“An oscillator,” Peck said.
Meyer made a note on his pad. “How much does the oscillator sell for?” he asked.
“Well, this is a six-hundred-volt oscillator, number 2L-2314. We sell it for fifty-two dollars and thirty-nine cents. That’s including tax.”
“And that’s all he took the first time?”
“Yes, that’s all he took. We get a forty per cent markup on the item, so our loss wasn’t really that big. So we decided like to forget about it, you know?”
“I see. But the thief broke into your store again last night, is that correct?”
“That is correct,” Peck said, tweaking his nose.
“And what did he steal this time?”
“Little items. Like a relay which we sell for ten dollars and twenty-two cents, including tax. And some batteries. And a knife switch. Things like that. He couldn’t have swiped more than twenty-five bucks’ worth of equipment.”
“But this time you’re reporting it?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I mean, if the loss this time was smaller than the loss…”
“Because we’re afraid he might come back a third time. Suppose he comes back with a goddamn truck and cleans out the store? It’s possible, you know.”
“I know it is. And we appreciate your reporting the crimes to us, Mr. Peck. We’ll keep a special watch on your store from now on. Would you give me the name of it, please?”
“Pecker Parts,” Peck said.
Meyer blinked. “Uh… where’d you get that name?” he asked.
“Well, my last name is Peck, as you know.”
“Yes.”
“And my partner’s first name is Erwin. So we put the two names together and we got Pecker Parts.”
“Wouldn’t you have done better by using some other portion of your partner’s name? His last name perhaps?”
“His last name?” Peck said. “I really don’t see how we could have used that.”
“What is his last name?”
“Lipschitz.”
“Well,” Meyer said, and he sighed. “And what is the address of the store, Mr. Peck?”
“Eighteen twenty-seven Culver Ave-nue.
Thank you,” Meyer said. “We’ll keep an eye on it.
“Thank you,’ Peck said. He rose, tweaked his nose, and left the squadroom.
The theft of equipment amounting to a loss of some seventy-five dollars was certainly not important in itself. Or, at least, not important as thefts go, unless you’re a stickler for the letter of the law, one of those people who insist that any silly little theft is really crime. In the 87th Precinct, however, seventy-five-dollar losses were commonplace, and if you knocked yourself out tracking down every bit of petty larceny, you’d have no time left for the really serious crimes being committed. No, on the face of it Mr. Peck’s paltry pilfering complaint was nothing to get all excited about—unless you happened to be a man named Meyer Meyer who kept abreast of what was happening around him in the squadroom and in the precinct and who was blessed with a fairly retentive memory.
Meyer studied the notes on the pad before him and then walked over to a desk on the other side of the room. Steve Carella was sitting at that desk, busily typing up a report, the forefingers of both hands beating the typewriter into reluctant submission.
“Steve,” Meyer said. “I just had a guy in here who—”
“Shhh, shhh,” Carella said, as he continued banging away at the machine until he finished his paragraph. Then he looked up.
“Okay?” Meyer said.
“Shoot.”
“I just had a guy in here who—”
“Why don’t you sit down? You want some coffee? Let’s get Miscolo to make some coffee.”
“No, I don’t want any coffee,” Meyer said patiently.
“This isn’t a social visit?”
“No. I just had a guy in here who owns a radio parts store on Culver Avenue.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. So the store was broken into twice in a row. The first time the thief stole an oscillator, whatever the hell that is, and the second time just a bunch of loose junk hanging around. Now it seems to me I remember…”
“Yeah, how about that?” Carella said. He shoved the typing cart away from the desk and opened his bottom drawer. Dumping a sheaf of papers on the desk top, he began rifling through them hurriedly.
“A whole bunch of radio store burglaries, weren’t they?” Meyer said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Carella answered. “Where the hell’s that list?” He continued scattering papers over the desk top. “Look at this. More junk in this damn drawer. This guy was caught and is already serving his time at Castleview. Now where’s that… ? Jewelry stores… bicycles… Why doesn’t somebody add these to the stolen-bikes file?… Here it is. This the thing you were referring to?”
Meyer looked at the typewritten sheet.
“That’s it,” he said. “Pretty strange, don’t you think?”
There was, in truth, nothing strange about the list. It simply enumerated the amount of equipment that had been stolen from several different radio parts stores over the past several months. Both men bent over the list and studied it more closely.
“What do you make of it?” Meyer said.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you must have thought there was something fishy, or you wouldn’t have scribbled that note to the lieutenant.”
“Yeah,” Carella said.
“What did Pete have to say about it?”
“Not a hell of a lot. Figured it was some kids, I think.”
“What was the mo., Steve? Do you remember?”
“A window at the back of the shop was forced in each case. And in each case, only one large item or a few small items were stolen.”
“Why do you suppose the thief did that?”
“Maybe he figured a small theft wouldn’t be reported. Or perhaps not even missed. Assuming this was the same thief on each job.”
“Well, it sure as hell looks that way to me,” Meyer said.
‘Mmm. In any case, it’s not very serious.”
“I suppose not. Here. You’d better add these new ones to your list.” Meyer paused and scratched his bald head. “You suppose we’re dealing with a Russian spy or something here?”
“Either that or a member of the I.R.A.”
“I mean, why else would anybody want all these parts?”
“We may be dealing with a ham who can’t afford his hobby,” Carella said.
“Yeah, so why doesn’t he switch his hobby?”
“One thing I stopped worrying about the minute I became a detective,” Carella said, “is motive. If you try to figure out what motivates a crook, you go nuts.”