The Mugger 87th Precinct Series, Book 2 - By Ed McBain Page 0,37

something about them?” Candrel smiled in a peculiarly superior manner. “I’ve been making frames for all kinds of glasses for more than fourteen years now. And you ask me if I can tell you something about them? My friend, I can tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Well, can you tell us—”

“The trouble with most people,” Candrel went on, “is that they think it’s a simple operation to make a pair of sunglass frames—or any kind of eyeglass frames, for that matter. Well, gentlemen, that’s simply not true. Unless you’re a sloppy workman who doesn’t give a damn about the product you’re putting out. Candrel gives a damn. Candrel considers the consumer.”

“Well, perhaps you can—”

“We get this sheet stock first,” Candrel said, ignoring Meyer. “It’s called zyl—that’s the trade term for cellulose nitrate, optical grade. We die-stamp the fronts and temple shapes from that sheet stock.”

“Fronts?” Meyer said.

“Temples?” Temple said.

“The front is the part of the eyeglass that holds the lenses. The temples are the two gizmos you put over your ears.”

“I see,” Meyer said. “But about these glasses—”

“After they’re stamped, the fronts and temples are machined,” Candrel said, “to put the grooves in the rims and to knock off the square edges left by the stamping. Then the nose pads are cemented to the fronts. After that, a cutter blends the pads to the fronts in a ‘phrasing’ operation.”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Nor is that the end of it,” Candrel said. “To blend the nose pads further, they are rubbed on a wet pumice wheel. Then the fronts and temples go through a roughing operation. They’re put into a tumbling barrel of pumice, and the tumbling operation takes off all the rough machine marks. In the finishing operation, these same fronts and temples are put into a barrel of small wooden pegs—about an inch long by three-sixteenths of an inch wide—together with a lubricant and our own secret compound. The pegs slide over the fronts and temples, polishing them.”

“Sir, we’d like to get on with—”

“After that,” Candrel said, frowning, a man obviously not used to being interrupted, “the fronts and temples are slotted for hinges, and then the hinges are fastened with shields, and then fronts are assembled to temples with screws. The corners are mitred, and then the ends are rounded on a pumice wheel in the rubbing room. After that—”

“Sir—”

“After that, the frames are washed and cleaned and sent to the polishing room. All of our frames are hand-polished, gentlemen. A lot of companies simply dip the frames into a solvent to give it a polished look. Not us. We hand-polish them.”

“That’s admirable, Mr. Candrel,” Meyer said, “but—”

“And when we insert plain glass lenses, we use a six-base lens, a lens that has been ground and is without distortion. Our plano sunglasses are six-diopter lenses, gentlemen. And remember, a six-base lens is optically correct.”

“I’m sure it is,” Meyer said tiredly.

“Why, our best glasses retail for as high as twenty dollars,” Candrel said proudly.

“What about these?” Meyer asked, pointing to the glasses on Candrel’s desk.

“Yes,” Candrel said. He poked at the glasses with his finger again. “Of course, we also put out a cheaper line. We injection-mold them out of polystyrene. It’s a high-speed die-casting operation done under hydraulic pressure. Semiautomatic, you understand. And, of course, we use less expensive lenses.”

“Are these glasses a part of your cheaper line?” Meyer asked.

“Ah…yes.” Candrel seemed suddenly embarrassed.

“How much do they cost?”

“We sell them to our jobbers for thirty-five cents a pair. They probably retail anywhere from seventy-five cents to a dollar.”

“What about your distribution?” Temple asked.

“Sir?”

“Where are these glasses sold? Any particular stores?”

Candrel pushed the glasses clear to the other side of his desk, as if they had grown suddenly leprous.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “you can buy these glasses in any five-and-ten-cent store in the city.”

At 2:00 on the morning of Thursday, September 21, Eileen Burke walked the streets of Isola in a white sweater and a tight skirt.

She was a tired cop.

She had been walking the streets of Isola since 11:45 the previous Saturday night. This was her fifth night of walking. She wore high-heeled pumps, and they had definitely not been designed for hikes. In an attempt to lure the mugger, whose basic motivation in choosing women might or might not have been sexually inspired, she had hitched up her brassiere a notch or two higher so that her breasts were cramped and upturned, albeit alluring.

The allure of her mammary glands was not to be denied by anyone, least of all