by Ed McBain
The first map he delivered to the deaf man was titled “60 Cycle Network Area Designations and Boundaries Lower Isola,” and it showed the locations of all the area substations in that section of the city. The area that specifically interested the deaf man was the one labeled “Cameron Flats.” The mayor’s house was on the corner of South Meridian and Vanderhof, in Cameron Flats. The substation serving South Meridian and Vanderhof was marked with a cross in a circle, and was designated “No. 3 South Meridian.” Into this substation ran high-voltage supply cables. (They’re called feeders,” Ahmad said) from a switching station elsewhere on the transmission system. It would be necessary to destroy those supply cables if the mayor’s house was to be thrown into darkness on the night of his murder.
The second map Ahmad delivered was titled “System Ties” and was a detailed enlargement of the feeder systems supplying any given substation. The substation on the first map had been labeled “No. 3 South Meridian.” By locating this on the more detailed map, the deaf man was able to identify the number designation of the feeder: 65CA3. Which brought him to the third pilfered map, simply and modestly titled “65CA3,” and subtitled “Location South Meridian Substation.” This was a rather long, narrow diagram of the route the feeder traveled below the city’s streets, with numbers indicating the manholes that provided access to the cables. 65CA3 passed through eleven manholes on its meandering underground travels from the switching station to the substation. The deaf man chose a manhole approximately a half-mile from the mayor’s house and wrote down its number: M3860-120’SSC-CENT.
The last map, the crucial one, was titled “Composite Feeder Plate” and it pinpointed the manhole exactly. M3860 was located on Faxon Drive, a hundred and twenty feet south of the southern curb of Harris, in the center of the street — hence the 120’SSC-CENT. The high-voltage cables passing through that concrete manhole were five feet below the surface of the street protected by a three-hundred pound manhole cover.
Tomorrow night, Ahmad, Buck, and the deaf man would lift that cover, and one of Buck’s bombs would effectively take care of the cables.
And then …
Ahhh, then …
The really beautiful part was still ahead, and the deaf man smiled as he contemplated it.
He could visualize the mayor’s house at 10 A.M. tomorrow night, surrounded by policemen and detectives on special assignment, all there to protect the honorable JMV from harm. He could see himself driving a black sedan directly to the curb in front of the darkened brick structure, a police flashlight picking out the gold lettering on the front door, Metropolitan Light & Power Company (pressure-sensitive letters expertly applied by Ahmad to both front doors of the car, cost eight cents per letter at Studio Art Supply, total expenditure $4.80). He could see the car doors opening. Three men step out of it. Two of them are wearing workmen’s coveralls (Sears, Roebuck, $6.95 a pair). The third is wearing the uniform of a police sergeant, complete with a citation ribbon pinned over the shield on the left breast (Theatrical Arts Rentals, $10.00 per day, plus a $75.00 deposit) and the yellow sleeve patch of the Police Department’s Emergency Service ($1.25 at the Civic Equipment Company, across the street from Headquarters).
“Who’s there?” the policeman on duty asks. His flashlight scans the trio. Buck, in the sergeant’s uniform, steps forward.
“It’s all right,” Buck says. “I’m Sergeant Pierce, Emergency Service. These men are from the electric company. They’re trying to locate that power break.”
“Okay, Sergeant,” the cop answers.
“Everything quiet in there?” Buck asks.
“So far, Sarge.”
“Better check out their equipment,” Buck says. “I don’t want any static on this later.”
“Good idea,” the cop says. He swings his flashlight around. Ahmad opens the tool box. There is nothing in it but electricians tools: a test light, a six-foot rule, a brace, four screwdrivers, a Stillson wrench, a compass saw, a hacksaw, a hammer, a fuse puller, wire skinners, wire cutters, gas pliers, Allen wrenches, friction tape, rubber tape … “Okay,” the cop says, and turns to the deaf man. “What’s that you’re carrying?”
“A volt-ohm meter,” the deaf man answers.
“Want to open it for me?”
“Sure,” the deaf man says.
The testing equipment is nothing more than a black leather case perhaps twelve inches long by eight inches wide by five inches deep. When the deaf man unclasps and raises the lid, the flashlight illuminates an instrument panel set into the lower half of the case, level with the rim. Two large dials dominate the panel, one marked “Volt-Ohm Meter,” the other marked “Ammeter.” There are three knobs spaced below the dials. Factory-stamped lettering indicates their use: the two end knobs are marked “Adjuster,” and the one in the middle is marked “Function.” Running vertically down the left-hand side of the panel are a series of jacks respectively marked 600V, 300V, 150V, 75V, 30V, and Common. Flanking the dials on the right-hand side of the plate there are similar jacks marked 60 Amps, 30 Amps, 15 Amps, 7.5 Amps, 3 Amps, and Common. Another jack and a small bulb are below the second adjuster knob, and they are collectively marked “Leakage Indicator.” In bold factory-stamped lettering across the length of the tester are the words “Industrial Analyzer.”
“Okay,” the cop says, “you can close it.”
The deaf man snaps the lid of the case shut, fastens the clasp again.
“I’ll take them inside,” Buck says.
“Right, Sarge,” the cop says, and the trio goes up the walk to the house, where they are stopped by a detective at the front door.
“Sergeant Pierce, Emergency Service,” Buck says. “These men are from the electric company, here to check that power failure.”
“Right,” the detective says.
“I’ll stick with them,” Buck says, “but I don’t want no other responsibility.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if the mayor trips and breaks his ankle while they’re on the premises, I don’t want no static from my captain.”
“We’ll keep the mayor far away from you,” the detective says, and smiles.
“Okay, where you guys want to start?” Buck asks. “The basement?”
They go into the house. There are battery-powered lights set up, but for the most part the house is dim, the figures moving through it are uncertainly defined. The three men start in the basement, going through the motions of checking out circuits. They go through every room of the house, never once seeing the mayor in the course of their inspection. In the master bedroom, the deaf man shoves the testing equipment under the huge double bed, ostensibly searching for a leak at the electrical outlet. When he walks out of the room, he is no longer carrying anything. The “Industrial Analyzer” is on the floor under the mayor’s bed.
That analyzer, with its factory-sleek assortment of dials, knobs, jacks, and electrical terminology is real — but nonetheless fake. There is no testing equipment behind those meters, the interior of the box has been stripped bare. Hidden below the instrument panel, set to go off at 2 A.M., there is only another of Buck’s bombs.
Tomorrow night, the mayor would die.
And on Saturday morning, the uncommitted would commit. They would open their newspapers and read the headlines, and they would know the letter was for real, no opportunist could have accurately predicted the murder without having engineered it and executed it himself. They would take the letter from where they had casually put it, and they would read it once again, and they would fully comprehend its menace now, fully realize the absolute terror inherent in its words. When one was faced with the promise of unexpected death, was five thousand dollars really so much to invest? Not a man on that list of one hundred earned less than $200,000 a year. They had all been carefully researched, the original list of four hundred and twenty names being cut and revised and narrowed down to only those who seemed the most likely victims, those to whom losing five thousand dollars at a Las Vegas crap
table meant nothing, those who were known to have invested in speculative stocks or incoming Broadway plays — those, in short, who would be willing to gamble five thousand dollars in hope of salvation.
They will pay us, the deaf man thought.
Oh, not all of them, certainly not all of them. But enough of them. Perhaps a few more murders are in order, perhaps some of those sleek fat cats on the list will have to be eliminated before the rest are convinced, but they will be convinced, and they will pay. After the murder tomorrow night, after that, when they know we’re not fooling, they will pay.
The deaf man suddenly smiled.
There should be a very large crowd around City Hall starting perhaps right this minute, he thought.
It will be an interesting weekened.
“You hit the nail right on the head,” Lieutenant Byrnes said to Steve Carella. “He’s going for the mayor next.”
“He’ll never get away with it,” Hawes said.
“He’d better not get away with it,” Byrnes said. “If he succeeds in knocking off the major, he’ll be picking up cash like it’s growing in the park. How many of these letters do you suppose he’s mailed?”
“Well, let’s try to figure it,” Carella said. “First he warned the parks commissioner and demanded five thousand dollars. Next the deputy major, and a demand for fifty thousand. Now he tells us he’ll kill the mayor this Friday night. So if the escalation carries through, he should be bucking for ten times fifty thousand, which is five hundred thousand. If we divide that by —”
“Forget it,” Byrnes said.
“I’m only trying to figure out the mathematics.”
“What’s mathematics got to do with JMV getting killed?”
“I don’t know,” Carella said, and shrugged. “But it seems to me if we can figure out the progression, we can also figure out what’s wrong with the progression.”
Byrnes stared at him.
“I’m trying to say it just isn’t enough for this guy to knock off the mayor,” Carella said.
“It isn’t, huh? Knocking off the mayor seems like more than enough to me.”
“Yeah, but not for somebody like the deaf man. He’s too proud of his own cleverness.” Carella looked at the letter again. “Who’s this man Carl Wahler?” he asked.
“A dress manufacturer, lives downtown in Stewart City, 17th Precinct. He brought the letter in there this morning. Captain Bundy thought we’d want to see it. Because of our involvement with the previous murders.”
“It seems to fit right in with the pattern, doesn’t it?” Hawes said. “He announced the other murders, too.”
“Yes, but there’s something missing,” Carella said.
“What?”
“The personal angle. He started this in the 87th, a little vendetta for fouling him up years ago, when he was planting bombs all over the goddamn city to divert attention from his bank job. So why’s he taking it out of the 87th all at once? If he knocks off the mayor, nobody looks foolish but the special police assigned to his protection. We’re off the hook, home free. And that’s what I can’t understand. That’s what’s wrong with the pattern.”
“The pattern seems pretty clear to me,” Byrnes said. “If he can get to JMV after advertising it, what chance will anybody have without warning? Look at how many times he says that in his letter. Without warning, without warning.”
“It still bothers me,” Carella said.
“It shouldn’t,” Byrnes said. “He’s spelled it out in black and white. The man’s a goddamn fiend.”
The instant reaction of both Hawes and Carella was to laugh. You don’t as a general rule hear cops referring to criminals as “fiends,” even when they’re child molesters and mass murderers. That’s the sort of language reserved for judges or politicians. Nor did Byrnes usually express himself in such colorful expletives. But whereas both men felt a definite impulse to laugh out loud, one look at Byrnes’ face stifled any such urge. The lieutenant was at his wit’s end. He suddenly looked very old and very tired. He sighed heavily, and said, “How do we stop him, guys?” and he sounded for all the world like a freshman quarter-back up against a varsity team with a three-hundred-pound line.
“We pray,” Carella said.
Although James Martin Vale, the mayor himself, was a devout Episcopalian, he decided that afternoon that he’d best do a lot more than pray if his family was to stay together.
So he called a top-level meeting in his office at City Hall (a meeting to which Lieutenant Byrnes was not invited), and it was decided that every precaution would be taken starting right then to keep “the deaf man” (as the men of the 87th insisted on calling him) from carrying out his threat. JMV was a man with a charming manner and a ready wit, and he managed to convince everyone in the office that he was more concerned about the people of his city than he was about his own safety. “We’ve got to save my life only so that this man won’t milk hard-earned dollars from the people of this great city,” he said. “If he gets away with this, they’ll allow themselves to be extorted. That’s why I want protection.”
“Your Honor,” the district attorney said, “if I may suggest, I think we should extend protection beyond the Friday night deadline. I think if this man succeeds in killing you anytime in the near future, the people of this city’ll think he’s made good his threat.”
“Yes, I think you’re right,” JMV said.
“Your Honor,” the city comptroller said, “I’d like to suggest that you cancel all personal appearances at least through April.”
“Well, I don’t think I should go into complete seclusion, do you?” JMV asked, mindful of the fact that this was an election year.
“Or at least curtail your personal appearances,” the comptroller said, remembering that indeed this was an election year, and remembering, too, that he was on the same ticket as His Honor the Mayor JMV.
“What do you think, Slim?” JMV asked the police commissioner.
The police commissioner, a man who was six feet four inches tall and weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds, shifted his buttocks in the padded leather chair opposite His Honor’s desk, and said, “I’ll cover you with cops like fleas,” a not particularly delicate simile, but one which made its point nonetheless.
“You can count on however many men you need from my squad,” the district attorney said, mindful that two of his most trusted detectives had been blown to that big Police Academy in the sky only days before.
“I would like to suggest,” the city’s medical examiner said, “that you undergo a complete physical examination as soon as this meeting is concluded.”
“Why?” JMV asked.
“Because the possibility exists, Your Honor, that you’ve already been poisoned.”
“Well,” JMV said, “that sounds a bit farfetched.”
“Your Honor,” the medical examiner said, “an accumulation of small doses of poison administered over a period of time can result in death. Since we’re dealing with a man who has obviously evolved a long-term plan …”
“Yes, of course,” JMV said, “I’ll submit to examination as soon as you wish. Maybe you can clear up my cold at the same time,” he said charmingly, and grinned charmingly.
“Your Honor,” the president of the city council said, “I suggest we have each of the city’s vehicles inspected thoroughly and at once. I am remembering, sir, the bomb placed in …”
“Yes, we’ll have that done at once,” the district attorney said hastily.
“Your Honor,” the mayor’s press secretary said, “I’d like to suggest that we suppress all news announcements concerning your whereabouts, your speaking engagements, and so on, until this thing blows over.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” JMV said, “but of course I won’t be venturing too far from home in any case, will I, Stan?” he said, and grinned charmingly at the district attorney.
“No, sir, I’d advise your becoming a homebody for the next month or so,” the district attorney said.
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“Of course, there may be a bomb in this office right this minute,” the police commissioner said tactlessly, causing everyone to fall suddenly silent. Into the silence, came the loud ticking of the wall clock, which was a little unnerving.
“Well,” JMV said charmingly, “perhaps we ought to have the premises searched, as well as my home. If we’re to do this right, we’ll have to take every precaution.”
“Yes, sir,” the district attorney said.
“And, of course, we’ll have to do everything in our power meanwhile to locate this man, this deaf man.”
“Yes, sir, we’re doing everything in our power right now,” the police commissioner said.
“Which is what?” JMV asked, charmingly.
“He’s got to make a mistake,” the police commissioner said.
“And if he doesn’t?”
“He’s got to.”
“But in the meantime,” JMV asked, “do you have any leads?”
“Police work,” the commissioner said, “is a combination of many seemingly unconnected facets that suddenly jell,” and frowned, suspecting that his metaphor hadn’t quite come off. “There are a great many accidents involved in police work, and we consider these accidents a definite contributing factor in the apprehension of criminals. We will, for example, arrest a man on a burglary charge, oh, six or seven months from now, and discover in questioning him that he committed a homicide during the commission of another crime, oh, four or five months ago.
“Well,” JMV said charmingly, “I hope we’re not going to have to wait six or seven months for our man to make a mistake while committing another crime.”
“I didn’t mean to sound so pessimistic,” the commissioner said. “I was merely trying to explain, Your Honor, that a lot of police work dovetails past and present and future. I have every confidence that we’ll apprehend this man within a reasonable length of time.”
“Hopefully before he kills me,” JMV said, and grinned charmingly. “Well,” he said, “if there’s nothing further to discuss, perhaps we can set all these precautionary measures into motion. I’ll be happy to see your doctor, Herb, whenever you want to send him in.”
