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

“Before.”

“Went up there on crutches, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Did you drive up?”

“A friend drove me.”

“Who?”

“The girl who poses for me.” He made a vague gesture at the pieces of sculpture surrounding them.

“What’s wrong with the leg, anyway?” Carella asked.

“I had an accident.”

“Is it broken?”

“No. I sprained the ankle.”

“Those can be worse than a break, sometimes.”

“Yeah, that’s what the doctor said.”

“Who’s the doctor?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.”

“Well,” Elliot said, “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“You’re right,” Carella said, “it isn’t. Would you mind looking at this picture?”

“I mean,” Elliot said, gathering steam, “I’ve given you a lot of time as it is. I was working when you came in. I don’t like being disturbed when I’m...”

“I’m sorry,” Carella said. “If you’ll just look at this picture...”

“I won’t know who he is, anyway,” Elliot said. “I hardly know any of the guys in this neighborhood. Most of my friends are up in Boston.”

“Well, take a look,” Carella said, and handed him the photograph.

“No, I don’t know him,” Elliot said, and handed it back almost at once.

Carella put the photograph into his notebook, turned up the collar of his coat, said, “Thanks,” and went out into the rain. It was coming down in buckets; he was willing to forsake the goddamn May flowers. He began running the instant he hit the street, and did not stop until he reached the open diner on the corner. Inside, he expelled his breath in the exaggerated manner of all people who have run through rain and finally reached shelter, took off his trench coat, hung it up, and sat at the counter. A waitress slouched over and asked him what he wanted. He ordered a cup of coffee and a cheese Danish.

There was a lot that bothered him about Sanford Elliot.

He was bothered by the tattered white tennis sneaker, and he was bothered by the fact that Elliot’s left foot was in bandages — or was it only coincidence that the sneaker they’d found was left-footed? He was bothered by the speedy alibi Elliot had offered for his whereabouts on the night of the murder, and bothered by the thought of a man on crutches taking a long car trip up to Boston, even if he was being driven by someone.

Why hadn’t Elliot been willing to tell him the name of his doctor? And how had Elliot known that the murder victim was a man? Even before Carella showed him the photograph, he had said, “I won’t know who he is, anyway.” He . When up to that time Carella had spoken of the dead man only as “the victim.”

Something else was bothering him.

The waitress put his cup of coffee on the counter, sloshing it into the saucer. He picked up his Danish, bit into it, put it down, lifted the coffee cup, slipped a paper napkin between cup and saucer, drank some coffee, and suddenly knew what was nudging his memory.

He debated going back to the shop.

Elliot had mentioned that he’d been working when Carella came in; the possibility existed that the girl was still with him. He decided instead to wait a while and talk to her alone, without Elliot there to prompt her.

He finished his coffee and Danish, called the squadroom to find out if there had been any messages, and was informed by Meyer that another manila envelope had arrived in the mail. Carella asked him to open it. When Meyer got back on the line, he said, “Well, what is it this time?”

“An airplane,” Meyer said.

“A what?”

“A picture of an airplane.”

“What kind of an airplane?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Meyer said.

It was Cotton Hawes who positively identified the airplane.

“That’s a Zero,” he said, looking at the photostat now pinned to the bulletin board at the end of the row that contained two pictures of J. Edgar Hoover and two pictures of George Washington. Hawes had been Chief Torpedoman aboard a PT boat throughout the war in the Pacific and presumably knew whereof he spoke; Meyer accepted his word without hesitation.

“But why?” he said.

“Who the hell knows? How does a picture of a Japanese fighter plane tie in with Hoover and Washington?”

“Maybe the Japanese are planning an attack on the FBI in Washington,” Meyer said.

“Right,” Hawes said. “Six squadrons of Zekes zooming in low over Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“Pearl Harbor all over again.”

“Beginning of World War III.”

“Must be that,” Meyer said. “What else could it be?”

“And the Deaf Man, realizing we’re the nation’s only hope, is warning us and hoping we’ll sound the clarion.”

“Go sound the clarion, Cotton.”

“You know what I think?” Hawes said.

“Tell me, pray.”

“I think this time he’s putting us on. I don’t think there’s any connection at all between those stats.”

“Then why send them to us?”

“Because he’s a pain in the ass, plain and simple. He snips unrelated pictures out of newspapers, magazines, and books, has them photostated, and then mails them to us, hoping they’ll drive us crazy.”

“What about the threat he made?”

“What about it? Carella’s going to help him steal half a million bucks, huh? Fat chance of that happening.”

“Cotton?” Meyer said.

“Mmm?”

“If this was anybody else we were dealing with here, I would say, ‘Yes, you’re right, he’s a bedbug.’ But this is the Deaf Man. When the Deaf Man says he is going to do something, he does it. I don’t know what connection there is between those stats, but I know there is a connection, and I know he’s hoping we’re smart enough to figure it out.”

“Why?” Hawes said.

“Because once we figure it out, he’ll do something related but unrelated. Cotton...”

“Yes, Meyer?”

“Cotton,” Meyer said, and looked up seriously, and said with great intensity, “Cotton, this man is a diabolical fiend! ”

“Steady now,” Hawes said.

“Cotton, I detest this man. Cotton, I wish I had never heard of this villain in my entire life.”

“Try to get hold of yourself,” Hawes said.

“How can we possibly figure out the associations his maniacal mind has concocted?”

“Look, Meyer, you’re letting this...”

“How can we possibly know what these images mean to him? Hoover, Washington, and a goddamn Jap Zero!” Meyer stabbed his finger at the photostat of the airplane. “Maybe that’s all he’s trying to tell us, Cotton.”

“What do you mean?”

“That so far we’ve got nothing. Zero. A big fat empty circle. Zero, zero, zero.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Hawes asked kindly.

Carella hit four apartment buildings on Porter Street before he found a mailbox listing for Henry Scaffale. He climbed the steps to the third floor, listened outside Apartment 32, heard voices inside but could not distinguish what they were saying. He knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” a man’s voice asked.

“Me,” Carella said. “Detective Carella.”

There was a short silence. Carella waited. He heard someone approaching the door. It opened a crack, and Bob Carmody looked out.

“Yes?” he said. “What do you want?”

“Mary Margaret here?”

“Maybe.”

“I’d like to talk to her.”

“What about?”

“Is she here?”

“Maybe you’d better come back with a warrant,” Bob said, and began closing the door.

Carella immediately wedged his foot into it, and said, “I can do that, Bob, but going all the way downtown isn’t going to sweeten my disposition by the time I get back. What do you say?”