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

The intern on duty in the Emergency Room of Buenavista Hospital was a Japanese named Dr. Yukio Watanabe. He told Carella that business was slow at the moment and that he was free to check through the log; had Carella called an hour ago, he’d have been told to buzz off fast because the place had been thronged with victims of a three-car highway accident.

“You never saw so much blood in your life,” Watanabe said, almost gleefully, Carella thought. “Anyway, what period are you interested in? I’ve got the book right here in front of me.”

“This would have been sometime between the eighth and fifteenth,” Carella said.

“Of this month?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s take a look. What’d you say his name was?”

“Sanford Elliot.”

There was a long silence on the line. Carella waited.

“I’m checking,” Watanabe said. “Sprained ankle, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Nothing so far.”

“Where are you?”

“Through the eleventh,” Watanabe said, and fell silent again.

Carella waited.

“Nothing,” Watanabe said at last. “You sure it was between those dates?”

“Could you check a bit further for me?”

“How far?”

“Through the next week, if you’ve got time.”

“We’ve always got time here until somebody comes in with a broken head,” Watanabe said. “Okay, here we go. Sanford Elliot, right?”

“Right.”

Watanabe was silent. Carella could hear him turning pages.

“Sanford Elliot,” Watanabe said. “Here it is.”

“When did he come in?”

“Monday morning, April nineteenth.”

“What time?”

“Ten past seven. Treated by Dr. Goldstein.” Watanabe paused. “I thought you said it was a sprained ankle.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Not according to this. He was treated for third-degree burns. Foot, ankle, and calf of the left leg.”

“I see,” Carella said.

“Does that help you?”

“It confuses me. But thanks, anyway.”

“No problem,” Watanabe said, and hung up.

Carella stared at the telephone. It was always good to stare at the telephone when you didn’t have any ideas. There was something terribly reassuring about the knowledge that the telephone itself was worthless until a bell started ringing. Carella waited for a bell to start ringing. Instead, Miscolo came in with the morning mail.

The lady was lovely, to be sure, but nobody knew who she was. There was no question about what she was. She was a silent film star. There is a look about silent film stars that immediately identifies their profession and their era, even to people who have never watched any of their films. None of the detectives looking at the lady’s picture were old enough to have seen her films, but they knew immediately what she was, and so they began riffling through their memories, calling up ancient names and trying to associate them with printed photographs they’d seen accompanying articles probably titled “Whatever Happened To?”

“Gloria Swanson?” Hawes asked.

“No, I know what Gloria Swanson looks like,” Meyer said. “This is definitely not Gloria Swanson.”

“Dolores Del Rio?” Hawes said.

“No, Dolores Del Rio was very sexy,” Carella said. “Still is , as a matter of fact. I saw a recent picture of her only last month.”

“What’s the matter with this girl?” Meyer said. “I happen to think this girl is very sexy.”

“Norma Talmadge, do you think?” Hawes said.

“Who’s Norma Talmadge?” Kling asked.

“Get this bottle baby out of here, will you?” Meyer said.

“I mean it, who’s Norma Talmadge?”

“How about Marion Davies?”

“I don’t think so,” Carella said.

“Who’s Marion Davies?” Kling asked, and Meyer shook his head.

“Janet Gaynor?” Hawes said.

“No.”

“Pola Negri?”

“I know who Pola Negri is,” Kling said. “The Vamp.”

“Theda Bara was The Vamp,” Meyer said.

“Oh,” Kling said.

“Dolores Costello?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Mae Murray?”

“No.”

The telephone rang. Hawes picked up the receiver. “87th Squad,” he said, “Detective Hawes.” He listened silently for a moment, and then said, “Hold on, will you? I think you want Carella.” He handed the receiver to him, and said, “It’s the lab. They’ve got a report on your tennis sneaker.”

Through the plate-glass window of Sandy Elliot’s shop, Carella could see him inside with two bikies. He recognized one of them as Yank, the cigar-smoking heavyweight he had spoken to on Tuesday. Yank was wandering around the shop, examining the pieces of sculpture, paying scant attention to Elliot and the second bikie, who was wagging his finger in Elliot’s face like a district attorney in a grade-C flick. Elliot leaned on his crutches and listened solemnly to what was being said, occasionally nodding. At last the second bikie turned away from the counter, tapped Yank on the arm, and started out of the shop. Carella moved swiftly into the adjacent doorway. As the pair passed by, he caught a quick glimpse of Yank’s companion — short, brawny, with a pock-marked face and a sailor’s rolling gait, the name “Ox” lettered on the front of his jacket. As they went off, Carella heard Yank burst into laughter.

He waited several moments, came out of the doorway, and went into Elliot’s shop.

“See you had a couple of art lovers in here,” he said. “Did they buy anything?”

“No.”

“What did they want?”

“What do you want?” Elliot said.

“Some answers,” Carella said.

“I’ve given you all the answers I’ve got.”

“I haven’t given you all the questions yet.”

“Maybe you’d better advise me of my rights first.”

“This is a field investigation, and you haven’t been taken into custody or otherwise detained, so please don’t give me any bullshit about rights. Nobody’s violating your rights. I’ve got a few simple questions, and I want a few simple answers. How about it, Elliot? I’m investigating a homicide here.”

“I don’t know anything about any homicide.”

“Your sneaker was found at the scene of the crime.”

“Who says so?”

“ I say so. And the police lab says so. How did it get there, Elliot?”

“I have no idea. I threw that pair of sneakers out two weeks ago. Somebody must’ve picked one of them out of the trash.”

“When I picked it out of the trash yesterday, you said you’d never seen it before. You can’t have it both ways, Elliot. Anyway, you couldn’t have thrown them out two weeks ago, because I saw you wearing one of them only two days ago. What do you say? You going to play ball, or do you want to take a trip to the station house?”

“For what? You going to charge me with murder?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t think you will,” Elliot said. “I’m not a lawyer, but I know you can’t build a case on a sneaker you found in a goddamn abandoned tenement.”

“How do you know where we found that sneaker?”

“I read about the murder in the papers.”

“How do you know which murder I’m investigating?”

“You showed me a picture, didn’t you? It doesn’t take a mastermind to tie the newspaper story to...”

“Get your hat, Elliot. I’m taking you to the station house.”

“You can’t arrest me,” Elliot said. “Who the hell do you think you’re kidding? You’ve got nothing to base a charge on.”

“Haven’t I?” Carella said. “Try this for size. It’s from the Code of Criminal Procedure. A peace officer may, without a warrant, arrest a person when he has reasonable cause for believing that a felony has been committed, and that the person arrested has committed it ...”