Эд Макбейн - Let’s Hear It For The Deaf Man

“Fine, thank you,” she said. “I’ve been trying to call you all day long, Mr. Kling, but this is the first break we’ve had. We started at nine this morning, and I didn’t know if you got to work that early.”

“Yes, I was here,” Kling said.

“I guess I should have called then. Anyway, here I am now. And I’ve got to be back in a minute. Do you think you can come down here?”

“Where are you, Miss Blair?”

“Schaeffer Photography at 580 Hall Avenue. The fifth floor.”

“What’s this about?”

“When I was cleaning up the mess in the apartment, I found something that wasn’t mine. I figure the burglar may have dropped it.”

“I’ll be right there,” Kling said. “What was it you found?”

“Well, I’ll show you when you get here,” she said. “I’ve got to run, Mr. Kling.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll...”

But she was gone.

Schaeffer Photography occupied the entire fifth floor of 580 Hall. The receptionist, a pert blonde with a marked German accent, informed Kling that Augusta had said he would be coming, and then directed him to the studio, which was at the end of a long hallway hung with samples of Schaeffer’s work. Judging from the selection, Schaeffer did mostly fashion photography; no avid reader of Vogue , Kling nonetheless recognized the faces of half the models, and searched in vain for a picture of Augusta. Apparently she had been telling the truth when she said she’d been in the business only a short while.

The door to the studio was closed. Kling eased it open, and found himself in an enormous room overhung by a skylight. A platform was at the far end of the room, the wall behind it hung with red backing paper. Four power packs rested on the floor, with cables running to strobe lights on stands, their gray, umbrella-shaped reflectors angled toward the platform. Redheaded Augusta Blair, wearing a red blouse, a short red jumper, red knee socks, and red patent leather pumps, stood before the red backing paper. A young girl in jeans and a Snoopy sweatshirt stood to the right of the platform, her arms folded across her chest. The photographer and his assistant were hunched over a tripod-mounted Polaroid. They took several pictures, strobe lights flashing for a fraction of a second each time they pressed the shutter release, and then, apparently satisfied with the exposure setting, removed the Polaroid from its mount and replaced it with a Nikon. Augusta spotted Kling standing near the door, grinned, and waggled the fingers of her right hand at him. The photographer turned.

“Yes?” he said.

“He’s a friend of mine,” Augusta said.

“Oh, okay,” the photographer said in dismissal. “Make yourself comfortable, keep it quiet. You ready, honey? Where’s David?”

“David!” the assistant called, and a man rushed over from where he’d been standing at a wall phone, partially hidden by a screen over which was draped a pair of purple pantyhose. He went directly to Augusta, combed her hair swiftly, and then stepped off the platform.

“Okay?” the photographer asked.

“Ready,” Augusta said.

“The headline is ‘Red On Red,’ God help us, and the idea—”

“What’s the matter with the headline?” the girl in the Snoopy sweatshirt asked.

“Nothing, Helen, far be it from me to cast aspersions on your magazine. Gussie, the idea is to get this big red feeling, you know what I mean? Everything bursting and screaming and, you know, red as hell, okay? You know what I want?”

“I think so,” Augusta said.

“We want red ,” Helen said.

“What the hell’s this proxar doing on here?” the photographer asked.

“I thought we’d be doing close stuff,” his assistant said.

“No, Eddie, get it off here, will you?”

“Sure,” Eddie said, and began unscrewing the lens.

“David, get that hair off her forehead, will you?”

“Where?”

“Right there, hanging over her eye, don’t you see it there?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Yeah, that’s it, thank you. Eddie, how we doing?”

“You’ve got it.”

“Gussie?”

“Yep.”

“Okay then, here we go, now give me that big red , Gussie, that’s what I want, I want this thing to yell red all over town, that’s the girl, more of that, now tilt the head, that’s good, Gussie, smile now, more teeth, honey, red, red , throw your arms wide, good, good, that’s it, now you’re beginning to feel it, let it bubble up, honey, let it burst out of your fingertips, nice, I like that, give me that with a, that’s it, good, now the other side, the head the other way, no, no, keep the arms out, fine, that’s good, all right now come toward me, no, honey, don’t slink, this isn’t blue, it’s red , you’ve got to explode toward, yes , that’s it, yes, yes , good, now with more hip, Gussie, fine, I like that, I like it, eyes wider, toss the hair, good, honey...”

For the next half hour Kling watched as Augusta exhibited to the camera a wide variety of facial expressions, body positions, and acrobatic contortions, looking nothing less than beautiful in every pose she struck. The only sounds in the huge room were the photographer’s voice and the clicking of his camera. Coaxing, scolding, persuading, approving, suggesting, chiding, cajoling, the voice went on and on, barely audible except to Augusta, while the tiny clicking of the camera accompanied the running patter like a soft-shoe routine. Kling was fascinated. In Augusta’s apartment the other night, he had been overwhelmed by her beauty, but had not suspected her vitality. Reacting to the burglary, she had presented a solemn, dispirited facade, so that her beauty seemed unmarred but essentially lifeless. Now, as Kling watched her bursting with energy and ideas to convey the concept of red, the camera clicking, the photographer circling her and talking to her, she seemed another person entirely, and he wondered suddenly how many faces Augusta Blair owned, and how many of them he would get to know.

“Okay, great, Gussie,” the photographer said, “let’s break for ten minutes. Then we’ll do those sailing outfits, Helen. Eddie, can we get some coffee?”

“Right away.”

Augusta came down off the platform and walked to where Kling was standing at the back of the room. “Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

“I enjoyed it,” Kling said.

“It was kind of fun,” Augusta said. “Most of them aren’t.”

“Which of these do you want her in first, Helen?” the photographer asked.

“The one with the striped top.”

“You do want me to shoot both of them, right?”

“Yes. The two tops . There’s only one pair of pants,” Helen said.

“Okay, both tops, the striped one first. You going to introduce me to your friend, Gussie?” he said, and walked to where Kling and Augusta were standing.

“Rick Schaeffer,” she said, “this is Detective Kling. I’m sorry, I don’t know your first name.”

“Bert,” he said.

“Nice to meet you,” Schaeffer said, and extended his hand. The men shook hands briefly, and Schaeffer said, “Is this about the burglary?”

“Yes,” Kling said.

“Well, look, I won’t take up your time,” Schaeffer said. “Gussie, honey, we’ll be shooting the striped top first.”

“Okay.”

“I want to go as soon as we change the no-seam.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Right. Nice meeting you, Bert.”

He walked off briskly toward where two men were carrying a roll of blue backing paper to the platform.

“What did you find in the apartment?” Kling asked.

“I’ve got it in my bag,” Augusta said. She began walking toward a bench on the side of the room, Kling following. “Listen, I must apologize for the rush act, but they’re paying me twenty-five dollars an hour, and they don’t like me sitting around.”