The Heckler

by Ed McBain

  “We’re not sure onall of them yet,” Meyer said, waiting for someone to pick up the phone on the other end.

  “We’re pretty sure,” Kling said. “He calls all these guys and he hopes one of them’ll call the cops, or all of them. He wants them to call the cops. Why? Because there’re twenty-three stores so far, and who knows how many others who didn’t bother to call us. Then he directs attention to Raskin’s loft because he wants us to think he’s going to hitthat bank. And today he takes out an ad forredheads, making sure we don’t miss the significance of the Sherlock Holmes story. He draws a direct parallel. He wants us to tip, wants us to figure out he’s going to rob the bank under Raskin’s loft. Okay, why?”

  Into the phone, Meyer said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Goldfarb. Yes, thank you.” He hung up. “The travel agency,” he said. “It’s next door to a bank.”

  “Sure,” Kling said. “So you know why he’s doing this?”

  “Why?” Byrnes asked.

  “Because he’s not going to hit that bank under the loft at all. He’s going to hit one of the other twenty-three. The rest are just his smoke screen.”

  “Which one is he gonna hit?” Meyer asked.

  Kling shrugged. “That’s the big question, Meyer.”

  “What do we do, Pete?”

  “What’s today?” Byrnes asked.

  “The twenty-eighth.”

  “And his deadline is the thirtieth?”

  “Yes.”

  “That gives us two days. I imagine we can put some men on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ll cover those shops. I’ll have to get help from some of the other squads. One man to a shop. You say there are twenty-three of them?”

  “So far.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot of men to be throwing out of action,” Byrnes said. He shook his head. “I’d better call Headquarters on this. I’m going to need more help than the squads can give. We can’t put so many detectives out of action.”

  “Why not patrolmen?” Kling said.

  “They’d never catch him. He’d spot the uniforms.”

  “Put them on special duty. Plainclothes. It’s only for two days.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Byrnes said. “I’ll talk to Captain Frick.” He reached for the phone. “There’s only one thing that puzzles me,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “If none of these shopowners move—if none of them yield to his threat to get out by the thirtieth—how in hell will he pull his job?”

  The men stared at each other blankly.

  They had just asked the two-and-a-half-million-dollar question.

  And none of them knew the answer.

  13.

  THE FOUR MEN SAT on the hillside overlooking the ice-cream factory. The factory was surrounded by a cyclone fence and within that fence there were at least thirty white ice-cream trucks lined up in three identical rows. Two smokestacks jutted up into the April sky, and a huge sign straddled the stacks:

  PICK-PAK ICE CREAM

  The Big Lick on a Stick

  The four men looked like a group of congenial buddies who had been out for a late afternoon stroll, who’d discovered this grassy hillock overlooking the ice-cream plant, and who’d decided to sit and rest their weary feet. There was certainly nothing sinister-looking about any of the men. If they’d showed up at Central Casting for parts in a grade-B gangster film, each and every one of them would have been turned down. And yet three of the four men had police records, and two of the men were, at that very moment, carrying guns. And even though their conversation was carried on in low and gentle tones, accompanied by sincere facial expressions, these men were discussing the future commission of a crime.

  The deaf man was the tallest and handsomest of the four. He sat looking out over the rows of white trucks, a strand of grass between his teeth.

  “That’s where we get it,” he said.

  Chuck, sitting next to him, fished for a cigarette in the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a single cigarette while leaving the package inside the pocket. He took out a book of matches, lifted the cover, bent one match over from the rest so that it was close to the striking surface, closed the cover, and then struck the match, all with one hand, the match flaming but still attached to the folder.

  “Plenty trucks,” he said, and he blew out a stream of smoke.

  “We only need one, Chuck,” the deaf man said.

  “That’s for sure. When do we grab it?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “The day before, huh?”

  “Thenight before,” the deaf man corrected.

  “What time?”

  “I figured along about midnight. Rafe’s been casing the lot for a week. Rafe, do you want to fill us in?”

  Rafe adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, let out a sigh and ran a busy hand through his straw-blond hair. He seemed reluctant to speak. It almost seemed as if speaking pained him physically.

  “There’s a simple padlock on the gate,” he said, his voice very low, as if he had learned at an early age that people who speak softly are generally listened to. “I can open it with a bobby pin.”

  “He’s speaking figuratively,” the deaf man said. He grinned. “Aren’t you, Rafe?”

  “Sure, not a bobby pin, but this is a snap, believe me. Also, there’s no watchman in the yard. So once we’re in, we’re in.”

  “Are the ignition keys left in the trucks?” Chuck asked.

  “No. We’ll have to cross the wires.”

  “No possibility of getting duplicates made?”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “That might be worth thinking about,” Chuck said, turning to the deaf man. “I mean, we can’t keep the thing running all the time, can we? And if the law shows, who wants to be fooling around with wires under the dash?”

  “Once we get the truck away from here, I can rig a switch that works without an ignition key,” Rafe said. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “I’m not worried, I’m only thinking ahead. This isn’t a penny-ante thing we’re involved in here, Rafe.”

  “Nobody said it was.”

  “Okay. Is the fence wired?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Apparently they’re not too concerned about the trucks. There’s an alarm for the plant, and there’s also a watchman who—”

  “Uh-oh,” Chuck said.

  “No, no, nothing to worry about,” the deaf man assured him quickly. “He never comes out into the yard, and we won’t make our play until he’s up on the top floor of the building.”

  “How do we know when that is?” Chuck asked.

  “It’s at elevenP.M .,” Rafe said. “He begins making his rounds at that time. Takes the elevator up to the sixth floor and then starts down on foot. We’ll start working on the fence at eleven. We’ll grab the truck when he reaches the top floor.”

  “And how will we know when he reaches the top floor?”

  “You can see his flashlight as he walks around. It lights up the whole damn floor. Okay?”

  “Sounds good so far. We grab the truck and we’re out before he gets a chance to come all the way downstairs again, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then what?” Chuck asked.

  “We drive the truck to the store.”

  “Think that’s smart?”

  “Why not? It says Chelsea Pops, Inc. right on our window, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure. But it says Pick-Pak Ice Cream on the side of the truck.”

  “The truck’ll be in the back yard. Nobody’s going to go looking there. Besides, Pop can keep away any visitors while we work on it.”

  Pop, who had not uttered a word thus far, cleared his throat and said, “Sure, I can do that. It’s Rafe and Chuck who’ll be taking the truck, is that right?”

  “That’s right, Pop,” the deaf man said.

  “And they’ll drive it to the store where you and I’ll be wait
ing, is that right?”

  “That’s right, Pop.”

  “Will I be dressed, or what?”

  “Yes, of course,” the deaf man said. “Your job is to keep any unwanted visitors away.”

  “Okay.” The old man put a hand up to shade his eyes and squinted at the rows of white trucks in the lot below. “Is that tin covering the trucks?” he asked.

  “It’s a porcelainized metal of some sort,” Rafe answered. “Why?”

  “Will we have any trouble getting the new signs on it?”

  “I don’t think so. We’ve got an electric drill and carborundum bits. Those things can drill throughsteel .”

  “Mmm, that’s good,” the old man said, nodding.

  “What about the license plate?” Chuck asked, sucking in on his cigarette.

  “What about it?” the deaf man said.

  “We’re grabbing the truck the night before the job, aren’t we?” he asked. He was truly an ugly man with the squat solidity of a gorilla, huge shoulders and long, dangling arms, massive hands, a square, short-snouted head. And yet he spoke quietly, almost gently.

  “Yes, the night before the job,” the deaf man said.

  “So they’ll be looking for it, won’t they? What I mean is, the watchman’ll call the cops either as soon as he hears that truck taking off, or as soon as he realizes it’s gone, depending on how much on the ball he is. Next thing you know a whole description is going out, you know how the cops work, don’t you? So next thing you know, the license plate is being flashed to every squad car in the city. So where does that leave us? So that’s what I meant when I asked about the plate.”

  “Naturally, the plate will be changed.”

  “But when? It’s a long haul from here to the store. If that watchman is on the ball, the license plate number can be on the air in five minutes. I’ll be driving this truck, you know.”

  “So what’s your idea?”

  “I say we change the plate right here in the lot, even before we start the truck. That’s what I say.”

  “All right.”

  “Fine. And it can’t be an ordinary plate, you know. You look at those trucks down there, you’ll see they’re not carrying ordinary plates. That’s a special kind of commercial plate. We’ll have to scout around for some between now and the thirtieth.”

  “We will,” the deaf man said.

  “The other thing that bothers me is working in the open, in the back yard, when we get to the store. You know what I mean? Even if the license plate isn’t flashed, every cop in the city’ll be looking for a Pick-Pak Ice Cream truck. So there we are drilling holes into the side of one. That doesn’t smell so hot to me.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Can’t we build some kind of a temporary screen?”

  “I’m afraid a screen would attract attention.”

  “Well, I don’t like working in the back yard. This is too big a thing to take a risk like that.”

  “Could we take the truck to Majesta?” the old man asked. “Work on it there?”

  “That would really be dangerous. A half-hour ferry ride? No, that would be out of the question.”

  “Why don’t we rent a private garage somewhere near here?” Rafe asked. “We can drive to it as soon as we have the truck, make our changes, and then go over to the store. Once the changes are made, we’re safe.”

  “I think that would be best,” the deaf man said. “I’ll contact some real estate agents tomorrow. This is a fairly rural section, so perhaps we’ll have some luck. If not, we’re simply going to have to chance working in the open.”

  “If we can’t get a garage near here, I’d rather drive it to some dark street and do the job there instead of in that back yard.”

  “Let’s not cross our bridges,” the deaf man said. “It’s agreed that I’ll try to find a garage in this neighborhood tomorrow. Let’s leave it at that for now.”

  “Okay,” Chuck said.

  “But we’ll be taking the truck tomorrow, right?” the old man asked. He paused. “I don’t like to ask too many questions, but I did get in this sort of late, and…”

  “That’s all right. Yes. We take the truck tomorrow night.”

  “And the big job?”

  “The next day, of course. April thirtieth.”

  The old man nodded. “Who’ll be driving on the day of the big job?”

  “Rafe.”

  “Who’ll be with him?”

  “I will,” the deaf man said.

  “Have you got uniforms?”

  “I’ve ordered them. I’m to pick them up tomorrow.”

  “Where will Chuck and I be?” Pop asked.

  “After you deliver your packages?” the deaf man said, and he grinned.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll go immediately to the house in Majesta. You should be finished by one o’clock or so. I expect you’ll both catch the two-fifteen boat. Or, at worst, the four-oh-five.”

  “And you and Rafe? Which boat will you be on with the truck?”

  “We’re trying for the five-forty-five. If not, we’ll catch the six-oh-five.”

  “And when’s the one after that?”

  “Seven-fifteen,” Rafe said.

  “We don’t have to worry about any boat beyond the six-oh-five,” the deaf man said. “We’re starting the job at five o’clock, and it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to do the remaining work. Another ten minutes to load the cartons, and another ten to get to the ferry slip.”

  “With the loot,” Pop said.

  “I should hope so,” the deaf man said, smiling.

  “And when do we leave Majesta?”

  “As soon as things begin to cool. We can work that out while we’re there. We’ll leave one at a time. Last man takes the car. The ice-cream truck stays behind, in the garage.”

  “You think of everything, don’t you?” Chuck said, and there was a tinge of bitterness to his voice.

  “I try to,” the deaf man said flatly. “I find it’s just as simple to think of everything asnot to. And a hell of a lot safer.”

  “I hope you’ve thought of everything,” Chuck said.

  “I have, believe me.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better get back to the store,” he said. “I want to get to work again. We’ve got a lot to do before Thursday.”

  “Look, I hate to sound too cautious,” the old man said.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m going to have to take another look at those maps you drew. I mean, I’ve got to know exactly where to plant those things.”

  “Certainly,” the deaf man said, and he reached into his side jacket pocket. “I thought I had them with me,” he said. “I guess I left them at the Franklin Street apartment. I’ll stop by for them.”

  “Think that’s safe?” Chuck asked, a worried look on his ugly features. “Going back to that apartment?”

  “I think so, yes,” the deaf man said. “As a matter of fact, I was there again just last night, entertaining a lady friend.” He stared at Chuck defiantly. “I’ll meet you back at the store. You can begin working again as soon as it’s dark. Pop, you take up your usual post. We have to be finished by Thursday, remember that.”

  THE BUILDING ONFranklin Street was an elegant dwelling which, some twenty years ago, had been among the most aristocratic of apartment houses. Time and the vagaries of the taste makers, a fickleness which shifted the desirability of neighborhoods from the south side to the north side with the swiftness of summer lightning, had combined to render Franklin Street no longer as desirable as the buildings to the south. The local joke now was that no one went to the north side unless it was to take a steamer to Europe, and the bromide was not very far from the truth. But the buildings on Franklin Street had not succumbed to the shoddy encroachments of the slums as had some of the buildings within the territory of the 87th Precinct, buildings which had once been princely and which had slowly been strangled by the octopus of poverty. The buildings on Franklin Street still had d
oormen and elevator operators. There were no profanities scrawled on the walls of the entrance foyers. The rents in these now-unfashionable buildings were still very fashionably high.

  Which led Carella to wonder how a man like John Smith, who had been existing on his social security checks, could afford to live in a joint like 457 Franklin Street. Carella stood on the sidewalk underneath the green canopy and looked into the entrance foyer. A doorman standing just inside the glass entrance doors stared out at him, opened one of the doors in anticipation, and came out onto the sidewalk.

  “Help you, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m trying to locate one of your tennants, a man named John Smith.”

  “Yes, sir, he’s one of our tenants,” the doorman said. “But he ain’t around right now. In fact, I ain’t seen him for quite some time.”

  “For how long?”

  “Oh, since last month some time.”

  “Mmm. How long has he been living here, would you know?”

  “Just a few months, sir.”

  “When did he move in, would you say?”

  The doorman studied Carella narrowly. “Are you a friend of his?” he asked.

  “No, I’m a cop.” He flashed the buzzer.

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. When did he move in, can you tell me that?”

  “The end of February, I think it was.”

  “And the last time you saw him was in March, that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was he living alone?”

  “I don’t know. He was here quite a lot.”

  “But alone?”

  “What?”

  “Alone? Was he here alone?”

  “Well, I just told you—”

  “There were visitors?”

  “Yes.”

  “Living with Smith?”

  “Maybe. It don’t matter to the building, you know. Long as a tenant don’t disturb other tenants, it’s his apartment, after all. So long as he don’t play the radio late or make noise or do anything against—” The doorman’s eyebrows went up quizzically. “Thelaw ?” he asked. “Is Mr. Smith in some kind of trouble?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. I’d like to take a look at the apartment. Think you can let me in?”