“Who’s there?” the policeman on duty asks. His flashlight scans the trio. Buck, in the sergeant’s uniform, steps forward.
“It’s all right,” Buck says. “I’m Sergeant Pierce, Emergency Service. These men are from the electric company. They’re trying to locate that power break.”
“Okay, Sergeant,” the cop answers.
“Everything quiet in there?” Buck asks.
“So far, Sarge.”
“Better check out their equipment,” Buck says. “I don’t want any static on this later.”
“Good idea,” the cop says. He swings his flashlight around. Ahmad opens the tool box. There is nothing in it but electricians tools: a test light, a six-foot rule, a brace, four screwdrivers, a Stillson wrench, a compass saw, a hacksaw, a hammer, a fuse puller, wire skinners, wire cutters, gas pliers, Allen wrenches, friction tape, rubber tape … “Okay,” the cop says, and turns to the deaf man. “What’s that you’re carrying?”
“A volt-ohm meter,” the deaf man answers.
“Want to open it for me?”
“Sure,” the deaf man says.
The testing equipment is nothing more than a black leather case perhaps twelve inches long by eight inches wide by five inches deep. When the deaf man unclasps and raises the lid, the flashlight illuminates an instrument panel set into the lower half of the case, level with the rim. Two large dials dominate the panel, one marked “Volt-Ohm Meter,” the other marked “Ammeter.” There are three knobs spaced below the dials. Factory-stamped lettering indicates their use: the two end knobs are marked “Adjuster,” and the one in the middle is marked “Function.” Running vertically down the left-hand side of the panel are a series of jacks respectively marked 600V, 300V, 150V, 75V, 30V, and Common. Flanking the dials on the right-hand side of the plate there are similar jacks marked 60 Amps, 30 Amps, 15 Amps, 7.5 Amps, 3 Amps, and Common. Another jack and a small bulb are below the second adjuster knob, and they are collectively marked “Leakage Indicator.” In bold factory-stamped lettering across the length of the tester are the words “Industrial Analyzer.”
“Okay,” the cop says, “you can close it.”
The deaf man snaps the lid of the case shut, fastens the clasp again.
“I’ll take them inside,” Buck says.
“Right, Sarge,” the cop says, and the trio goes up the walk to the house, where they are stopped by a detective at the front door.
“Sergeant Pierce, Emergency Service,” Buck says. “These men are from the electric company, here to check that power failure.”
“Right,” the detective says.
“I’ll stick with them,” Buck says, “but I don’t want no other responsibility.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if the mayor trips and breaks his ankle while they’re on the premises, I don’t want no static from my captain.”
“We’ll keep the mayor far away from you,” the detective says, and smiles.
“Okay, where you guys want to start?” Buck asks. “The basement?”
They go into the house. There are battery-powered lights set up, but for the most part the house is dim, the figures moving through it are uncertainly defined. The three men start in the basement, going through the motions of checking out circuits. They go through every room of the house, never once seeing the mayor in the course of their inspection. In the master bedroom, the deaf man shoves the testing equipment under the huge double bed, ostensibly searching for a leak at the electrical outlet. When he walks out of the room, he is no longer carrying anything. The “Industrial Analyzer” is on the floor under the mayor’s bed.
That analyzer, with its factory-sleek assortment of dials, knobs, jacks, and electrical terminology is real — but nonetheless fake. There is no testing equipment behind those meters, the interior of the box has been stripped bare. Hidden below the instrument panel, set to go off at 2 A.M., there is only another of Buck’s bombs.
Tomorrow night, the mayor would die.
And on Saturday morning, the uncommitted would commit. They would open their newspapers and read the headlines, and they would know the letter was for real, no opportunist could have accurately predicted the murder without having engineered it and executed it himself. They would take the letter from where they had casually put it, and they would read it once again, and they would fully comprehend its menace now, fully realize the absolute terror inherent in its words. When one was faced with the promise of unexpected death, was five thousand dollars really so much to invest? Not a man on that list of one hundred earned less than $200,000 a year. They had all been carefully researched, the original list of four hundred and twenty names being cut and revised and narrowed down to only those who seemed the most likely victims, those to whom losing five thousand dollars at a Las Vegas crap table meant nothing, those who were known to have invested in speculative stocks or incoming Broadway plays — those, in short, who would be willing to gamble five thousand dollars in hope of salvation.
They will pay us, the deaf man thought.
Oh, not all of them, certainly not all of them. But enough of them. Perhaps a few more murders are in order, perhaps some of those sleek fat cats on the list will have to be eliminated before the rest are convinced, but they will be convinced, and they will pay. After the murder tomorrow night, after that, when they know we’re not fooling, they will pay.
The deaf man suddenly smiled.
There should be a very large crowd around City Hall starting perhaps right this minute, he thought.
It will be an interesting weekened.
“You hit the nail right on the head,” Lieutenant Byrnes said to Steve Carella. “He’s going for the mayor next.”
“He’ll never get away with it,” Hawes said.
“He’d better not get away with it,” Byrnes said. “If he succeeds in knocking off the major, he’ll be picking up cash like it’s growing in the park. How many of these letters do you suppose he’s mailed?”
“Well, let’s try to figure it,” Carella said. “First he warned the parks commissioner and demanded five thousand dollars. Next the deputy major, and a demand for fifty thousand. Now he tells us he’ll kill the mayor this Friday night. So if the escalation carries through, he should be bucking for ten times fifty thousand, which is five hundred thousand. If we divide that by —”
“Forget it,” Byrnes said.
“I’m only trying to figure out the mathematics.”
“What’s mathematics got to do with JMV getting killed?”
“I don’t know,” Carella said, and shrugged. “But it seems to me if we can figure out the progression, we can also figure out what’s wrong with the progression.”
Byrnes stared at him.
“I’m trying to say it just isn’t enough for this guy to knock off the mayor,” Carella said.
“It isn’t, huh? Knocking off the mayor seems like more than enough to me.”
“Yeah, but not for somebody like the deaf man. He’s too proud of his own cleverness.” Carella looked at the letter again. “Who’s this man Carl Wahler?” he asked.