The Heckler

“The reason I know is I studied Spanish in high school,” Joey said. “That was my language there.Habla usted Español?”

“Sí un poquito,”Hernandez answered, lying. He did not speak Spanish only slightly. He spoke it as well as any native of Madrid—no, that was false. In Madrid, the Spanish were pure, and ac or az before certain vowels took ath sound. In Puerto Rico, the sound became ans . The word for “five,” for example—spelledcinco in both Spain and Latin America—was pronouncedtheen-koh in Spain andseen-koh in Puerto Rico. But he spoke the language like a native when he wanted to. He did not very often want to.

“I know Spanish proverbs.” Joey, said. “You know any Spanish proverbs?”

“Some,” Hernandez said as they walked toward the elevator.

“Three years of high-school Spanish, and all I can do is quote proverbs,” Joey said. “What a drag, huh? Here, listen.No hay rosas sin espinas. How about that one? You know what that one means?”

“Yes,” Hernandez said, grinning.

“Sure. There ain’t no roses without thorns. Here’s another one, a very famous one.No se ganó Zamora en una hora . Is that right?”

“That’s right,” Hernandez said. “Your pronunciation is very good.”

“Rome was not built in a day,” Joey translated. “Man, that one kills me. I’ll bet I know more Spanish proverbs than half the people in Spain. Here’s the elevators. So the guy who said he was John Smith wasn’t John Smith, is that right?”

“That’s right,” Hernandez said.

“So now the only real question is which of those two guys was John Smith? The blond guy with the hearing aid? Or the old duffer who used to come to the apartment and whose picture your lieutenant showed to me. That’s the question, huh?”

“The old manwas John Smith,” Hernandez said. “And whatever the blond’s name is, he’s wanted for criminal assault.”

“Or maybe murder if mypaisan dies, huh?”

Hernandez did not answer.

“God forbid,” Joey said quickly. “Come on, I’ll take you up. The door’s open. There was guys here all last night taking pictures and sprinkling powder all over the joint. When they cleared out, they left the door open. You think Carella’s gonna be all right?”

“I hope so.”

“Me, too,” Joey said, and he sighed and set the elevator in motion.

“How often was the old man here?” Hernandez asked.

“That’s hard to say. You’d see him on and off, you know.”

“Was he a hardy man?”

“Healthy, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, he seemed pretty healthy to me,” Joey said. “Here’s the sixth floor.”

They stepped out into the corridor.

“But the apartment was rented by the blond one, is that right? The deaf man? He was the one who called himself John Smith?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Why the hell would he use the old man’s name unless he was hiding from something? And even then…” Hernandez shook his head and walked down the hall to apartment 6C.

“You gonna need me?” Joey asked.

“No, go on.”

“’Cause our elevator operator is sick, you know. So I got to run the elevator and also take care of the door. So if you don’t mind…”

“No, go right ahead,” Hernandez answered. He went into the apartment, impressed at once by the expensive modern furniture, overwhelmed at once by the total absence of sound, the silence that pervades every empty apartment like an old couple living in a back room. He walked swiftly to the arch between the living room and the bedroom corridor. The rug there was stained with dried blood. Carella’s. Hernandez wet his lips and walked back into the living room. He tabulated the units in the room which would warrant a thorough search: the drop-leaf desk, the hi-fi and liquor cabinet, the bookcases, and—that wasit for the living room.

He took off his jacket and threw it over one of the easy chairs. Then he pulled down his tie, rolled up his sleeves, crossed to the windows and opened them, and began working on the desk. He searched the desk from top to bottom and found nothing worth a second glance.

He shrugged, straightened up, and was walking toward the hi-fi unit when he noticed that something had fallen from his inside jacket pocket when he’d tossed it over the back of the chair. He walked across the room and stooped at the base of the chair, picking up the photograph encased in lucite, the photo of the dead man who had been identified as John Smith. He scooped his jacket from the back of the chair and was putting the picture into the pocket again when the front door opened suddenly.

Hernandez raised his eyes.

There, standing in the doorway, was the man whose picture he’d been looking at a moment before, the dead man named John Smith.

15.

“WHO ARE YOU?” the man in the doorway said. “What do you want here?”

He was wearing a sailor’s uniform, and he took a step into the room as Hernandez’s hand dropped the photograph and reached for the Police Special holstered at his side. The sailor’s eyes widened.

“What?” he started, and he turned toward the door again.

“Hold it!” Hernandez snapped.