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

“With your assistance,” the Deaf Man said, “I’m going to steal five hundred thousand dollars on the last day of April.”

The manila envelope was addressed in typescript to Detective Steven Louis Carella, 87th Squad, 41 Grover Avenue. There was no return address on the envelope. It had been postmarked in Isola the day before. The picture was inside the envelope, neatly sandwiched between two pieces of gray shirt cardboard.

“That’s J. Edgar Hoover, isn’t it?” Meyer asked.

“That’s who it is,” Carella said.

“Why a photograph of him?”

“It isn’t even a photograph,” Carella said. “It’s a photo stat. ”

“Federal government is undoubtedly cutting back on expenses,” Meyer said. “Recession, you know.”

“Undoubtedly,” Carella said.

“What do you think?” Meyer asked seriously.

“I think it’s our friend.”

“So do I.”

“His opening gun.”

“Why Hoover?”

“Why not?”

Meyer scratched his bald pate. “What’s he trying to tell us, Steve?”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion,” Carella said.

“Well, figure it out, figure it out.”

“Well,” Carella said, “he told me yesterday that he plans to steal half a million dollars on the last day of April. So now,” he said, and glanced at the wall clock, “at exactly nine twenty-two the next morning, we receive a photostat of J. Edgar Hoover. He’s either trying to tell us something, or trying to tell us nothing, or trying to tell us something that means nothing.”

“That’s brilliant reasoning,” Meyer said. “Have you ever thought of going into police work?”

“I’m basing my deduction upon his past M.O. Remember that first job, whenever the hell it was?”

“More than ten years ago.”

“Right. He led us to believe he was going to hit one bank when he was really after another. Incidentally, wasn’t that hit also scheduled for the last day of April?”

“It was.”

“And he damn near got away with it.”

“Damn near.”

“He lets us know what he’s planning to do, but he doesn’t really let us know. It’s no fun for him otherwise. Look at what he did on his next job. Announced each of his planned murders beforehand, knocked off two city officials in a row, and threatened to knock off the mayor himself. But only because he was trying to extort money from other people, and was using those high-caliber murders as warnings. It’s all misdirected direction, Meyer. Which is why I say this picture can mean everything or it can mean nothing.”

Meyer looked at the photostat again. “Hoover,” he said blankly.

The locksmith’s name was Stanislaw Janik.

His shop was an eight-by-ten cubicle wedged between a hockshop and a dry-cleaning store on Culver Avenue. The wall behind his counter was made of pegboard upon which hung blank keys. Each blank was identified by a code number that corresponded to a similar number in the manufacturer’s catalog. In the case of automobile keys, the blanks were coded according to year and make. There were six full-grown cats in the shop. The place stank of cat shit.

Janik himself resembled a cross-eyed Siamese, blue eyes magnified behind bifocals, bald save for a tuft of black hair behind each ear. A man in his early fifties, he sat on a stool behind the counter, wearing a tan sweater over a white shirt open at the throat, cutting a key as Kling came into the shop. The bell over the door tinkled, and a cat who had been lying just behind the door growled angrily and leaped halfway across the room.

“Mr. Janik?” Kling said.

Janik looked up from the key and turned off the duplicating machine. His teeth were nicotine-stained; a Sherlock Holmes pipe rested in an ashtray near the machine. The counter top was covered with brass filings. He brushed them aside with the back of his hand and said, “Yes, can I help you?” His speech was faintly accented; Kling could not place the country of origin. He reached into his pocket, opened his wallet to where his shield was pinned to a leather flap opposite his lucite-encased I.D. card, and said, “Police officer. I’d like to ask you some questions, please.”

“What’s the matter?” Janik asked.

“I’m investigating some burglaries on Richardson Drive.”

“Yes?”

“I understand you installed a lock for one of the burglary victims.”

“Who would that be?” Janik asked. A black and white cat leaped suddenly from the floor to the counter and offered its back to Janik. He began stroking the cat idly, not looking at the animal, watching Kling instead from behind his thick spectacles.

“A Mr. Joseph Angieri,” Kling said. “At 638 Richardson.”

“Yes, I installed a lock for him,” Janik said, stroking the cat’s arched back.

“What kind of a lock was it?”

“A simple cylinder lock. Not good enough,” Janik said, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?”

“I told Mr. Angieri. He was having the lock changed because of the burglaries, do you understand? So I told him this type of cylinder lock was not sufficient protection, that he should allow me to put in a deadlock. Are you familiar with this lock?”

“I am,” Kling said.

“It would have been adequate protection. Even if you remove the cylinder on a deadlock, there is a shutter guard that prevents entry. I suggested a Fox lock, too, as an added precaution. If he was afraid of burglary...”

“You seem to know a lot about burglary, Mr. Janik.”

“Locks are my business,” Janik said, and shrugged. He pushed the cat off the counter. Startled, the cat landed on the floor, scowled up at him, stretched, and stalked off into the corner, where it began licking the ear of a tan Angora. “I told Mr. Angieri that the little extra money would be worth it. For the deadlock, I mean. He said no, he wasn’t interested in that kind of investment. So now his place is broken into. So he saved a little money on a cheaper lock, and he lost all his valuable possessions. What kind of thrift is that? Senseless,” Janik said, and shook his head again.

“Would you have any idea what his loss was, Mr. Janik?”

“None.”

“Then... why do you say he lost valuable possessions?”

“I assume if someone breaks into an apartment, it is not to open a piggy bank and steal a few pennies. What are you trying to say, young man?”

“Have you installed locks for anyone else in this neighborhood, Mr. Janik?”

“As I told you before, locks are my business. Of course I have installed other locks in the neighborhood. My shop is in the neighborhood, where would you expect me to install locks? In California?”

“Have you installed other locks on Richardson Drive?”

“I have.”

“Where on Richardson Drive? Which apartments?”

“I would have to consult my records.”

“Would you please?”

“No, I would not.”

“Mr. Janik...”

“I don’t believe I care for your manner, young man. I’m very busy, and I don’t have time to go through my bills to see just which apartments had locks installed by me. I ask you again, what are you trying to say?”

“Mr. Janik...” Kling said, and hesitated.

“Yes?”

“Would you happen to have duplicate keys for the locks you’ve installed?”

“I would not. Are you suggesting I’m a thief?”

“No, sir. I merely...”

“I came to this country from Poland in 1948. My wife and children were killed by the Germans, and I am alone in the world. I earn a meager living, but I earn it honestly. Even in Poland, when I was starving, I never stole so much as a crust of bread. I am not a thief, young man, and I do not choose to show you my bills. I will thank you to leave my shop.”