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.

  “I’m Jacob Bloom,” echoed the other.

  “How do you do?” Carella answered. “We’re Detectives Meyer and Carella of the 87th Squad.”

  “A pleasure, gentlemen,” Jason said.

  “Welcome to our shop,” Jacob said.

  “We’re trying to trace the owner of these binoculars,” Carella said. He put them on the counter. “Do you recognize them?”

  “Pieter-Vondiger,” Jason said.

  “Excellent glasses,” Jacob said.

  “Superb.”

  “Magnificent.”

  Carella broke into the lavish praise. “Recognize them?”

  “Pieter-Vondiger,” Jason said. “Didn’t we—”

  “Precisely,” Jacob said.

  “The man with the—”

  And the brothers burst out laughing together. Carella and Meyer waited. The laughter showed no signs of subsiding. It was reaching heights of hysteria, unprecedented hurricanes of hilarity, fits of festivity. Still, the detectives waited. At last the laughter subsided.

  “Oh my God,” Jason said, chuckling.

  “Do we remember these glasses?”

  “Do we?” Jason said.

  “Oh my God,” Jacob said.

  “Do you?” Carella asked. He was hot.

  Jason sobered instantly. “Are these the glasses, Jacob?” he asked.

  “Certainly,” Jacob said.

  “But are you sure?”

  “The scratch on the side, don’t you remember? See, there is the scratch. Don’t you remember he complained about the scratch? We reduced the glasses a dollar and a quarter because of the scratch. And all the while he was—” Jacob burst out laughing again.

  “Oh my God,” Jason said, laughing with him.

  Meyer looked at Carella. Carella looked at Meyer. Apparently the heat in the shop had grown too intense for the brothers.

  Carella cleared his throat. Again the laughter subsided.

  “Did you sell these glasses to someone?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Jason said.

  “Certainly,” Jacob said.

  “Who?”

  “The man with the lollipop!” Jason said, bursting into a new gale of hysteria.

  “The man with the lollipop!” Jacob repeated, unable to keep his laugh from booming out of his mouth.

  “This man had a lollipop?” Carella asked, deadpanned.

  “Yes, yes! Oh my God!”

  “He was sucking on it all the while we haggled over the…the…”

  “…the glasses,” Jason concluded. “Oh my God. Oh my good Lord! When he left the shop, we couldn’t stop laughing. Do you remember, Jacob?”

  “Yes, yes, how could I forget? A red lollipop! Oh, was he enjoying it! Oh, no child ever enjoyed a lollipop more! It was wonderful! Wonderful!”

  “Magnificent!” Jason said.

  “Fantastically—”

  “What was his name?” Carella asked.

  “Who?” Jason asked, sobering.

  “The man with the lollipop.”

  “Oh, what was his name, Jacob?”

  “I don’t know, Jason.”

  Carella looked at Meyer. Meyer looked at Carella.

  “Isn’t there a bill of sale, Jacob?”

  “Certainly, Jason.”

  “When was he here?”

  “Two weeks ago, wasn’t it?”

  “A Friday?”

  “No, a Saturday. No, you’re right, it was a Friday.”

  “When was that? What date?”

  “I don’t know. Where’s the calendar?” The brothers busied themselves over a calendar on the wall.

  “There,” Jacob said, pointing.

  “Yes,” Jason agreed.

  “Friday,” Jacob said.

  “July twelfth.”

  “Would you check your bills?” Carella asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “Of course.”

  The brothers moved into the back room.

  “Nice,” Meyer said.

  “What?”

  “Brotherly love.”

  “Um,” Carella answered.

  The brothers returned with a yellow carbon copy of the bill.

  “Here it is,” Jason said.

  “July twelfth, just as we thought.”

  “And the man’s name?” Carella asked.

  “M. Samalson,” Jason said.

  “No first name?”

  “Just the initial,” Jason said.

  “We only take the initial,” Jacob corroborated.

  “Any address?” Meyer asked.

  “Can you read this?” Jason asked, indicating the writing on the line printed Address:.

  “It’s your handwriting.”

  “No, no, you wrote it,” Jason said.

  “You did,” Jacob told him. “See how the t is crossed. That is your handwriting.”

  “Possibly. But what does it say?”

  “That’s a t, for sure,” Jacob said.

  “Yes. Oh, it’s Calm’s Point! Of course! That’s Calm’s Point.”

  “But what’s the address?”

  “3163 Jefferson Street, Calm’s Point,” Jason said, in a deciphering burst.

  Meyer copied down the address.

  “A lollipop!” Jason said.

  “Oh my God,” Jacob said.

  “Thank you very much for…” Carella started, but the brothers were laughing to beat the band, so the two detectives simply left the shop.

  “Calm’s Point,” Carella said when they were outside. “Clear the hell over on the other end of the city.”

  “It would be that way,” Meyer said.

  “We’d better get back to the squad. Pete may want to put a Calm’s Point precinct on it.”

  “Right,” Meyer said. They walked back to the car. “You want to drive?”

  “I don’t care. You tired?”

  “No. No. I just thought you might want to drive.”

  “Okay,” Carella said.

  They got into the car.

  “Think those reports on the prints are back yet?”

  “I hope so. Might save us a call to Calm’s Point.”

  “Um,” Meyer said.

  They set the car in motion. They were silent for a while. Then Meyer said, “Steve, it’s hot as hell today.”

  The reports from the Bureau of Criminal Identification and the FBI were waiting at the office when Carella and Meyer returned. Both agencies had reported that they were unable to find fingerprints in their vast files corresponding to the ones taken from the binoculars.

  Hawes walked into the squadroom as the men were reading the reports.

  “Any luck?” he asked.

  “No make,” Carella said. “But we got the name of the guy who bought those binoculars. That’s a break.”

  “Pete want to pick him up?”

  “I haven’t told him yet.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “M. Samalson.”

  “You’d better tell Pete quick,” Hawes said. “I got a good look at the guy who slugged me. If it was Samalson, I’ll know it.”

  “And we’ve also got the prints to compare, in case your memory’s faulty,” Carella said. He paused. “How’d you make out with Lady Astor?”

  Hawes winked and said nothing.

  Carella sighed and went into Byrnes’s office.

  The closest Calm’s Point precinct to M. Samalson’s home address was the 102nd. Byrnes put in a call to the detective squad there and asked them to pick up and deliver Samalson as soon as possible.

  At 2:00 P.M. a new batch of kids in dungarees and red- striped T-shirts was trotted into the precinct squadroom. Dave Murchison was brought up from the desk. He looked the kids over, stopped before one of them, and said, “This is the kid.”

  Byrnes walked over to the boy.

  “Did you deliver a letter here this morning?” he asked.

  “No,” the boy said.

  “He’s the kid,” Murchison insisted.

  “What’s your name, son?” Byrnes asked.

  “Frankie Annuci.”

  “Did you bring a letter here this morning?”

  “No,” the kid said.

  “Did you come into the building and ask for the desk sergeant?”

  “No,” the kid said.

  “Did you hand a letter to this man here?” Byrnes said, indicating Murchison.

  “No,” the kid said.

  “He’s lying,” Murchison said. “This is the kid.”

  “Come on, Frankie,” Byrnes said gently. “You did deliver that letter, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  There was fear in the boy’s wide blue eyes, fear of the law, a fear deeply ingrained in the mind of every precinct citizen.

  “You’re not in any trouble, son,” Byrnes said. “We’re trying to find the man who gave you that letter. Now, you did deliver it, didn’t you?”

  “No,” the kid said.

  Byrnes turned to the other detectives, his patience beginning to wear thin. Hawes walked to the boy, joining Byrnes.

  “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of, Frankie. We’re trying to find the man who gave you that letter, do you understand? Now, where did you first meet him?”

  “I didn’t meet anybody,” the kid said.

  “Get rid of the rest of these kids, Meyer,” Byrnes said. Meyer began shuttling the other boys out of the room. Frankie Annuci watched their departure, his eyes growing wider.

  “How about it, Frankie?” Carella asked. Unconsciously, he had drifted into the circle around the boy. When Meyer had got rid of the other boys, he came back to stand with Byrnes, Hawes, and Carella. There was something amusing about the scene. The ridiculousness of it struck each of the detectives at the same moment. They had automatically assumed the formation for intense interrogation, but their victim was a boy no older than ten, and they felt somewhat like bullies as they surrounded him, ready to fire their questions in machine-gun bursts. And yet, this boy was a possible lead to the man they were seeking, a lead that might prove more fruitful than the thus far phantom name of M. Samalson. They waited, as if unwilling to begin the barrage until their commanding officer gave the signal to fire.

  Byrnes opened it.

  “Now, we’re going to ask some questions, Frankie,” he said gently, “and we want you to answer them. All right?”

  “All right,” Frankie said.

  “Who gave you the letter?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Was it a man?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A woman?” Hawes asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know what the letter said?” Carella asked.

  “No.”

  “Did you open it?” Meyer said.

  “No.”

  “But there was a letter?”

  “No.”

  “You did deliver a letter?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lying, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Where’d you meet the man?”

  “I didn’t meet anybody.”

  “Near the park?”

  “No.”

  “The candy store?”

  “No.”

  “One of the side streets?”

  “No.”

  “Was he driving a car?”

  “No.”

  “There was a man?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was he a man or a woman?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The letter said he was going to kill somebody tonight. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like this man or this woman to kill somebody?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he’s going to kill somebody. That’s what the letter said. He’s going to kill a lady.”

  “She may be your mother, Frankie.”

  “Would you like this man to kill your mother?”

  “No,” Frankie said.

  “Then tell us who he is. We want to stop him.”

  “I don’t know who he is!” Frankie blurted.

  “You never saw him before today?”

  Frankie began crying. “No,” he said. “Never.”

  “What happened, Frankie?” Carella asked, handing the boy his handkerchief.

  Frankie dabbed at his eyes and then blew his nose. “He just came over to me, that’s all,” he said. “I didn’t know he was gonna kill anybody. I swear to God!”

  “We know you didn’t know, Frankie. Was he on foot or in a car?”

  “A car.”

  “What make?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What color?”

  “Blue.”

  “A convertible.”

  “No.”

  “A sedan?”

  “What’s a sedan?”

  “Hardtop.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see the license number?”

  “No.”

  “What happened, Frankie?”

  “He called me over to the car. My mother said I should never get in cars with strangers, but he didn’t want me to get in the car. He asked me if I wanted to make five bucks.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said how?”

  “Go ahead, Frankie,” Byrnes said.

  “He said I should take this letter to the police station around the corner.”

  “What street were you on, Frankie?”

  “Seventh. Right around the corner.”

  “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “He said I should come in and ask for the desk sergeant and then give it to him and leave.”

  “Did he give you the five dollars then or later?”

  “Right then,” Frankie said. “With the letter.”

  “Have you still got it?” Byrnes asked.

  “I spent some of it.”

  “We wouldn’t get anything from a bill, anyway,” Meyer said.

  “No,” Byrnes said. “Did you get a good look at this man, Frankie?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Well, he had short hair.”

  “Very short?”

  “Pretty short.”

  “What color eyes?”

  “Blue, I think. They were light, anyway.”

  “Any scars you could see?”

  “No.”

  “Mustache?”

  “No.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “A yellow sports shirt,” Frankie said.

  “That’s our man,” Hawes put in. “That’s who I tangled with in the park.”

  “I want a police artist up here,” Byrnes said. “Meyer, get one, will you? If this Samalson doesn’t work out, we may be able to use a picture to show around.” He turned sharply. The phone in his office was ringing. “Just a second, Frankie,” he said, and he went into the office and answered the phone.

  When he returned, he said, “That was the 102nd. They checked Samalson’s home address. He isn’t there. His landlady says he works in Isola.”

  “Where?” Carella asked.

  “A few blocks from here. A supermarket called Beaver Brothers, Inc. Do you know it?”

  “I’m halfway there,” Carella said.

  On the telephone, Meyer Meyer said, “This is the 87th Squad. Lieutenant Byrnes wants an artist up here right away. Can you—”

  Cotton Hawes knew the instant Carella brought the man into the squadroom that he was not the man who’d assaulted him in the park.

  Martin Samalson was a tall, thin man wearing the white apron of a supermarket clerk, the apron somehow emphasizing his gauntness. His hair was blond and wavy and worn long. His eyes were brown.

  “What do you say, Cotton?” Byrnes asked.

  “Not him,” Hawes said.

  “Is this the man who gave you the letter, Frankie?”

  “No,” Frankie said.

  “What letter?” Samalson asked, wiping his hands on the apron.

  Byrnes picked up the binoculars, which were resting on Carella’s desk. “These yours?” he asked.

  Samalson looked at them in surprise. “Yeah! Hey, how about that? Where’d you find them?”

  “Where’d you lose them?” Byrnes asked.

  Samalson seemed suddenly aware of the situation. “Hey, now wait a minute, just wait a minute! I lost those glasses last Sunday. I don’t know why you dragged me in here, but if it’s got something to do with those glasses, just forget it! Boy, get off that kick fast.” He shook the air with one outstretched palm, wiping the slate clean.