The Heckler

“Yeah, just a second,” Parker said sourly. He hadn’t hoped to become involved in any work this morning before heading for his candy store, and he silently vowed never to pick up a ringing telephone again unless it was absolutely necessary. He sat on the edge of the desk and reached over for a pad and pencil. He wiped one finger across his nose, said, “Okay, Kronig, shoot,” into the telephone and leaned over the desk with the pencil poised over the pad and the receiver propped against his ear.

“The socks can be had anywhere, Parker. Just a blend of sixty per cent dacron and forty per cent cotton. We could have narrowed it down to four or five trade names, but there didn’t seem much sense to doing that. You can pick the damn things up in the five and ten, if you like.”

“Okay,” Parker said. “That it?” On the pad he wrote simply, “Socks—No make.”

“No, there’re the shoes,” Kronig said. “We may have run into a bit of luck there, though we can’t figure out how it ties with the morgue’s description of the body.”

“Let me have it,” Parker said.

“The shoes are simple black shoes, no perforation on the top, quarter or heel. No decorations anywhere. We checked them through and found out they’re manufactured by the American T. H. Shoe Company in Pittsburgh. This is a pretty big outfit, Parker, and they put out a huge line of men’s shoes and women’s play shoes, casual stuff, you know?”

“Yeah,” Parker said, and still he wrote nothing on the pad. “So what about this particular pair of shoes?”

“Well, this outfit makes shoes for the U.S. Navy. Just a single model. A plain black shoe.”

“Yeah,” Parker said.

“You got it?”

“I got it. This is the shoe, right?”

“Right. So how does that check out against the morgue’s description?”

“What do you mean?”

“They said the guy was sixty-five years old! You know any sixty-five-year-old sailors?”

Parker thought for a minute. “I’ll bet there are some sixty-five-year-old admirals,” he said. “They’re sailors, ain’t they?”

“I never thought of that,” Kronig said. “Well, anyway, that’s it. They make the shoe for the Navy, and it can only be purchased from Navy ship’s services. Eight ninety-five the pair. Think an admiral would wear such a cheap shoe?”

“I don’t know any admirals,” Parker said. “Also, this is Carella’s headache, not mine. I’ll pass it on to him. Thanks for calling.”

“Don’t mention it,” Kronig said, and he hung up.

“Do admirals wear shoes that cost only eight ninety-five?” Parker asked no one.

“Iwear shoes that cost more than that,” Meyer said, “and I’m only a cop.”

“I read someplace that J. Edgar Hoover doesn’t like cops to be called cops,” Kling said.

“Yeah? I wonder why that is?” Parker scratched his head. “We’re cops, ain’t we? If we ain’t cops, what are we then?”

Captain Frick pushed his way through the gate in the railing and said, “Frankie Hernandez here?”

“He’s in the john, Captain,” Meyer said. “You want him?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Frick said. There was a pained and harried expression on his face, as if something dreadful had happened and he didn’t quite know how to cope with it. If the truth were known, of course, there weren’t very many things that Captain Frick could cope with. He was technically, in charge of the entire precinct, although his actual command very rarely extended beyond the uniformed force. In any case, he hardly ever offered any advice to Lieutenant Byrnes who ran the detective squad quite capably and effectively. Frick was not a very bright man, and his approach to police work was perhaps comparable to the approach of an old woman toward a will to be settled. He allowed the actual settling to be handled by those better qualified to handle it, and then he reaped the rewards. And yet, all the while it was being handled for him, he fretted and fussed like a hen sitting on a laggard egg.

He fretted and fussed now while he waited for Frankie Hernandez to come out of the men’s room. He would have followed him into the room but Frick firmly believed that police business should be conducted in dignified surroundings. So he paced back and forth just inside the railing, one eye on the closed men’s room door, waiting for the appearance of the detective. When Hernandez did come out of the room, he went to him immediately.

“Frankie, I’ve got a problem,” he said.

“What is it, Captain Frick?” Hernandez asked. He was drying his hands on his handkerchief. He had, in fact, been heading for the Clerical Office to tell Miscolo there were no more paper towels in the bathroom when Frick intercepted him.