The Heckler

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.

“Hello, young feller,” the Yankee-type said. “Can I be of some assistance?”

“I’m from the police,” Carella said. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and opened it to where his shield was pinned to the leather.

“Um-hum,” the Yankee said, nodding. “What can I do for you?”

“I don’t believe I caught your name, sir,” Carella said and knew instantly that the man would reply “Didn’t throw it young feller,” and almost winced before the words left the old-timer’s mouth.

“Didn’t throw it, young feller,” the Yankee said. “But it’s Pitt. Roger Pitt.”

“How do you do, Mr. Pitt. My name is Detective Carella. We found the remains of a—”

“Carella, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“Carella?”

“Yes.”

“How d’do?” Pitt said.

“Fine, thank you. We found the remains of a uniform in an incinerator, sir, and we also found a matchbook from your hotel, the Hotel Albion, and there’s the possibility that this uniform might tie in with a case we are investigating, and so I wondered—”

“Youinvestigating the case?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You a detective?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, what was it you wanted to know?”

“To begin with, do you know anyone named Johnny?”

“Johnny what?”

“We don’t know. But he might have been the person who was wearing this uniform.”

“Johnny, huh?”

“Yes. Johnny.”

“Sure.”

The lobby was silent.

“You know him?” Carella asked.

“Sure.”

“What’s his last name?”

“Don’t know.”

“But…”

“Lotte’s feller,” Pitt said.

“Lotte?”

“Lotte Constantine. Lives right upstairs. He’s been by here a lot, Johnny.”

“I see. And this Lotte Constantine is his girl friend, is that right?”

“That’s right,” Pitt said.

“How old a man would you say this Johnny was?”

“Was?” Pitt asked quickly, his eyes narrowing. “In his sixties, I guess.”

Carella reached into his inside jacket pocket. He pulled out a photograph encased in lucite. He put it face up on the counter. It was the photo of the dead man which had run in the metropolitan dailies.

“Is that the man you’re thinking of?” Carella asked.

Pitt studied the photo. “Course,” he said, “I never seen him in a bathing suit. Or asleep.”

“But is that him?”

“It could be. This ain’t a very good picture, is it?”

“Perhaps not.”

“I mean, it looks like Johnny, and yet it don’t. There seems to be something missing.”

“There is,” Carella said.

“What’s that?”

“Life. The man in that picture is dead.”

“Oh.” Pitt seemed to wash his hands of the matter quite suddenly. “Look, maybe you better ask Lotte. I mean, she’d know better than me.”

“Where can I reach her?”

“She’s right upstairs. I’ll give her a ring, and maybe she’ll come on down to the lobby.”

“No, that’s all right, I’ll go up. I wouldn’t want—”