hernandez suddenly felt the presence of death. He shuddered and went quickly into the bathroom to shower and shave.

JOEY, THE DOORMAN,recognized him as a policeman instantly.

“You come about mypaisan, huh?” Joey asked.

“Who’s yourpaisan?” Hernandez asked.

“Carella. The cop who got his block knocked off upstairs.”

“Yes, that’s who I’ve come about.”

“Hey, you ain’t Italian, are you?” Joey asked.

“No.”

“What are you, Spanish or something?”

“Puerto Rican,” Hernandez answered, and he was instantly ready to take offense. His eyes met Joey’s, searched them quickly and thoroughly. No, there would be no insult.

“You want to go up to the apartment? Hey, I don’t even know your name,” Joey said.

“Detective Hernandez.”

“That’s a pretty common Spanish name, ain’t it?”

“Pretty common,” Hernandez said as they went into the building.

“The reason I know is I studied Spanish in high school,” Joey said. “That was my language there.Habla usted Español?”

“Sí un poquito,”Hernandez answered, lying. He did not speak Spanish only slightly. He spoke it as well as any native of Madrid—no, that was false. In Madrid, the Spanish were pure, and ac or az before certain vowels took ath sound. In Puerto Rico, the sound became ans . The word for “five,” for example—spelledcinco in both Spain and Latin America—was pronouncedtheen-koh in Spain andseen-koh in Puerto Rico. But he spoke the language like a native when he wanted to. He did not very often want to.

“I know Spanish proverbs.” Joey, said. “You know any Spanish proverbs?”

“Some,” Hernandez said as they walked toward the elevator.

“Three years of high-school Spanish, and all I can do is quote proverbs,” Joey said. “What a drag, huh? Here, listen.No hay rosas sin espinas. How about that one? You know what that one means?”

“Yes,” Hernandez said, grinning.

“Sure. There ain’t no roses without thorns. Here’s another one, a very famous one.No se ganó Zamora en una hora . Is that right?”

“That’s right,” Hernandez said. “Your pronunciation is very good.”

“Rome was not built in a day,” Joey translated. “Man, that one kills me. I’ll bet I know more Spanish proverbs than half the people in Spain. Here’s the elevators. So the guy who said he was John Smith wasn’t John Smith, is that right?”

“That’s right,” Hernandez said.

“So now the only real question is which of those two guys was John Smith? The blond guy with the hearing aid? Or the old duffer who used to come to the apartment and whose picture your lieutenant showed to me. That’s the question, huh?”

“The old manwas John Smith,” Hernandez said. “And whatever the blond’s name is, he’s wanted for criminal assault.”

“Or maybe murder if mypaisan dies, huh?”

Hernandez did not answer.

“God forbid,” Joey said quickly. “Come on, I’ll take you up. The door’s open. There was guys here all last night taking pictures and sprinkling powder all over the joint. When they cleared out, they left the door open. You think Carella’s gonna be all right?”

“I hope so.”

“Me, too,” Joey said, and he sighed and set the elevator in motion.

“How often was the old man here?” Hernandez asked.

“That’s hard to say. You’d see him on and off, you know.”

“Was he a hardy man?”

“Healthy, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, he seemed pretty healthy to me,” Joey said. “Here’s the sixth floor.”

They stepped out into the corridor.

“But the apartment was rented by the blond one, is that right? The deaf man? He was the one who called himself John Smith?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Why the hell would he use the old man’s name unless he was hiding from something? And even then…” Hernandez shook his head and walked down the hall to apartment 6C.

“You gonna need me?” Joey asked.

“No, go on.”

“’Cause our elevator operator is sick, you know. So I got to run the elevator and also take care of the door. So if you don’t mind…”

“No, go right ahead,” Hernandez answered. He went into the apartment, impressed at once by the expensive modern furniture, overwhelmed at once by the total absence of sound, the silence that pervades every empty apartment like an old couple living in a back room. He walked swiftly to the arch between the living room and the bedroom corridor. The rug there was stained with dried blood. Carella’s. Hernandez wet his lips and walked back into the living room. He tabulated the units in the room which would warrant a thorough search: the drop-leaf desk, the hi-fi and liquor cabinet, the bookcases, and—that wasit for the living room.

He took off his jacket and threw it over one of the easy chairs. Then he pulled down his tie, rolled up his sleeves, crossed to the windows and opened them, and began working on the desk. He searched the desk from top to bottom and found nothing worth a second glance.

He shrugged, straightened up, and was walking toward the hi-fi unit when he noticed that something had fallen from his inside jacket pocket when he’d tossed it over the back of the chair. He walked across the room and stooped at the base of the chair, picking up the photograph encased in lucite, the photo of the dead man who had been identified as John Smith. He scooped his jacket from the back of the chair and was putting the picture into the pocket again when the front door opened suddenly.

Hernandez raised his eyes.

There, standing in the doorway, was the man whose picture he’d been looking at a moment before, the dead man named John Smith.