Ed Mcbain - The Heckler

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, the real truth was as close to hand as was the apparent 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 a klutz 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 I have 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 to work 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?”

“Fanny who?” 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.”