The Heckler

“Did you ever see a man in his sixties delivering mail, or driving a bus? I never did,” Fanny said. “But Ihave seen men in their sixties working as bank guards, or night watchmen, or elevator operators. And didn’t Steve say this John Smith was on his way towork the night Random met him in the bar? Isn’t that what Steve said? Sure, it is. So why hasn’t Steve thought of it before this? That man was a night watchman, or I’ll eat my hat. And for some reason, that uniform would identify the place where he was a watchman, and whoever killed the man doesn’t want that spot to be identified. Now that’s what I’m betting, Teddy, and I’m going to tell Steve the minute he gets here.” Fanny nodded emphatically. “In fact, I’m going to call and tell him right now.”

She went to the telephone and dialed Frederick 7-8024.

“Eighty-seventh Precinct, Sergeant Murchison.”

“This is Fanny Knowles. May I talk to Steve, please?”

“Fannywho?” Murchison said.

“Fanny Knowles, you dumb Irishman!” Fanny shouted. “Fanny Knowles who lives with the Carellas and who’s only called that run-down station house a hundred times already in the past year and spoken to yourself, you big jerk sitting on your fat butt! Fanny Knowles, now get me Steve Carella, would you please, dearie?”

“One of these days, Fanny…”

“Yes, dearie?” she said sweetly.

“Never mind. I can’t get you Steve because he’s gone out, said he wouldn’t be back until late this afternoon, if at all. Had an apartment on Franklin Street he wanted to check, and said it might take a bit of time.”

“That’s too bad,” Fanny said. “I had an idea for him, about the case he’s working on.”

“Well,” Murchison said with saccharine solicitude, “he’ll just have to struggle along without your assistance, I guess. Was there any other cop you want to offer help to today? We got a whole squadroom of them upstairs.”

“Go to the devil,” Fanny said, and she hung up.

The whole squadroom of cops was reallynone of them at the moment. Carella had gone out to look up the address given him by Mary Goodery, Parker was still on his candy store plant, Hernandez was out interrogating a buglary victim, and Meyer and Kling were in the lieutenant’s office. The squadroom was empty and stone silent. Anyone could have walked up there and marched out with all the typewriters and electric fans.

In Byrnes’s office, Meyer was divulging his sudden brainstorm, his eyes aglow. Byrnes sat behind his desk, his fingers before him in a small cathedral. Kling leaned against the wall and listened skeptically.

“It’sobvious that’s what he’s trying to pull,” Meyer said. “I’m surprised I didn’t see it before this.”

“It’s too obvious,” Kling said dryly.

“What do you mean?” Meyer answered, annoyed. “Don’t start telling me—”

“Let him talk, Meyer,” Byrnes said.

“All I know is that a guy who’s going to rob a bank isn’t going to point a finger at it. He’s not going to say, ‘This is it, fellas, so please be waiting for me when I blast in, okay?’ It’s just too damn obvious.”

“Then why were those shovels sent to the loft?”

“To let usthink he was going to break into that bank,” Kling said. “Aren’t you forgetting something? He’s been calling a bunch ofother stores, too.”

“Restaurants, clothing stores, a tie—”

“So what’s Raskin’s place? The Taj Mahal?” Kling said. “Raskin runs a wholesale dress business. What the hell does that matter? It’s not Raskin’s place he’s calling attention to. It’s the bank downstairs! Okay, how many of those other places are over banks, or next door to them?”

“I never thought of that,” Meyer said. “Where’s that list of stores?”

“On your desk,” Kling said.

Meyer ran out of the room. Kling shook his head and said, “It looks like a smoke screen to me, sir. I may be wrong, but it smells to high heaven. The man couldn’t be that stupid or that egotistical. He’s pointed an obvious finger at Raskin’s loft, right over the bank, and he’s even had some picks and shovels delivered there, supposedly by accident. And the redheads today. It’s just too obvious.”

“What about the redheads?” Meyer asked, coming back into the room with his list. He went directly to the phone, got an outside line and began dialing.

“The A. Conan Doyle story,” Kling said. “‘The Redheaded League.’”

“Stophocking me with your damn mysteries,” Meyer said. “We’re trying—Hello?” he said into the phone. “Mr. Lombardo? James Lombardo? This is Detective Meyer of the Eighty-seventh Squad. Listen, could you please tell me what’s next door to you? What? Oh, a lingerie shop. Well, thank y—What?What’s on the other side? Oh, I see. Thank you, Mr. Lombardo. No, nothing yet. Thank you.” He replaced the phone on its cradle.

“Well?” Byrnes said.

“A lingerie shop on one side of him, and a jewelry shop on the other.”

“Jewelry,” Kling said.

“Yeah.” Meyer looked at his list again. “Let me try another one of these.”

“Sure,” Kling said. “‘The Red-headed League.’ The son of a bitch is referring us to his source.”