Lady Killer (87th Precinct) by Ed McBain

Author:Ed McBain [McBain, Ed]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781612181738
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2013-03-12T00:00:00+00:00

Some guys, too, have all the misfortune.

Meyer Meyer and Steve Carella had their share that blistering day. By 1:40 P.M. the sidewalks were baking, the buildings were ready to turn cherry red with contained heat, the people were wilting, automobile tires were melting, and it was obvious even to the neophyte science fiction fan that the earth had somehow wandered too close to the sun. It would surely be consumed by fire. This was the last day, and Richard Matheson had called the tune, and the world would end in molten fire.

Undramatically speaking, it was damn hot.

Meyer Meyer was a sweater. He sweated even in the wintertime. He didn’t know why he sweated. He supposed it was a nervous reaction. But he was always covered with perspiration. Today he was drowning in it. As the two detectives wandered from hockshop to hockshop on sleazy Crichton Avenue, wandered from open door to open door, passed rapidly from one trio of gold balls to the next, Meyer thought he would die in a way unbefitting a heroic cop. He would die of heat prostration, and the obits would simply say, COP FLOPS. Or perhaps, if the news was headlined in Variety, SOPPY COP DROPS.

“How do you like this Variety headline announcing my death by heat prostration?” he said to Carella as they entered another hockshop, “Soppy Cop Drops.”

“That’s pretty good,” Carella said. “How about mine?”

“In Variety?”

“Sure.

“Let me hear it.”

“Soppy Wop Cop Drops.”

Meyer burst out laughing. “You’re a prejudiced bastard,” he said.

The owner of the hockshop looked up as they approached his cage.

“Yes, sir, gentlemen,” he said, “what can I do for you, sirs?”

“We’re from the police,” Carella said. He plunked the binoculars down on the countertop. “Recognize these?”

The hockshop owner examined them. “A beautiful pair of glasses,” he said. “Pieter-Vondiger. Have they figured in a crime, perhaps?”

“They have.”

“Was the perpetrator carrying them?”

“He was.”

“Mmmm,” the owner said.

“Recognize them?”

“We sell a lot of field glasses. That is, when we have them to sell.”

“Did you have these to sell?”

“I don’t think so. The last Pieter-Vondigers I had was in January. These are eight by thirty. The pair I had were six by thirty. These are better glasses.”

“Then you didn’t sell these glasses?”

“No, sirs, I didn’t. Are they stolen?”

“Not according to our lists.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you, sirs.”

“That’s all right,” Carella said. “Thanks.”

They walked out onto the blistering sidewalk again.

“How many other cops are on this?” Meyer asked.

“Pete asked for a pair from each precinct. Maybe they’ll come up with something.”

“I’m getting tired. Do you suppose that damn letter is a phony?”

“I don’t know. If it is, we ought to lock the bastard up, anyway.”

“Hear, hear,” Meyer said, in a burst of enthusiasm rare for the heat.

“Maybe we’ll get a make on the prints,” Carella said.

“Sure, maybe,” Meyer agreed. “Maybe it’ll rain.”

“Maybe,” Carella said.

They walked into the next shop. There were two men behind the counter. Both grinned as Meyer and Carella crossed the room.

“Good afternoon,” one said, smiling.

“A pleasant day,” the other said, smiling.

“I’m Jason Bloom,” the first said.

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