Let's Hear It for the Deaf Man [antikvár]

1. Fat balmy breezes wafted in off the park across the street, puffing lazily through the wide-open windows of the squadroom. It was the fifteenth of April, and the temperature outside hovered in the mid-sixties. Sunshine splashes drenched the room. Meyer Meyer sat at his desk idly reading a D.D. report, his bald pate touched with golden light, a beatific smile on his mouth, even though he was reading about a mugging. Cheek cradled on the heel and pahn of his hand, elbow bent, blue eyes scanning the typewritten form, he sat in sunshine like a Jewish angel on the roof of the Duomo. When the telephone rang, it sounded like the trillmg of a thousand larks, such was his mood this bright spring day. "Detective Meyer," he said, "87th Squad." "I'm back," the voice said, "Glad to hear it," Meyer answered. "Who is this?" "Come, come. Detective Meyer," the voice said. "You haven't forgotten me so soon, have you?" The voice sounded vaguely familiar, Meyer frowned. "I'm too busy to play games, mister," he said. "Who is this?" "You'll have to speak louder," the voice said, "I'm a little hard of hearing." Nothing changed. Telephones and typewriters, filing cabinets, detention cage, water cooler, wanted posters, fingerprint equipment, desks, chairs, all were still awash in brilliant simshine. But despite the floating golden motes, the room seemed suddenly bleak, as though that remembered telephone voice had stripped the place of its protective gilt to expose it as shabby and cheap. Meyer's frown deepened into a scowl. The telephone was silent except for a small electrical crackling. He was alone in the ' ) squadroom and could not initiate a trace. Besides, past ex- , perience had taught him that this man (if indeed he was 1 ! I ;