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

“I understand,” Kling said.

Augusta dug into her bag and pulled out a ballpoint pen, which she handed to Kling and which, despite the fact that her fingerprints were already all over it, he accepted on a tented handkerchief. The top half of the pen was made of metal, brass-plated to resemble gold. The bottom half of the pen was made of black plastic. The pen was obviously a give-away item. Stamped onto the plastic in white letters were the words:

Sulzbacher Realty

1142 Ashmead Avenue

Calm’s Point

“You’re sure it isn’t yours?” Kling asked.

“Positive. Will it help you?”

“It’s a start.”

“Good.” She glanced over her shoulder toward where the men were rolling down the blue seamless. “What time is it, Bert?”

Kling looked at his watch. “Almost two. What do I call you? Augusta or Gussie?”

“Depends on what we’re doing,” she said, and smiled.

“What are we doing tonight?” Kling asked immediately.

“I’m busy,” Augusta said.

“How about tomorrow?”

She looked at him for a moment, seemed to make a swift decision, and then said, “Let me check my book.” She reached into her bag for an appointment calendar, opened it, said, “What’s tomorrow, Thursday?” and without waiting for his answer, flipped open to the page marked Thursday, April 22. “No, not tomorrow, either,” she said, and Kling figured he had got the message loud and clear. “I’m free Saturday night, though,” she said, surprising him. “How’s Saturday?”

“Saturday’s fine,” he said quickly. “Dinner?”

“I’d love to.”

“And maybe a movie later.”

“Why don’t we do it the other way around? If you won’t mind how I look, you can pick me up at the studio...”

“Fine...”

“Around six, six-fifteen, and we can catch an early movie, and then maybe grab a hamburger or something later on. What time do you quit work?”

“I’ll certainly be free by six.”

“Okay, the photographer’s name is Jerry Bloom, and he’s at 1204 Concord. The second floor, I think. Aren’t you going to write it down?”

“Jerry Bloom,” Kling said, “1204 Concord, the second floor, at six o’clock.”

“Gussie, let’s go!” Schaeffer shouted.

“Saturday,” she said and, to Kling’s vast amazement, touched her fingers to her lips, blew him an unmistakable kiss, grinned, and walked swiftly to where Rick Schaeffer was waiting.

Kling blinked.

Ashmead Avenue was in the shadow of the elevated structure in downtown Calm’s Point, not far from the bustling business section and the Academy of Music. When Kling was seventeen years old he had dated a girl from Calm’s Point, and had sworn never again. The date had been for eight-thirty, and he had left Riverhead at seven sharp, taking the train on Allen and riding for an hour and a half before getting off at Kingston Parkway as she had instructed him. He had then proceeded to lose himself in the labyrinthine streets with their alien names, arriving at her house at 10 P.M., to be told by her mother that she had gone to a movie with a girlfriend. He had asked if he should wait, and the girl’s mother had looked at him as though he were retarded and had said simply, “I would not suggest it.” Rarely did he come to Calm’s Point anymore, unless he was called there on an investigation.

Sulzbacher Realty was in a two-story brick building sandwiched between a supermarket and a liquor store. The entrance door was between two plate-glass windows adorned with photographs of houses in and around the area. Through the glass Kling could see a pair of desks. A man sat at one of them studying an open book before him. He looked up as Kling came into the office.

“Good afternoon,” he said, “may I help you?”

He was wearing a brown business suit, a white shirt, and a striped tie. A local Chamber of Commerce pin was in his lapel, and the tops of several cigars protruded from the breast pocket of his jacket.

“I hope so,” Kling said. He took out his wallet, and opened it. “I’m Detective Kling,” he said, “87th Squad. I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Have a seat,” the man answered, and indicated the wooden chair alongside his desk. “I’m Fred Lipton, be happy to help you any way I can.”

“Mr. Lipton, one of your company pens was found at the scene of a burglary, and we...”

“Company pens?”

“Yes, sir. The name of the company lettered on the barrel.”

“Oh, yes. Those . The ones Nat bought to advertise the business.”

“Nat?”

“Nat Sulzbacher. He owns the company. I’m just a salesman.” Lipton opened the top drawer of his desk, reached into it, opened his hand, and dropped a half-dozen ballpoint pens onto the desk top. “Are these the ones you mean?”

Kling picked one up and looked at it. “Yes,” he said, “a pen similar to these.”

The front door opened, and a tall, dark-haired man entered the room. “Afternoon, Fred,” he said. “Selling lots of houses?”

“Mr. Sulzbacher, this is Detective...”

“Kling.”

“Kling. He’s investigating a burglary.”

“Yeah?” Sulzbacher said, and raised his eyebrows in appreciation.

“They found one of our pens at the scene of the crime.”

“One of ours?” Sulzbacher said. “May I see it, please?”

“I don’t have it with me right now.”

“Then how do I know it’s ours?”

“Our name’s on it,” Lipton said.

“Oh. So what would you like to know, young man?”

“Since the pen was found at the scene of a crime...”

“You don’t think we’re criminals here, do you?”

“No. I was merely wondering...”

“Because if that’s what you think, you’re mistaken. We’re real estate agents here. That’s what we are.”

“No one’s suggesting you or Mr. Lipton burglarized an apartment. All I wanted to know is whether you give these pens to anybody special, or whether...”

“You know how many of these pens I ordered?” Sulzbacher asked.

“How many?”

“Five thousand.”

“Oh,” Kling said.

“You know how many of them we’ve given out in the past six months? At least half that amount. Certainly two thousand, anyway. So you expect us to remember who we gave them to?”

“Were these customers or...?”

“Customers, sure, but also strangers. Somebody comes in, asks about a house, we give him a little pen so he won’t forget the name. There are a lot of real estate agents in Calm’s Point, you know.”

“Mmm,” Kling said.

“I’m sorry,” Sulzbacher said.

“Yeah,” Kling said. “Me too.”

This time, they did not think it was a mistake.

The duplicate photostat arrived in the afternoon mail, and was promptly added to the gallery on the bulletin board, so that the squad now proudly possessed two pictures of J. Edgar Hoover and two pictures of George Washington.

“What do you think he’s driving at?” Hawes asked.

“I don’t know,” Carella said.

“It’s deliberate, that’s for sure,” Meyer said.

“No question.”

The three men stood before the bulletin board, hands on hips, studying the photostats as though they were hanging on the wall of a museum.

“Where do you suppose he got the pictures?” Hawes asked.

“Newspapers, I would guess. Books. Magazines.”

“Any help for us there?”

“I doubt it. Even if we located the source, what good...?”

“Yeah.”

“The important thing is what he’s trying to tell us.”

“What do we know so far?” Meyer asked.

“So far we know he’s going to steal half a million dollars on April thirtieth,” Hawes said.

“No, that’s not it exactly,” Carella said.