Ed Mcbain - The Heckler

“Just a minute,” the deaf man said. “Look.”

Rafe followed his pointing hand. The sky was ablaze with color. The buildings to the south were blacked out, but the sky behind them was an angry swirl of red, orange and yellow. The flames consumed the entire sky, the very night itself. Police and fire sirens wailed in the distance to the south; now and then an explosion touched off by the roaring fire punctuated the keen of the sirens and the whisper of rain against the pavements.

The deaf man smiled, and Rafe put the truck in motion.

“What time is it?” Rafe asked.

“Five-fifty.”

“So we missed the five-forty-five boat.”

“That’s right. And we’ve got fifteen minutes to make the six-oh-five. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble.”

“I hope not,” Rafe said.

“Do you know how much money we have in the ice box?” the deaf man asked, grinning.

“How much?”

“More than two million dollars.” The deaf man paused. “That’s a lot of money, Rafe, wouldn’t you say so?”

“I would say so,” Rafe answered, preoccupied. He was watching the road and the traffic signals. They had come eight blocks and there had been no sign of a policeman. The streets looked eerie somehow. Cops were a familiar part of the landscape, but every damn cop in the precinct was probably over on the south side. Rafe had to hand it to the deaf man. Still, he didn’t want to pass any lights, and he didn’t want to exceed the speed limit. And, too, the streets were slippery. He’d hate like hell to crash into a lamppost with all that money in the ice box.

“What time is it?” he asked the deaf man.

“Five-fifty-six.”

Rafe kept his foot steady on the accelerator. He signaled every time they made a turn. He panicked once when he heard a siren behind them, but the squad car raced past on his left, intent on the more important matters at hand.

“They all seem to be going someplace,” the deaf man said, grinning securely.

“Yeah,” Rafe said. His heart was beating wildly in his chest. He would not have admitted it to anyone, but he was terrified. All that money. Suppose something went wrong? All that money.

“What time is it?” he asked, as he made the turn into the parking lot at the ferry slip.

“Six-oh-one,” the deaf man said.

“Where’s the boat?” Rafe asked, looking out over the river.

“It’ll be here,” the deaf man said. He was feeling rather good. His plan had taken into account the probability that some cops would be encountered on the drive from the bank to the ferry slip. Well, they had come within kissing distance of a squad car, and the car had gone merrily along its way, headed for the fire-stricken area. The incendiaries had worked beautifully. Perhaps he could talk the men into voting Pop a bonus. Perhaps…

“Where’s the damn boat?” Rafe said impatiently.

“Give it time. It’ll be here.”

“You sure there is a six-oh-five?”

“I’m sure.”

“Let me see that schedule,” Rafe said. The deaf man reached into his pocket and handed him the folder. Rafe glanced at it quickly.

“Holy Jesus!” he said.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s not running,” Rafe said. “There’s a little notation beside it, a letter E, and that letter means it only runs on May thirtieth, July fourth and—”

“You’re reading it wrong,” the deaf man said calmly. “That letter E is alongside the seven-fifteen boat. There are no symbols beside the six-oh-five. I know that schedule by heart, Rafe.”

Rafe studied the schedule again. Abashed, he muttered a small, “Oh,” and then looked out over the river again. “Then where the hell is it?”

“It’ll be here,” the deaf man assured him.

“What time is it?”

“Six-oh-four.”

IN THE RENTED HOUSEin Majesta, Chuck lighted a cigarette and leaned closer to the radio.

“There’s nothing on so far,” he said. “They don’t know what the hell’s happening.” He paused. “I guess they got away.”

“Suppose they didn’t?” Pop said.

“What do you mean?”

“What do we do? If they got picked up?”

“We’ll hear about it on the radio. Everybody’s just dying for an explanation. They’ll flash it the minute they know. And we’ll beat it.”

“Suppose they tell the cops where we are?”

“They won’t get caught,” Chuck said.

“Suppose. And suppose they tell?”

“They wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t they?”

“Shut up,” Chuck said. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “No, they wouldn’t.”

THE PATROLMAN CAME OUTof the waiting room, looked past the ice-cream truck and over the river, sucked the good drizzly air of April into his lungs, put his hands on his hips, and studied the cherry-red glow in the sky to the south. He did not realize he was an instrument of probability. He was one of those cops who, either through accident or design, had been left on his post rather than pulled southward to help in the emergency. He knew there was a big fire on the River Dix, but his beat was the thirty waterfront blocks on the River Harb, starting with the ferry waiting room and working east to the water tower on North Forty-first. He had no concept of the vastness of what was happening to the south, and he had no idea whatever that the ice-cream truck standing not ten feet away from him carried two and a half million dollars, more or less, in its ice box.

He was just a lousy patrolman who had come on duty at 3:45P.M. and who would go off duty at 11:45P.M., and he wasn’t anticipating trouble here at the ferry slip connecting Isola to the sleepy section called Majesta. He stood with his hands on his hips for a moment longer, studying the sky. Then he casually strolled toward the ice-cream truck.

“Relax,” the deaf man said.

“He’s coming over!”

“Relax!”

“Hi,” the patrolman said.

“Hello,” the deaf man answered pleasantly.

“I’d like an ice-cream pop,” the patrolman said.

THEY HAD MANAGEDto control the fire at the stadium, and Lieutenant Byrnes, with the help of three traffic commands, had got the traffic unsnarled and then supervised the loading of the ambulances with the badly burned and trampled victims of the deaf man’s plot. Byrnes had tried, meanwhile, to keep pace with what was happening in his precinct. The reports had filtered in slowly at first, and then had come with increasing suddenness. An incendiary bomb in a paint shop, the fire and explosion touching off a row of apartment houses. A bomb left in a bus on Culver Avenue, the bomb exploding while the bus was at an intersection, bottling traffic in both directions for miles. Scare calls, panic calls, real calls, and in the midst of all the confusion a goddam gang rumble in the housing project on South Tenth, just what he needed; let the little bastards kill themselves.

Now, covered with sweat and grime, threading his way through the fire hoses snaked across the street, hearing the clang of ambulance gongs and the moan of sirens, seeing the red glow in the sky over the River Dix, he crossed the street and headed for a telephone because there was one call he had to make, one thing he had to know.

Hernandez followed him silently and stood outside the phone booth while Byrnes dialed.

“Rhodes Clinic,” the starched voice said.

“This is Lieutenant Byrnes. How’s Carella?”

“Carella, sir?”

“Detective Carella. The policeman who was admitted with the shotgun wou—”

“Oh, yes sir. I’m sorry, sir. There’s been so much confusion here. People being admitted—the fires, you know. Just a moment, sir.”