The Heckler

15.

“WHO ARE YOU?” the man in the doorway said. “What do you want here?”

He was wearing a sailor’s uniform, and he took a step into the room as Hernandez’s hand dropped the photograph and reached for the Police Special holstered at his side. The sailor’s eyes widened.

“What?” he started, and he turned toward the door again.

“Hold it!” Hernandez snapped.

The sailor stopped. Cautiously, he turned to face the .38.

“Wh—what’s the gun for?” he asked.

“Who are you?” Hernandez asked.

“John Smith,” the sailor replied.

Hernandez moved closer to him. The voice had been young, and the man’s body was trim and youthful in the tight-fitting Navy blues. Hernandez blinked, and then realized he was not looking at a reincarnation of the dead man they’d found in Grover Park, but he was damn well looking at a spitting image of him, some forty years younger.

“Where’s my father?” Smith said.

“John Smith your father?”

“Yes. Where is he?”

Hernandez didn’t want to answer that question, not just yet he didn’t. “What made you think you’d find him here?” he asked.

“This is the address he gave me,” the young John Smith said. “Who areyou?”

“When did he give you the address?”

“We’ve been writing to each other. I was down in Guantanamo Bay on a shakedown cruise,” Smith said. His eyes narrowed. “You a cop or something?”

“That’s what I am.”

“I knew it. I can smell fuzz a mile away. Is the old man in some trouble?”

“When did you hear from him last?”

“I don’t know. Beginning of the month, I guess. What’s he done?”

“He hasn’t done anything.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Your father’s dead,” Hernandez said flatly.

Smith backed up against the wall as if Hernandez had hit him. He simply recoiled from Hernandez’s words, inching backward until he collided with the wall, and then he leaned against the wall, and he stared into the room, without seeing Hernandez, simply stared into the room blankly, and said, “How?”

“Murdered,” Hernandez said.

“Who?”

“We don’t know”

The room was silent.

“Who’d want to kill him?” Smith asked the silence.

“Maybe you can tell us,” Hernandez said. “What was his last letter about?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember,” Smith said. He seemed dazed. He kept leaning against the wall, his head tilted back against the plaster, looking up at the ceiling.

“Try,” Hernandez said gently. He holstered the .38 and walked to the bar unit. He poured a stiff hooker of brandy and carried it to Smith. “Here. Drink this.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Take it.”

Smith took the glass, sniffed it, and tried to hand it back. Hernandez forced it to his mouth. Smith drank, almost gagging. He coughed and pushed the glass away from him.

“I’m all right,” he said.

“Sit down.”

“I’m all right.”

“Sit down!”

Smith nodded and went to one of the modern easy chairs, sinking into it. He stretched out his long legs. He did not look at Hernandez. He kept studying the tips of his highly polished shoes.

“The letter,” Hernandez said. “What did it say?”

“I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”

“Did he mention a girl named Lotte Constantine?”

“No. Who’s she?”

“Did he mention anyone called the deaf man?”

“No.” Smith looked up. “Thewhat?”

“Never mind. Whatdid he say in the letter?”

“I don’t know. I think he started off by thanking me for the shoes. Yeah, that’s right.”

“What shoes?”

“I got a pair of shoes for him from ship’s service. I’m on a destroyer, we were just commissioned last month up in Boston. So my father sent me his shoe size and I picked up a pair for him in the ship’s store. They’re good shoes, and I get them for something like nine bucks, he couldn’t come anywhere near that price on the outside.” Smith paused. “There’s nothing dishonest about that.”

“Nobody said there was.”

“Well, there ain’t. I paid money for the shoes. It ain’t as if I was cheating the government. Besides, it’s all one and the same. Before he got this job, his only income came from the government, anyway. So it’s six of one and half a dozen of—”

“What job?” Hernandez asked quickly.

“Huh? Oh, I don’t know. In his last letter, he was telling me about some job he got.”

“What kind of job?”

“As a night watchman.”

Hernandez leaned closer to Smith. “Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t he say where?”

“No.”

“Hemust have said where!”

“He didn’t. He said he was working as a night watchman, but that the job would be finished on May first, and after that he could afford to retire. That’s all he said.”

“What did he mean?”

“I don’t know. My father always had big ideas.” Smith paused. “None of them ever paid off.”

“Afford to retire,” Hernandez said, almost to himself. “On what? On a night watchman’s salary?”

“He only just got the job,” Smith said. “He couldn’t have meant that. It was probably something else. One of his get-rich-quick schemes.”

“But he said he’d only be working until May first, is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“He didn’t give the name of the firm? He didn’t say where he was working?”

“No, I told you.” Smith paused. “Why’d anyone want to kill him? He never hurt a soul in his life.”

And suddenly he began weeping.

THE COSTUME RENTAL SHOPwas in downtown Isola on Detavoner Avenue. There were three dummies in the front window. One was dressed as a clown, another was dressed as a pirate, and the third and last was dressed as a World War I pilot. The window was grimy, and the dummies were dusty, and the costumes looked moth-eaten. The inside of the shop looked grimy, dusty, and moth-eaten, too. The owner of the shop was a jovial man named Douglas McDouglas who’d once wanted to be an actor and who had settled for the next best thing to it. Now, rather than creating fantasies on stage, he helped others to create fantasies by renting the costumes they needed for amateur plays, masquerade parties and the like. He was no competition for the bigger, theater rental shops nor did he wish to be. He was simply a man who was happy doing the kind of work he did.

The deaf man entered the shop, and Douglas McDouglas recognized him at once.

“Hello there, Mr. Smith,” he said. “How’s every little thing?”

“Just fine,” the deaf man answered. “And how are things with you?”

“Couldn’t be better,” McDouglas answered, and he burst into contagious laughter. He was a fat man, and the layers of flesh under his vest rippled when he laughed. He put his hands on his belly as if to control the pulsating flesh, and said. “Are you here for the costumes?”

“I am,” the deaf man said.

“They’re ready,” McDouglas said. “Nice and clean. Just got them back from the cleaners day before yesterday. What kind of a play is this one, Mr. Smith?”

“It’s not a play,” the deaf man said. “It’s a movie.”

“With ice-cream men in it, huh?”

“Yes.”

“And night watchmen, too huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“The two night watchmen uniforms. The one you got ’way back, and the one you came in for near the beginning of the month. Ain’t they for the movie, too?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” the deaf man said.

“Will you be returning them all together?”

“Yes,” he lied. He had no intention of returning any of the costumes.

“What’s the movie called?” McDouglas asked.

The deaf man smiled. “The Great Bank Robbery,” he answered.

McDouglas burst into laughter again. “A comedy?”

“More like a tragedy,” the deaf man said.

“You filming it here in Isola?”

“Yes.”

“Soon?”

“We start shooting tomorrow.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“I think it will be. Would you get me the costumes, please? I don’t want to rush you, but…”

“Sure thing,” McDouglas said, and he went into the back of the shop.

The Great Bank Robbery, the deaf man thought, and he grinned. I wonder what you would say, fat boy, if you really knew. I wonder what you will think when you hear the news over your radio. Will you feel like an accessory before the fact? And will you rush to the police with a description of “John Smith,” the man who rented these costumes? But then, John Smith is dead, isn’t he?

And you don’t know that, Mr. McDouglas, do you?

You don’t know that John Smith, garrulous old John Smith, was shot to death while wearing a costume hired from this very shop, now do you? Garrulous old John Smith who, we discovered, was dropping just a few hints too many about what is going to take place tomorrow. A dangerous man to have about, that John Smith. And he remained talkative even after we’d warned him, and so Goodbye, Mr. Smith, it was lovely having you in our friendly little group, but speech is silver, Mr. Smith, and silence, ahhh, silence is golden, and so we commit you to eternal silence, BAM!

The deaf man grinned.

And then, of course, it was necessary to dispose of the costume. It would not have been necessary were you not such an organized man, Mr. McDouglas. But stamped into the lining of each of your costumes is the name of your shop, and we couldn’t have run the risk of the police stripping down a corpse and then coming here to ask you questions about it, now could we, Mr. McDouglas? No, no, it was far better the way we did it. Strip the uniform from the body, cart it to Grover Park, and leave it there as naked as the jay birds.

Again, the deaf man grinned.

I’m really terribly sorry to report, Mr. McDouglas, that your lovely night watchman’s uniform was burned to ashes in an incinerator. But that was the only way, you see. We shall do the same thing with these costumes. The police may get to you eventually, Mr. McDouglas, but we certainly don’t want them reaching you any sooner than they ordinarily might.

And when they get to you, you will of course describe me.

The deaf man grinned.

But is my hair really blond, Mr. McDouglas? Or is it bleached especially for this jolly little caper? And am Ireally hard of hearing? Or is the button in my ear a further device to confuse identification? Those are the questions the police must ask themselves, Mr. McDouglas.

I somehow feel they’ll have themselves a merry little chase.

“Here we are,” McDouglas said, coming from the back of the shop. “How do you like them?”

The deaf man studied the white uniforms.

“Very nice, Mr. McDouglas,” he said. “How much is that?”

“Pay me when you bring them back,” McDouglas said.

The deaf man smiled graciously. “Thank you.”

“I’ve been in this business twenty-five years,” McDouglas said, “and I’ve never been stuck with a bum check, and I’ve never yet had anybody steal a costume from me. And in all that time, I never once took a deposit and the people always paid for the costumes when they brought them back.” McDouglas rapped his knuckles on the wooden counter. “I’ve never been robbed yet.”

“Well,” the deaf man said, grinning, “there’s always a first time,” and McDouglas burst out laughing. The deaf man continued watching him, grinning.

When his laughter subsided, McDouglas said. “Who’s directing this movie of yours?”

“I am.”

“That must be hard. Directing a movie.”

“Not if you plan everything beforehand,” the deaf man answered.

THAT NIGHT,they put the first part of their plan into action.

At 11:01, a moment after the night watchman at the Pick-Pak Ice Cream Company entered the elevator which would take him to the top floor of the building, Rafe ran a bony hand through his straw-blond hair, adjusted his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and, without uttering a sound, promptly picked the lock on the front gate. Chuck, burly and apelike, pushed the gate back far enough for both men to enter. He rolled it closed again and they both walked to the nearest truck. Chuck got to work on the front license plate and Rafe got to work on the rear one.

At 11:03 they looked up to the top floor of the factory and saw the night watchman’s flashlight illuminating the blank windows like a flitting soul behind a dead man’s eyes.

By 11:05 the transfer of plates had been effectively accomplished, Chuck opened the hood of the truck and climbed in behind the wheel. Rafe found the ignition wires and crossed them. Then he went to the gate and rolled it all the way open. Chuck backed the truck out. Rafe climbed in beside him. He did not bother to close the gate again. The time was 11:07.

It took them fifteen minutes to drive crosstown to the rented store near the new shopping center. Pop and the deaf man were waiting in the back yard when the truck pulled in. The deaf man was wearing dark-grey slacks and a gray sports jacket. His black loafers were highly polished. They glowed even in the dim light from the street lamp.

Pop was wearing the uniform of a night watchman, the second uniform rented by the deaf man in McDouglas’s shop.

The time was 11:23.

“Everything go all right?” the deaf man asked.

“Fine,” Chuck said.

“Then let’s get the signs on. Pop, you can take up your post now.”

The old man walked out to the sidewalk near the front of the shop. The other men went into the store and came out carrying a drill and a bit, an extension cord, a flashlight, two huge metal signs reading “Chelsea Pops” and a box of nuts and bolts. Chuck began drilling holes into the side of the truck. Rafe and the deaf man began fastening on the first sign as soon as Chuck was finished.

The time was 11:34.

At 11:45, the patrolman appeared. His name was Dick Genero, and he ambled along the sidewalk nonchalantly, not expecting trouble and not looking for it. He could see a light flashing behind the store rented by that ice cream company, but the truck was effectively screened from the street by the building itself. On the sidewalk, he saw a man in uniform. At first, he thought it was another cop then he realized it was only a night watchman.

“Hello,” he said to the man.

“Hello,” Pop replied.

“Nice night, huh?” Genero asked.

“Beautiful.”

Genero glanced toward the light in the back yard. “Working back there?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Pop replied. “The ice-cream people.”

“That’s what I figured,” Genero said. “Couldn’t be the shopping-center people. They’re all finished with their construction, aren’t they?”

“Sure,” Pop said.

“You a new man?”

Pop hesitated. “How do you mean?”

“Used to be another fellow here,” Genero said. “When they were first building the center.”

“Oh, yeah,” Pop said.

“What was his name?” Genero asked.

For a moment, Pop felt as if he’d walked into a trap. He did not know the name of the man who’d preceded him. He wondered now if this cop knew the name and was testing him, or if he was just asking a simple question to make conversation.

“Freddie, wasn’t it?” Pop said.

“I forget,” Genero replied. He glanced over at the center. “They sure put these things up fast, don’t they?”

“They sure do,” Pop answered, relieved. He did not look toward the back yard. He did not want this stupid cop to think anything unusual was happening back there.

“The supermarket opened yesterday,” Genero said, “and the drugstore, too. Bank’s moving in tomorrow afternoon, be ready for business on the first. It’s amazing the way they work things nowadays.”

“It sure is,” Pop said.

“A bank is all I need on my beat,” Genero said. “Another headache to worry about.” He studied Pop for a moment, and then asked, “You going to be here steady?”

“No,” Pop answered. “I’m just on temporary.”

“Until all the stores are in, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Too bad,” Genero said, grinning. “You’da made my job easier.”

The light behind the ice-cream store went out suddenly. Genero looked toward the back yard.

“Guess they’re finished,” he said.

“I wishI was,” Pop answered. “I’ll be here all night long.”

Genero chuckled. “Well, keep an eye on the bank for me, will you?” he said. He clapped the old man on the shoulder. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Whistling, he walked up the street past the ice-cream store, turned the corner, and moved out of sight.

The time was 12:00 midnight.

The truck behind the store now belonged to Chelsea Pops, Inc.

The three men who’d fastened the new signs into place went back into the store, and down into the basement, and then into the tunnel they’d dug across the back yard.

The tunnel was no makeshift job. They had, after all, been working on it for a very long time. It was high and wide, and shored up with thick wooden beams which braced the ceiling and the walls. It had been necessary to make a sturdy tunnel because men and equipment had been working aboveground all the while the tunnel was being dug. The deaf man had been certain they were deep enough to avoid any cave-ins, but he’d made the tunnel exceptionally strong anyway.

“I don’t want anyone dropping in on us,” he had punned intentionally, and then grinned with the other men and got back to work.

The construction work aboveground, the legitimate work that went into the building of the shopping center, had really been an excellent cover for the daylight digging of the tunnel. With all that noise and confusion on the surface, no one even once imagined that some of the noise was coming frombelow the ground. During the night, of course, the men had to exercise a little more caution. But even then, they’d been protected by their phony night watchman.

The interesting part of the job, the deaf man thought, was that their construction of the tunnel had kept pace with the legitimate construction of the bank. The construction aboveground was open to all viewers. Painstakingly, the deaf man had watched while the vault was being built, had watched while the all-important wiring box for the alarm system had been imbedded in the concrete floor of the vault and then covered over with another three-foot layer of concrete. The alarm, he knew, would be of the very latest variety. But he also knew there wasn’t an alarm system in the world which Rafe could not render useless provided he could get at the wiring box.

The men had proceeded to get at the wiring box. As the shell of the bank took form and shape around the impregnable vault, the tunnel drove relentlessly across the back yard and then under the vault itself, and finally into the concrete until the underside of the vault was exposed. A web of steel had been crisscrossed into the vault floor between layers of concrete. The steel was almost impregnable, the rods constructed of laminated layers of metal, the grain of one layer running contrary to the grain of the next. A common hack saw would have broken on those laminated steel rods in the first thirty seconds of sawing. And the crisscrossing web made the task of forcible entry even more difficult since it limited the work space. Set an inch apart from each other, crossed like a fisherman’s net, each laminated rod of steel became a separate challenge defying entry. The steel mat was like an army of die-hard virgins opposing an undernourished rapist. And beyond the mat, embedded in the second layer of concrete, was the wiring box for the alarm system. Assuredly, the vault was almost impregnable.

Well, almost is not quite.

The men had a long time to work. They used acid on the steel, drop by drop, eating away each separate rod, day by day, working slowly and surely, keeping pace with the shell of the bank as it grew higher over their heads. By the twenty-sixth of April they had cut a hole with a three-foot diameter into the mat. They had then proceeded to chip away at the concrete until they reached the wiring box. Rafe had unscrewed the bottom of the box and studied the system carefully. As he’d suspected, the system was the most modern kind, a combination of the open- and closed-circuit systems.

In an open-circuit alarm system, the cheapest kind, the alarm sounds when the current is closed. The closed-circuit system operates on a different electrical principle. There is always a weak current running through the wiring and if the wires are cut, the alarm will sound when that current is broken.

The combination system works both ways. The alarm will sound if the current is broken, and the alarm will also sound when contact is established.

Anyone with a pair of shears can knock out the open-circuit system. All he has to do is cut the wires. The closed-contact system is a little more difficult to silence because it requires a cross-contacting of the wires. Rafe knew how to knock out both systems, and he also knew how to take care of the combination system—but that would have to wait until the evening of the thirtieth. It was the deaf man’s contention that the alarm system would be tested when the money was put into the new vault. And when it was tested, he wanted it to sound off loud and clear. So the cover was screwed back onto the wiring box—the box was left exactly the way it had been found—and the men ignored it for now, hacking away at the concrete floor until they were some four inches from the inside of the vault. Four inches of concrete would hold anyone standing on it, the deaf man figured. But at the same time, four inches of concrete could be eliminated in ten minutes with the use of a power drill.

The belly of the vault was open.

When the alarm was set on the day the bank opened, no one in the world would be able to tell that the vault, for all practical purposes, had already been broken into. The belly of the vault was open.

And so was its mouth. And its mouth was waiting for the more than two million dollars which would be transferred from the Mercantile Trust Company under Dave Raskin’s loft to the new bank at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.

Tonight as the men chipped away at the concrete floor, the deaf man grinned securely. Pop was outside and waiting to turn away any curious eyes. Authority loved other authority, and a night watchman, in the eyes of the police, somehow became an automatic honorary member of the force.

“Let’s play some poker later,” the deaf man said, almost cheerfully, secure in the knowledge that not a single living soul knew they were under the ground looking up at the ripped-out guts of an impregnable bank vault. Not a damn living soul can guess where we are at this moment, he thought, and he clapped Chuck on the shoulder in a sudden gesture of camaraderie.

He was wrong.

Therewas a living soul who could have made a pretty good guess as to where they were at that moment.

But he was lying flat on his back in a hospital room, and he was deep in coma.

His name was Steve Carella.