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

The city in these pages is imaginary. The people, the places are all fictitious. Only the police routine is based on established investigatory technique.

Fat balmy breezes wafted in off the park across the street, puffing lazily through the wide-open windows of the squadroom. It was the fifteenth of April, and the temperature outside hovered in the mid-sixties. Sunshine splashes drenched the room. Meyer Meyer sat at his desk idly reading a D.D. report, his bald pate touched with golden light, a beatific smile on his mouth, even though he was reading about a mugging. Cheek cradled on the heel and palm of his hand, elbow bent, blue eyes scanning the typewritten form, he sat in sunshine like a Jewish angel on the roof of the Duomo . When the telephone rang, it sounded like the trilling of a thousand larks, such was his mood this bright spring day.

“Detective Meyer,” he said, “87th Squad.”

“I’m back,” the voice said.

“Glad to hear it,” Meyer answered. “Who is this?”

“Come, come, Detective Meyer,” the voice said. “You haven’t forgotten me so soon, have you?”

The voice sounded vaguely familiar. Meyer frowned. “I’m too busy to play games, mister,” he said. “Who is this?”

“You’ll have to speak louder,” the voice said. “I’m a little hard of hearing.”

Nothing changed. Telephones and typewriters, filing cabinets, detention cage, water cooler, wanted posters, fingerprint equipment, desks, chairs, all were still awash in brilliant sunshine. But despite the floating golden motes, the room seemed suddenly bleak, as though that remembered telephone voice had stripped the place of its protective gilt to expose it as shabby and cheap. Meyer’s frown deepened into a scowl. The telephone was silent except for a small electrical crackling. He was alone in the squadroom and could not initiate a trace. Besides, past experience had taught him that this man (if indeed he was who Meyer thought he was) would not stay on the line long enough for fancy telephone company acrobatics. He was beginning to wish he had not answered the telephone, an odd desire for a cop on duty. The silence lengthened. He did not know quite what to say. He felt foolish and clumsy. He could think only, My God, it’s happening again.

“Listen,” he said, “who is this?”

“You know who this is.”

“No, I do not.”

“In that case, you’re even more stupid than I surmised.”

There was another long silence.

“Okay,” Meyer said.

“Ahh,” the voice said.

“What do you want?”

“Patience, patience,” the voice said.

“Damn it, what do you want ?”

“If you’re going to use profanity,” the voice said, “I won’t talk to you at all.”

There was a small click on the line.

Meyer looked at the dead phone in his hand, sighed, and hung up.

If you happen to be a cop, there are some people you don’t need.

The Deaf Man was one of those people. They had not needed him the first time he’d put in an appearance, wreaking havoc across half the city in an aborted attempt to rob a bank. They had not needed him the next time, either, when he had killed the Parks Commissioner, the Deputy Mayor, and a handful of others in an elaborate extortion scheme that had miraculously backfired. They did not need him now; whatever the hell he was up to, they definitely did not need him.

“Who needs him?” Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes asked. “Right now, I don’t need him. Are you sure it was him?”

“It sounded like him.”

“I don’t need him when I got a cat burglar,” Byrnes said. He rose from his desk and walked to the open windows. In the park across the street lovers were idly strolling, young mothers were pushing baby buggies, little girls were skipping rope, and a patrolman chatted with a man walking his dog. “I don’t need him,” Byrnes said again, and sighed. He turned from the window abruptly. He was a compact man, with hair more white than gray, broad-shouldered, squat, with rough-hewn features and flinty blue eyes. He gave an impression of controlled power, as though a violence within had been tempered, honed, and later protectively sheathed. He grinned suddenly, surprising Meyer. “If he calls again,” Brynes said, “tell him we’re out.”

“Very funny,” Meyer said.

“Anyway, we don’t even know it’s him yet.”

“I think it was him,” Meyer said.

“Well, let’s see if he calls again.”

“If it’s him,” Meyer said with certainty, “he’ll call again.”

“Meanwhile, what about this goddamn burglar?” Byrnes said. “He’s going to walk off with every building on Richardson if we don’t get him soon.”

“Kling’s over there now,” Meyer said.

“As soon as he gets back, I want a report,” Byrnes said.

“What do I do about the Deaf Man?”

Byrnes shrugged. “Listen to him, find out what he wants.” He grinned again, surprising Meyer yet another time. “Maybe he wants to turn himself in.”

“Yeah,” Meyer said.

Richardson Drive was a side street behind Silvermine Oval. There were sixteen large apartment buildings on that street, and a dozen of them had been visited by the cat burglar during the past two months.

According to police mythology, burglars are the cream of the criminal crop. Skilled professionals, they are capable of breaking and entering in a wink and without a whisper, making on-the-spot appraisals of appliances or jewelry, ripping off an entire apartment with speed and dexterity, and then vanishing soundlessly into the night. According to further lore, they are gentlemen one and all, rarely moved to violence unless cornered or otherwise provoked. To hear the police talk about burglars (except junkie burglars, who are usually desperate amateurs), one would guess that the job required rigorous training, intense dedication, enormous self-discipline, and extraordinary courage. (Not for nothing had the phrase “the guts of a burglar” entered everyday language directly from police lexicon.) This grudging respect, this tip of the investigatory hat, was completely in evidence that afternoon of April 15, when Detective Bert Kling talked to Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Angieri in their apartment at 638 Richardson Drive.

“Clean as a whistle,” he said, and raised his eyebrows in admiration. He was referring to the fact that there were no chisel marks on any of the windows, no lock cylinders punched out, no evidence of any fancy glass cutter or crowbar work. “Did you lock all the doors and windows when you went away?” he asked.

“Yes,” Angieri said. He was a man in his late fifties, wearing a wildly patterned short-sleeved shirt, and sporting a deep suntan, both of which he had acquired in Jamaica. “We always lock up,” he said. “This is the city.”

Kling looked at the door lock again. It was impossible to force this type of lock with a celluloid strip, nor were there any pick marks on it. “Anybody else have a key to this apartment?” he asked, closing the door.

“Yes. The super. He’s got a key to every apartment in the building.”

“I meant besides him,” Kling said.

“My mother has a key,” Mrs. Angieri said. She was a short woman, slightly younger than her husband, her eyes darting anxiously in her tanned face. She was, Kling knew, reacting to the knowledge that she had been burglarized — that someone had violated this private space, someone had entered her home and roamed it with immunity, had handled her possessions, had taken things rightfully belonging to her. The loss was not the important factor; the jewelry was probably covered by insurance. It was the idea that staggered her. If someone could enter to steal, what would prevent someone from entering to kill?