The Heckler

by Ed McBain

  There were possibly four or five methods which could have been used to reconstruct the burnt matchbook, all of which required the patience of Job, the steadiness of Gibraltar, and the perseverance of Senator McCarthy. The method best suited to this particular document was discussed by Grossman and his assistants and, when they’d agreed on the proper approach, they rolled up their sleeves and got to work.

  The first thing they did was to prepare a hot solution of one per cent gelatin in water. They then placed this solution in a flat developing pan. Then, with his assistant holding a glass plate as close to the ash as he could get, Grossman delicately and gingerly fanned the ash out onto the plate. No one breathed. Inching the plate toward the gelatin solution, the men slowly submerged it so that the solution just covered the surface of the plate. The ash had now been moistened, and the difficult and painstaking job of flattening it without destroying it remained to be done. Finally another glass plate was pressed into place above the first one, and both were squeezed together to dispel any air bubbles. The plates sandwiching the ash were then put into a printing frame and the suspect matchbook was photographed on an orthochromatic plate and printed on compression paper.

  Simple.

  It took five hours.

  At the end of that time, the men went home.

  On Tuesday morning, Sam Grossman called Steve Carella.

  “Hello, Steve,” he said. “I hate to barge in, but I’ve got a report on that match folder, and I couldn’t see any good reason for waiting for you to call me. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all, Sam. How’ve you been?”

  “Fine, thanks. I’m sorry that report on the uniform wasn’t more helpful, Steve.”

  “It was a pretty good one.”

  “Not really. What the hell good is a report on a uniform if we can’t tell you what kind of a uniform it was? Who cares whether it was nylon or wool or horse manure? You want to know whether it belonged to a bus driver or a mailman or whatever, am I right?”

  “That’s right, Sam. But some of that other stuff in the report—”

  “Side effects and not really important. The folder may be something else again, though.”

  “Something good?”

  “Considering what we had to work with, I think we did an amazing job.”

  “What have you got, Sam?”

  “Well, to begin with, your suspect is twenty-three years old and probably a college graduate.”

  “Huh?”

  “He has, at some time during the past year, smoked a marijuana cigarette and gone to bed with a blonde between the ages of nineteen and twenty-two.”

  “What!” Carella said, astonished.

  “Yes,” Grossman said. “And from this match folder ash, we were able to determine that our suspect served in the U.S. Cavalry as a gunner in a tank during the Korean War. In addition to that—”

  “You got all this from that burnt matchbook?” Carella asked, and Grossman began laughing. The dawn broke slowly. Carella, holding the phone close to his violated ear, began to grin. “You bastard,” he said. “I believed you for a minute there. Whatdid you get from the matchbook?”

  “The name of a hotel,” Grossman said.

  “Here? This city?”

  “Yep.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The Hotel Albion. It’s on Jefferson and South Third.”

  “Thank you, Sam.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You can probably pick up these matches in any cigar store in the city.”

  “Or maybe not, Sam. Maybe they’re private hotel stock. The Albion, the Albion. That’s not one of those big chain jobs like Hilton runs, is it?”

  “No. It’s a small quiet place right on Jefferson.”

  “That’s what I thought. So maybe thisis a break. In any case, I’ll check it out. Thanks again, Sam.”

  “Right. How’s Teddy?”

  “Fine.”

  “And the twins?”

  “Growing.”

  “Good. I’ll be talking to you,” Grossman said, and he hung up.

  Carella looked at the hotel name he’d jotted onto the pad on his desk. He nodded, pulled the phone to him, and dialed the number of his home in Riverhead.

  “Hello?” a sprightly voice answered.

  “Fanny, this is Steve,” he said. “Is Teddy still there, or did I miss her?”

  “She’s upstairs taking a bath. What is it, Steve? I was just feeding the twins.”

  “Fanny, I’m supposed to meet Teddy at three o’clock outside Bannerman’s and I thought I’d be able to make it, but it doesn’t look that way now. Would you just tell her I’ll meet her for dinner at six at the Green Door? Have you got that? Six o’clock at—”

  “I heard it the first time. Your son is screaming his head off at me, would you mind if I—Oh, holy mother of God!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “He’s just thrown his spoon at April and hit her right in the eye with it! I don’t know why I stay on in this madhouse. It seems to me—”

  “Aw, you love us, you old bag,” Carella said.

  “An old bag is what I’ll be before the year is out. Me who used to provoke street whistles not two months ago.”

  “Will you give her my message, dearie?” Carella asked, imitating her thick Irish brogue.

  “Yes, I’ll give her your message, dearie. And will you take a message from me, dearie?”

  “What is it, dearie?”

  “In the future, don’t be calling at twelve noon because that is the time your darling little twins are being fed. And I’ve got my hands full enough withtwo Carellas not to have a third come bothering me. Is that clear, sir?”

  “Yes, dearie.”

  “All right, I’ll give your wife the message. Poor darling, she’s been rushing about like a mad fool so that she’d meet you on time, and now you call with—”

  “Goodbye, dearie,” Carella said. “Go take the spoon out of April’s eye.”

  He hung up, smiling, wondering how he and Teddy had ever managed to run a household without Fanny. Of course, he told himself, before Fanny there hadn’t been the twins, either. In fact, had the twins not been born, Fanny would not have been hired as a two-weeks, postnatal nurse. And then when they’d moved into the new house, the monster which was on the market for back taxes, and Fanny’s two weeks were up—well, it was difficult to say exactly what had prompted her to stay on at practically no salary, unless it was the fact that she had come to think of the Carellas as her own. Whatever her motive, and Carella never thought too much about motive except when he was working on a case, he was damned grateful for her existence. He sometimes had qualms that his children would grow up speaking with an Irish brogue since, by necessity, it was her speech they imitated and not the nonexistent speech of their mother. And only last week, he was nearly shocked out of his skin when young Mark said, “Dammit, dearie, I don’t want to go to bed yet.” But all in all, things were working out fine.

  Carella stood up, opened the top drawer of his desk, took his gun and holster from it, and clipped it to the right side of his belt. He took his jacket from where it was draped over the back of his chair, put it on, and then tore the top page from the pad and stuck the sheet into his pocket.

  “I probably won’t be back for the rest of the day,” he told Parker.

  “Where you going?” Parker asked. “A movie?”

  “No, a burlesque,” Carella said. “I dig naked broads.”

  “Ha!” Parker said.

  THEY’RE TEARIN DOWN the whole damn city,Meyer thought as he passed the building site of the new shopping center on Grover Avenue and the huge sign announcing that the work was being done by the Uhrbinger Construction Company. In truth, his observation was slightly in error since what they were doing was not tearing down the whole damn city but building up a major portion of it. As Lieutenant Byrnes had reported so accurately, the new shopping center would be a self-contained commercial operation with a large parking lot and with a co
nglomeration of services designed to lure housewives from everywhere in the city. The new stores were set in a low modern building which clashed violently with the surrounding grimy fingers of the slum tenements but which nonetheless presented an open area of clean space where the city dweller felt as if he could once again breathe while picking up his package of Wheaties or while cashing a twenty-dollar bill at the bank. Of course, entering the bank or the supermarket was still some weeks away from reality. The sites of these enterprises still crawled with workmen in overalls and sweat-stained shirts, so that perhaps Meyer’s observation was not too far from the truth after all. The men rushing about with wooden beams and copper pipesdid seem to be a demolition crew rather than a construction gang.

  He sighed heavily, wondering how he would ever adjust to this new image of a neighborhood he had come to know quite well over the years. It was odd, he thought, but a person very rarely looked at the neighborhood where he spent his entire working day, until they began to make changes there. And then, quite suddenly, the old way, the old buildings, the old streets seemed to become very dear and the new way seemed to be an encroachment upon something private and familiar.

  What the hell’s the matter with you?he thought.You like slums?

  “Yeah, I like slums.

  Besides, the 87th Precinct isn’t a slum. Part of it is a slum, yes. But you couldn’t call the apartment houses lining Silvermine Road a slum. And some of the shops on The Stem were actually pretty fancy. And Smoke Rise, along the river, was as elegant as anything you were likely to find anywhere. So, all right, I’m rationalizing. For the most part, this is probably the crumbiest neighborhood in the city, and we’ve undoubtedly got the highest crime rate and our fire department is probably the busiest in the world, but I guess I like it here. I’ve never asked for a transfer and God knows there have been times when I was pretty damned disgusted, and yet I’ve never asked for a transfer, so I guess I really like it here.

  Which, again, answers your question.

  Yeah, I like slums.

  I like slums because they are alive. I hate them because they breed crime and violence and filth—but I like them because they are alive.

  It was twelve noon, and Meyer Meyer walked the streets of this slum that was alive, passing the construction site on Grover Avenue and then cutting up Thirteenth and walking north. The neighborhood was a rich amalgam of color, the color of flesh tones ranging from the purest white through the myriad shades of tan and brown and into the deepest brown, a brown bordering on black. Color, too, in the April finery of the precinct citizens, and color in the shop windows, bolts of blue silk and pink taffeta, and color on the sidewalk stands, the rich scarlet of ripe apples, and the subtle sunshine of bananas, and the purple bruise of grapes. And color, too, in the language of the streets, the profanity interlaced with the pseudo-musical jargon, the English of the underprivileged, and the bastardized Spanish, the Jewish peddler shouting his wares with a heavy Yiddish accent, the woman on the street corner wailing psalms to the indifferent blue sky of April. And all of it alive, all of it bursting with the juice of life, all of it raw and primitive somehow, stripped of all the nonsense of twentieth century ritual, that is what he meant by alive, this is what Meyer Meyer meant. For perhaps it was uncouth and uncivilized, but there was no question here of which fork to pick up first at the dinner table, and no question here of the proper way to introduce a duchess to a marquis, no question here of the little civilities, the little courtesies that separate us from the barbarians and at the same time steal from us our humanity. The precinct was as basic as life itself—and as rich.

  And so he walked the streets there without fear even though he knew that violence could erupt around him at any moment. And he walked with a spring to his step, and he breathed deeply of air which stank of exhaust fumes but which was, nonetheless, the heady air of April, and he felt very glad to be alive.

  The loft which David Raskin occupied was directly over a bank.

  Mercantile Trust was the name of the bank. The name was engraved onto two bronze plaques, one of which decorated either side of the huge bronze bank doors which were open to admit the noonday traffic. A sign stuck to one of the open doors advised any interested party that the bank was changing quarters on April thirtieth and would be ready for business at its new location on May first. Meyer passed the bank, and the sign, and then climbed the steps to David Raskin’s loft. A thumb-smeared sign hanging to the left of a huge fireproof door advised Meyer Meyer that he had located

  DARASK FROCKS, INC.

  Women’s Garments Of

  Distinction

  Meyer did not knock. He went into the loft, stared down at the front of Margarita’s low-cut smock for a second or two, asked for Dave Raskin and was ushered to the back of the loft where Raskin himself, standing in his undershirt and sweating profusely, was working with the girls pressing dresses. Raskin seemed to be in excellent high spirits.

  “Hallo, hallo, Meyer!” he shouted. “What a day for pressing dresses, hah? A beautiful April day, what a day! It’s nice out, hah, Meyer?”

  “Beautiful,” Meyer replied.

  “April, that’s the only time of the year. April is just right for everything, and I meaneverything, Meyer, even an old man like me could say it,everything, Meyer!”

  “You seem very happy today,” Meyer said.

  “Yes, yes, I’m happy like a little lark. You know why? I’ll tell you why. To begin with, my crazyman hasn’t called since Friday. Already this is Tuesday, and thank God nothing has come for me, no stationery, nothing, and no telephone calls, either.” Raskin beamed. “So I’m happy. My girls aren’t frightened, and I’m not pestered by thismeshugenuh heckler. Also, I’m making money like a crazy thief.”

  “Good,” Meyer said. “Maybe he’s given up the game, huh? Figured he wasn’t getting enough of a rise out of you, maybe.” Meyer shrugged. “I’m glad to hear there’ve been no incidents since Friday, Dave. And of course I’m glad to hear your business is going so well.”

  “It couldn’t be better. I got six dozen summer dresses yesterday for—guess what? Guess how much?”

  “I don’t know. How much?”

  “A dollar each dress! Can you imagine something like that? These beautiful little summer things, sleeveless you know, and a little tight across the backside, I’ll sell them like hot cakes, they’ll come running all the way from Bethtown to buy these, I can sell them for four dollars each and they’ll snap them up! I’m telling you, Meyer, I’ll make a fortune. You saw the bank downstairs when you were coming in?”

  “Yes,” Meyer said, grinning.

  “Okay. Right under where we’re standing, right here under my feet, they got their vault. And into this vault, Meyer, I’m going to place thousands and thousands of dollars!”

  “You’d better do it in a hurry,” Meyer said, “because the bank is moving at the end of the month.”

  “Slow or in a hurry,” Raskin said, chuckling, “I’ll do it. I’ll be known as the sultan of sexy garments, the lama of ladies’ coats and dresses, the monarch of maternity clothes, the king of Culver Avenue! Me, David Raskin! If I keep buying dresses at a dollar each—oi gevalt,what a steal!—a dollar apiece and selling them for four dollars, Meyer, I could build myown bank! I won’t need already the vault downstairs! Meyer, I’ll be a millionaire! Can’t you see me now? I’ll only—”

  The telephone rang. Raskin walked to it, still talking to Meyer, not breaking his conversational stride—

  “—drive a Cadillac car, nothing else, and I’ll wear silk underwear and in Miami Beach I’ll be known as—”

  He picked up the receiver.

  “Hello—the biggest tipper on Collins Aven—”

  “You son of a bitch!” the voice said. “Get out of that loft before the thirtieth, or I’ll kill you!”

  10.

  THE HOTEL ALBION was on Jefferson Avenue near South Third Street. A narrow green canopy stretched from the hotel entrance to the street, and a doorman weari
ng a green uniform and watching the girls strut by in their April cottons, sprang to attention as Carella approached, promptly pulled open one of the brass-bound doors for him, and damn near threw a salute.

  “Thank you,” Carella said.

  “You’re-welcome-sir!” the doorman shouted smartly.

  Carella raised his eyebrows appreciatively, went into the lobby, and felt immediately that he had left the city somewhere far behind him. The lobby was small and quiet. Rich dark woods dominated the ceilings and the walls. A thick Persian carpet covered the floor. The furniture was upholstered in vibrant red-and-green velvet, and a huge cut-glass chandelier dominated the ceiling. He felt that he was no longer in the United States, felt somehow that Venice must look like this, rich and vibrant and somehow decadent, somehow out of place with the bustling twentieth century, a city misplaced in time. He had never been to Venice, never indeed been outside of America except during the war, and yet he knew instinctively that this hotel would have fit into that waterlogged city with uninhibited ease. He took off his hat and walked to the main desk. There was no one behind it. The hotel, in fact, seemed to be deserted, as if news of an impending atom bomb blast had sent everyone creaking downstairs to the wine cellar. A bell rested on the counter. He reached out with one hand and tapped it. The bell tinkled in the small lobby, cushioned by the velvet chairs and the Persian rug and the thick draperies on the windows, muffled by the overwhelming soddenness of the surrounding materials.

  Carella heard the shuffle of soft-soled slippers sliding over steps. He looked up. A small thin man was coming down from the first floor. He walked with a slight stoop, a man in his sixties wearing a green eye shade and a brown cardigan sweater which had been knitted for him by a maternal aunt in New Hampshire. He looked like that Yankee-type fellow who plays the small-town hotel clerk in all the movies or the small-town postmaster, or the one the convertible pulls alongside to ask directions of, that guy, you know the one. He looked exactly like him. For a moment, listening to his creaky tread on the steps, watching him come into the cloistered silence of the lobby, Carella had the feeling that he was in a movie himself, that he would speak a line which had been written for him by some Hollywood mastermind and would be answered in turn with another scripted line.