by Fuzz
The detective stepped outside first, scanned the bushes lining the driveway, and then led the deputy mayor and his wife to the car. He opened the door and allowed them to precede him into the automobile. The other detective was stationed on the opposite side of the car, and as soon as the deputy mayor and his wife were seated, both detectives got into the automobile and took positions facing them on the jump seats.
The dashboard clock read 8:30 P.M.
The deputy mayor’s personal chauffeur set the car in motion, and the deputy mayor made a few jokes with the detectives as they drove along the gently winding roads of exclusive Smoke Rise on the edge of the city’s northern river, and then onto the service road leading to the River Highway. It had been announced in the newspapers the week before that the deputy mayor would speak at a meeting of the B’nai Brith in the city’s largest synagogue at nine o’clock that night. The deputy mayor’s home in Smoke Rise was only fifteen minutes away from the synagogue, and so the chauffeur drove slowly and carefully while the two detectives from the D.A.’s Squad eyed the automobiles that moved past on either side of the Cadillac.
The Cadillac exploded when the dashboard clock read 8:45 P.M.
The bomb was a powerful one.
It erupted from somewhere under the hood, sending flying steel into the car, tearing off the roof like paper, blowing the doors into the highway. The car screeched out of control, lurched across two lanes, rolled onto its side like a ruptured metal beast and was suddenly ablaze.
A passing convertible tried to swerve around the flaming Cadillac. There was a second explosion. The convertible veered wildly and crashed into the river barrier.
When the police arrived on the scene, the only person alive in either car was a bleeding seventeen-year-old girl who had gone through the windshield of the convertible.
8
On Sunday morning, the visiting hours at Buena Vista Hospital were from ten to twelve. It was a busy day, busier than Wednesday, for example, because Saturday night encourages broken arms and legs, bloody pates and shattered sternums. There is nothing quite so hectic as the Emergency Room of a big city hospital on a Saturday night. And on Sunday morning it’s only natural for people to visit the friends and relatives who were unfortunate enough to have met with assorted mayhem the night before.
Steve Carella had met with assorted mayhem on Thursday night, and here it was Sunday morning, and he sat propped up in bed expecting Teddy’s arrival and feeling gaunt and pale and unshaven even though he had shaved himself not ten minutes ago. He had lost seven pounds since his admission to the hospital (it being singularly difficult to eat and breathe at the same time when your nose is taped and bandaged) and he still ached everywhere, seemed in fact to discover new bruises every time he moved, which can make a man feel very unshaven.
He had had a lot of time to do some thinking since Thursday night, and as soon as he had got over feeling, in sequence, foolish, angry, and murderously vengeful, he had decided that the deaf man was responsible for what had happened to him. That was a good way to feel, he thought, because it took the blame away from two young punks (for Christ’s sake, how could an experienced detective get smeared that way by two young punks?) and put it squarely onto a master criminal instead. Master criminals are very handy scapegoats, Carella reasoned, because they allow you to dismiss your own inadequacies. There was an old Jewish joke Meyer had once told him, about the mother who says to her son, “Trombenik, go get a job,” and the son answers, “I can’t, I’m a trombenik.” The situation now was similar, he supposed, with the question being altered to read, “How can you let a master criminal do this to you?” and the logical answer being, “It’s easy, he’s a master criminal.”
Whether or not the deaf man was a master criminal was perhaps a subject for debate. Carella would have to query his colleagues on the possibility of holding a seminar once he got back to the office. This, according to the interns who’d been examining his skull like phrenologists, should be by Thursday, it being their considered opinion that unconsciousness always meant concussion and concussion always carried with it the possibility of internal hemorrhage with at least a week’s period of observation being de rigueur in such cases, go argue with doctors.
Perhaps the deaf man wasn’t a master criminal at all. Perhaps he was simply smarter than any of the policemen he was dealing with, which encouraged some pretty frightening conjecture. Given a superior intelligence at work, was it even possible for inferior intelligences to second-guess whatever diabolical scheme was afoot? Oh, come on now, Carella thought, diabolical indeed! Well, yeah, he thought, diabolical. It is diabolical to demand five thousand dollars and then knock off the parks commissioner, and it is diabolical to demand fifty thousand dollars and then knock off the deputy mayor, and it is staggering to imagine what the next demand might be, or who the next victim would be. There most certainly would be another demand which, if not met would doubtless lead to yet another victim. Or would it? How can you second-guess a master criminal? You can’t, he’s a master criminal.
No, Carella thought, he’s only a human being, and he’s counting on several human certainties. He’s hoping to establish a pattern of warning and reprisal, he’s hoping we’ll attempt to stop him each time, but only so that we’ll fail, forcing him to carry out his threat. Which means that the two early extortion tries were only preparation for the big caper. And since he seems to be climbing the municipal government ladder, and since he multiplied his first demand by ten, I’m willing to bet his next declared victim will be James Martin Vale, the mayor himself, and that he’ll ask for ten times what he asked for the last time: five hundred thousand dollars. That is a lot of strawberries.
Or am I only second-guessing a master criminal?
Am I supposed to be second-guessing him?
Is he really preparing the ground for a big killing, or is there quite another diabolical (there we go again) plan in his mind?
Teddy Carella walked into the room at that moment.
The only thing Carella had to second-guess was whether he would kiss her first or vice versa. Since his nose was in plaster, he decided to let her choose the target, which she did with practiced ease, causing him to consider some wildly diabolical schemes of his own, which if executed would have resulted in his never again being permitted inside Buena Vista Hospital.
Not even in a private room.
Patrolman Richard Genero was in the same hospital that Sunday morning, but his thoughts were less erotic than they were ambitious.
Despite a rather tight official security lid on the murders, an enterprising newspaperman had only this morning speculated on a possible connection between Genero’s leg wound and the subsequent killing of Scanlon the night before. The police and the city officials had managed to keep all mention of the extortion calls and notes out of the newspapers thus far, but the reporter for the city’s leading metropolitan daily wondered in print whether or not the detectives of “an uptown precinct bordering the park” hadn’t in reality possessed foreknowledge of an attempt to be made on the deputy mayor’s life, hadn’t in fact set up an elaborate trap that very afternoon, “a trap in which a courageous patrolman was destined to suffer a bullet wound in the leg while attempting to capture the suspected killer.” Wherever the reporter had dug up his information, he had neglected to mention that Genero had inflicted the wound upon himself, due to a fear of dogs and criminals, and due to a certain lack of familiarity with shooting at fleeing suspects.
Genero’s father, who was a civil service employee himself, having worked for the Department of Sanitation for some twenty years now, was not aware that his son had accidentally shot himself in the leg. All he knew was that his son was a hero. As befitted a hero, he had brought a white carton of cannoli to the hospital, and now he and his wife and his son sat in the semi-private stillness of a fourth floor room and demolished the pastry while discussing Genero’s almost certain promotion to Detective 3rd/Grade.
The idea of a promotion had n
ot occurred to Genero before this, but as his father outlined the heroic action in the park the day before, Genero began to visualize himself as the man who had made the capture possible. Without him, without the warning shot he had fired into his own leg, the fleeing Alan Parry might never have stopped. The fact that Parry had turned out to be a wet fuse didn’t matter at all to Genero. It was all well and good to realize a man wasn’t dangerous after the fact, but where were all those detectives when Parry was running straight for Genero with a whole lunch pail full of God-knew-what under his arm, where were they then, huh? And how could they have known then, while Genero was courageously drawing his pistol, that Parry would turn out to be only another innocent dupe, nossir, it had been impossible to tell.
“You were brave,” Genero’s father said, licking pot cheese from his lips. “It was you who tried to stop him.”
“That’s true,” Genero said, because it was true.
“It was you who risked your life.”
“That’s right,” Genero said, because it was right.
“They should promote you.”
“They should,” Genero said.
“I will call your boss,” Genero’s mother said.
“No, I don’t think you should, Mama.”
“Perchè no?”
“Perchè … Mama, please don’t talk Italian, you know I don’t understand Italian so well.”
“Vergogna,” his mother said, “an Italian doesn’t understand his own tongue. I will call your boss.”
“No, Mama, that isn’t the way it’s done.”
“Then how is it done?” his father asked.
“Well, you’ve got to hint around.”
“Hint? To who?”
“Well, to people.”
“Which people?”
“Well, Carella’s upstairs in this same hospital, maybe …”
“Ma chi è questa Carella?” his mother said.
“Mama, please.”
“Who is this Carella?”
“A detective on the squad.”
“Where you work, sì?”
“Sì. Please, Mama.”
“He is your boss?”
“No, he just works up there.”
“He was shot, too?”
“No, he was beat up.”
“By the same man who shot you?”
“No, not by the same man who shot me,” Genero said, which was also the truth.
“So what does he have to do with this?”
“Well, he’s got influence.”
“With the boss?”
“Well, no. You see, Captain Frick runs the entire precinct, he’s actually the boss. But Lieutenant Byrnes is in charge of the detective squad, and Carella is a detective/2nd, and him and the lieutenant are like this, so maybe if I talk to Carella he’ll see how I helped them grab that guy yesterday, and put in a good word for me.”
“Let her call the boss,” Genero’s father said.
“No, it’s better this way,” Genero said.
“How much does a detective make?” Genero’s mother asked.
“A fortune,” Genero said.
Gadgets fascinated Detective-Lieutenant Sam Grossman, even when they were bombs. Or perhaps especially when they were bombs. There was no question in anyone’s mind (how much question could there have been, considering the evidence of the demolished automobile and its five occupants?) that someone had put a bomb in the deputy mayor’s car. Moreover, it was mandatory to assume that someone had set the bomb to go off at a specific time, rather than using the ignition wiring of the car as an immediate triggering device. This aspect of the puzzle pleased Grossman enormously because he considered ignition-trigger bombs to be rather crude devices capable of being wired by any gangland ape. This bomb was a time bomb. But it was a very special time bomb. It was a time bomb that had not been wired to the automobile clock.
How did Grossman know this?
Ah-ha, the police laboratory never sleeps, not even on Sunday. And besides, his technicians had found two clock faces in the rubble of the automobile.
One of the faces had been part of the Cadillac’s dashboard clock. The other had come from a nationally advertised, popular-priced electric alarm clock. There was one other item of importance found in the rubble: a portion of the front panel of a DC-to-AC inverter, part of its brand name still showing where it was stamped into the metal.
These three parts lay on the counter in Grossman’s laboratory like three key pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. All he had to do was fit them together and come up with a brilliant solution. He was feeling particularly brilliant this Sunday morning because his son had brought home a 92 on a high-school chemistry exam only two days ago; it always made Grossman feel brilliant when his son achieved anything. Well, let’s see, he thought brilliantly. I’ve got three parts of a time bomb, or rather two parts because I think I can safely eliminate the car’s clock except as a reference point. Whoever wired the bomb undoubtedly refused to trust his own wrist watch since a difference of a minute or two in timing might have proved critical—in a minute, the deputy mayor could have been out of the car already and on his way into the synagogue. So he had set the electric clock with the time showing on the dashboard clock. Why an electric clock? Simple. He did not want a clock that ticked. Ticking might have attracted attention, especially if it came from under the hood of a purring Cadillac. Okay, so let’s see what we’ve got. We’ve got an electric alarm clock, and we’ve got a DC-to-AC inverter, which means someone wanted to translate direct current to alternating current. The battery in a Cadillac would have to be 12-volts DC, and the electric clock would doubtless be wired for alternating current. So perhaps we can reasonably assume that someone wanted to wire the clock to the battery and needed an inverter to make this feasible. Let’s see.
He’d have had to run a positive lead to the battery and a negative lead to any metal part of the automobile, since the car itself would have served as a ground, right? So now we’ve got a power source to the clock, and the clock is running. Okay, right, the rest is simple, he’d have had to use an electric blasting cap, sure, there’d have been enough power to set one off, most commercial electric detonators can be fired by passing a continuous current of 0.3 to 0.4 amperes through the bridge wire. Okay, let’s see, hold it it now, let’s look at it.
The battery provides our source of power …
… to the inverter …
… and runs the electric clock …
… which is in turn set for a specific time, about eight, wasn’t it? He’d have had to monkey around with the clock so that instead of the alarm ringing, a switch would close. That would complete the circuit, let’s see, he’d have needed a lead running back to the battery, another lead running to the blasting cap, and a lead from the blasting cap to any metal part of the car. So that would look like …
And that’s it.
He could have assembled the entire package at home, taken it with him in a tool box, and wired it to the car in a very short time—making certain, of course, that all his wires were properly insulated, to guard against a stray current touching off a premature explosion. The only remaining question is how he managed to get access to the car, but happily that’s not my problem.
Whistling brilliantly Sam Grossman picked up the telephone and called Detective Meyer Meyer at the 87th.
The municipal garage was downtown on Dock Street, some seven blocks from City Hall Meyer Meyer picked up Bert Kling at ten-thirty. The drive down along the River Dix took perhaps twenty minutes. They parked on a meter across the street from the big concrete and tile structure, and Meyer automatically threw the visor sign, even though this was Sunday and parking regulations were not in force.
The foreman of the garage was a man named Spencer Coyle.
He was reading Dick Tracy and seemed less impressed by the two detectives in his midst than by the fictional exploits of his favorite comic strip sleuth. It was only with a great effort of will that he managed to tear himself away from the ne
wspaper at all. He did not rise from his chair, though. The chair was tilted back against the tiled wall of the garage. The tiles, a vomitous shade of yellow, decorated too many government buildings all over the city, and it was Meyer’s guess that a hefty hunk of graft had influenced some purchasing agent back in the Thirties, either that or the poor bastard had been color-blind Spencer Coyle leaned back in his chair against the tiles, his face long and gray and grizzled, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the comic section still dangling from his right hand, as though he were reluctant to let go of it completely even though he had stopped lip-reading it. He was wearing the greenish-brown coveralls of a Transportation Division employee his peaked hat sitting on his head with all the rakish authority of a major in the Air Force. His attitude clearly told the detectives that he did not wish to be disturbed at any time, but especially on Sunday.
The detectives found him challenging.
“Mr. Coyle,” Meyer said, “I’ve just had a telephone call from the police laboratory to the effect that the bomb …”
“What bomb?” Coyle asked, and spat on the floor, narrowly missing Meyer’s polished shoe.
“The bomb that was put in the deputy mayor’s Cadillac,” Kling said, and hoped Coyle would spit again, but Coyle didn’t.
“Oh, that bomb,” Coyle said, as if bombs were put in every one of the city’s Cadillacs regularly, making it difficult to keep track of all the bombs around. “What about that bomb?”
