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

“On the basis of a sneaker ?” Elliot said.

“ Though it should afterwards appear ,” Carella continued, “ that no felony has been committed, or, if committed, that the person arrested did not commit it . All right, Elliot, I know a felony was committed on the night of April eighteenth, and I know an article of clothing belonging to you was found at the scene of the crime, and that’s reasonable cause for believing you were there either before or after it happened. Either way, I think I’ve got justifiable cause for arrest. Would you like to tell me how you sprained your ankle? Or is it a torn Achilles’ tendon?”

“It’s a sprained ankle.”

“Want to tell me about it? Or shall we save it for the squadroom?”

“I would not like to tell you anything. And if you take me to the squadroom, you’ll be forced to advise me of my rights. Once you do that, I’ll refuse to answer any questions, and...”

“We’ll worry about that when we get there.”

“You’re wasting your time, Carella, and you know it.”

The men stared at each other. There was a faintly superior smirk on Elliot’s mouth, a confident challenge in his eyes. Against his better judgment, Carella decided to pick up the gauntlet.

“Your ankle isn’t sprained,” he said. “Buenavista Hospital reports having treated you for third-degree burns on April nineteenth, the morning after the murder.”

“I’ve never been to Buenavista Hospital in my life.”

“Then someone’s been using your name around town, Elliot.”

“Maybe so.”

“You want to unwrap that bandage and show me your foot?”

“No.”

“Am I going to need another warrant?”

“Yes. Why don’t you just go get yourself one?”

“There were remains of a small fire in one of the rooms...”

“Go get your warrant. I think we’re finished talking.”

“Is that where you had your accident, Elliot? Is that where you burned your foot?”

“I’ve got nothing more to say to you.”

“Okay, have it your way,” Carella said angrily, and opened the front door. “I’ll be back.”

He slammed the door shut behind him and went out onto the street, no closer to a solution than he had been when he walked into the shop. There were three incontrovertible facts that added up to evidence of a sort, but unfortunately not enough evidence for an arrest. The sneaker found in that tenement was unquestionably Elliot’s. It had been found in the corner of a room that contained the dead ashes of a recent fire. And Elliot had been treated for burns on April 19, the morning after the murder. Carella had hoped Elliot might be intimidated by these three seemingly related facts, and then either volunteer a confession or blurt out something that would move the investigation onto firmer ground. But Elliot had called the bluff. A charge on the basis of the existing evidence alone would be kicked out of court in three minutes flat. Moreover, Elliot’s rights were securely protected; if arrested, he would have to be warned against saying anything self-incriminating, and would undoubtedly refuse to answer any questions without an attorney present. Once a lawyer entered the squadroom, he would most certainly advise Elliot to remain silent, which would take them right back to where they’d started: a charge of murder based on evidence that indicated only possible presence at the scene of a crime.

Carella walked rapidly toward his parked car.

He was certain of only one thing: if Sanford Elliot really knew nothing at all about what had happened on the fifth floor of 433 North Harrison on the night of April 18, he would be answering any and all questions willingly and honestly. But he was not answering willingly, and he was lying whenever he did answer. Which brought Carella to the little lady with the long brown hair, the frightened brown eyes, and the face of an angel — Mary Margaret Ryan, as sweet a young lass as had ever crossed herself in the anonymous darkness of a confessional. Mary Margaret Ryan, bless her soul, had told Carella that she and Elliot had come down from Boston late Monday night. But Elliot’s foot had been treated at Buenavista on Monday morning . Which meant that Mary Margaret perhaps had something to tell her priest the next time she saw him. In the meantime, seeing as how Mary Margaret was a frightened, slender little wisp of a thing, Carella decided it was worth trying to frighten her a hell of a lot more.

He slammed the door of his car, stuck the key into the ignition switch, and started the engine.

The trouble was, Kling could not stop staring at her.

He had picked up Augusta at six o’clock sharp, and whereas she had warned him about the way she might look after a full day’s shooting, she looked nothing less than radiant. Red hair still a bit damp (she confessed to having caught a quick shower in Jerry Bloom’s own executive washroom), she came into the reception room to meet Kling, extended her hand to him, and then offered her cheek for a kiss he only belatedly realized was expected. Her cheek was cool and smooth, there was not a trace of makeup on her face except for the pale green shadow on her eyelids, the brownish liner just above her lashes. Her hair was brushed straight back from her forehead, falling to her shoulders without a part. She was wearing blue jeans, sandals, and a ribbed jersey top without a bra. A blue leather bag was slung over her right shoulder, but she shifted it immediately to the shoulder opposite, looped her right hand through his arm, and said, “Were you waiting long?”

“No, I just got here.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No. What do you mean?”

“The way you’re looking at me.”

“No. No, no, everything’s fine.”

But he could not stop staring at her. The film they went to see was Bullitt , which Kling had seen the first time it played the circuit, but which Augusta was intent on seeing in the presence of a real cop. Kling hesitated to tell her that, real cop or not, the first time he’d seen Bullitt he hadn’t for a moment known what the hell was going on. He had come out of the theater grateful that he hadn’t been the cop assigned to the case, partially because he wouldn’t have known where to begin unraveling it, and partially because fast car rides made him dizzy. He didn’t know what the movie was about this time either, but not because of any devious motivation or complicated plot twists. The simple fact was that he didn’t watch the picture; he watched Augusta instead. It was dark when they came out into the street. They walked in silence for several moments, and then Augusta said, “Listen, I think we’d better get something straight right away.”

“What’s that?” he said, afraid she would tell him she was married, or engaged, or living with a high-priced photographer.

“I know I’m beautiful,” she said.

“What?” he said.

“Bert,” she said, “I’m a model, and I get paid for being beautiful. It makes me very nervous to have you staring at me all the time.”

“Okay, I won’t...”

“No, please let me finish...”

“I thought you were finished.”

“No. I want to get this settled.”

“It’s settled,” he said. “Now we both know you’re beautiful.” He hesitated just an instant, and then added, “And modest besides.”

“Oh, boy,” she said. “I’m trying to relate as a goddamn person, and you’re...”

“I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable,” he said. “But the truth is...”

“Yes, what’s the truth?” Augusta said. “Let’s at least start with the truth, okay?”