“An airplane,” Meyer said.
“A what?”
“A picture of an airplane.”
“What kind of an airplane?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” Meyer said.
It was Cotton Hawes who positively identified the airplane.
“That’s a Zero,” he said, looking at the photostat now pinned to the bulletin board at the end of the row that contained two pictures of J. Edgar Hoover and two pictures of George Washington. Hawes had been Chief Torpedoman aboard a PT boat throughout the war in the Pacific and presumably knew whereof he spoke; Meyer accepted his word without hesitation.
“But why?” he said.
“Who the hell knows? How does a picture of a Japanese fighter plane tie in with Hoover and Washington?”
“Maybe the Japanese are planning an attack on the FBI in Washington,” Meyer said.
“Right,” Hawes said. “Six squadrons of Zekes zooming in low over Pennsylvania Avenue.”
“Pearl Harbor all over again.”
“Beginning of World War III.”
“Must be that,” Meyer said. “What else could it be?”
“And the Deaf Man, realizing we’re the nation’s only hope, is warning us and hoping we’ll sound the clarion.”
“Go sound the clarion, Cotton.”
“You know what I think?” Hawes said.
“Tell me, pray.”
“I think this time he’s putting us on. I don’t think there’s any connection at all between those stats.”
“Then why send them to us?”
“Because he’s a pain in the ass, plain and simple. He snips unrelated pictures out of newspapers, magazines, and books, has them photostated, and then mails them to us, hoping they’ll drive us crazy.”
“What about the threat he made?”
“What about it? Carella’s going to help him steal half a million bucks, huh? Fat chance of that happening.”
“Cotton?” Meyer said.
“Mmm?”
“If this was anybody else we were dealing with here, I would say, ‘Yes, you’re right, he’s a bedbug.’ But this is the Deaf Man. When the Deaf Man says he is going to do something, he does it. I don’t know what connection there is between those stats, but I know there is a connection, and I know he’s hoping we’re smart enough to figure it out.”
“Why?” Hawes said.
“Because once we figure it out, he’ll do something related but unrelated. Cotton...”
“Yes, Meyer?”
“Cotton,” Meyer said, and looked up seriously, and said with great intensity, “Cotton, this man is a diabolical fiend!”
“Steady now,” Hawes said.
“Cotton, I detest this man. Cotton, I wish I had never heard of this villain in my entire life.”
“Try to get hold of yourself,” Hawes said.
“How can we possibly figure out the associations his maniacal mind has concocted?”
“Look, Meyer, you’re letting this...”
“How can we possibly know what these images mean to him? Hoover, Washington, and a goddamn Jap Zero!” Meyer stabbed his finger at the photostat of the airplane. “Maybe that’s all he’s trying to tell us, Cotton.”
“What do you mean?”
“That so far we’ve got nothing. Zero. A big fat empty circle. Zero, zero, zero.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Hawes asked kindly.
Carella hit four apartment buildings on Porter Street before he found a mailbox listing for Henry Scaffale. He climbed the steps to the third floor, listened outside Apartment 32, heard voices inside but could not distinguish what they were saying. He knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice asked.
“Me,” Carella said. “Detective Carella.”
There was a short silence. Carella waited. He heard someone approaching the door. It opened a crack, and Bob Carmody looked out.
“Yes?” he said. “What do you want?”
“Mary Margaret here?”
“Maybe.”
“I’d like to talk to her.”
“What about?”
“Is she here?”
“Maybe you’d better come back with a warrant,” Bob said, and began closing the door.
Carella immediately wedged his foot into it, and said, “I can do that, Bob, but going all the way downtown isn’t going to sweeten my disposition by the time I get back. What do you say?”
“Let him in, Bob,” a girl’s voice said.
Bob scowled, opened the door, and stepped aside to let Carella in. Mary Margaret was sitting on a mattress on the floor. A chubby girl wearing a pink sweater and jeans was sitting beside her. Both girls had their backs to the wall. Hank was straddling a kitchen chair, his chin on his folded arms, watching Carella as he came into the room.
“Hello, Mary Margaret,” Carella said.
“Hello,” she answered without enthusiasm.
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“Talk,” she said.
“Privately.”
“Where would you suggest? There’s only this one room and a john.”
“How about the hallway?”
Mary Margaret shrugged, shoved her long hair back over her shoulders with both hands, rose with a dancer’s motion from her cross-legged position, and walked barefooted past Carella and into the hallway. Carella followed her out and closed the door behind them.
“What do you want to talk about?” she asked.
“Do you pose for an artist named Sandy Elliot?”
“Why?” Mary Margaret asked. “Is that against the law? I’m nineteen years old.”
“No, it’s not against the law.”
“So, okay, I pose for him. How’d you know that?”
“I saw some of his work. The likeness is remarkable.” Carella paused. “Do you also drive for him?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you drive him up to Boston last weekend?”
“Yes,” Mary Margaret said.
“Were you posing for him today when I went to the shop?”
“I don’t know when you went to the shop.”
“Let’s take just the first part. Were you posing for him today?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“From ten o’clock on.”
“I was there about eleven.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Sandy didn’t mention my visit?”
“No.”
“When did he hurt his leg, Mary Margaret?”
“I don’t know.”
“When was the last time you posed for him?”
“Before today, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Last Thursday.”
Carella took a small celluloid calendar from his wallet and looked at it. “That would be Thursday, the fifteenth.”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Was he on crutches at that time?”
“Yes.”
“When did you pose for him before that?”
“I pose for him every Thursday morning.”
“Does that mean you posed for him on Thursday, April eighth?”
“Yes.”
“Was he on crutches then?”
“No.”
“So he hurt himself sometime between the eighth and the fifteenth, is that right?”
“I guess so. What difference does it make when he...?”
“Where’d you go in Boston?”
“Oh, around.”
“Around where?”
“I don’t know Boston too well. Sandy was giving me directions.”
“When did you leave here?”
“Friday.”
“Friday, the sixteenth?”
“Mmm.”
“Was it?”
“Yes, it was. Last Friday. Right.”
“What kind of car did you use?”