Part 3

What good could a description like that do the cops? It could fit a hundred thousand guys. It could eliminate a few, sure--teenage kids, skinny guys or fat ones, runts or six-footers. Yes, it would eliminate a few who might otherwise be suspects. Benny, for instance; Benny was well over six feet, well over two hundred pounds.

But would the cops _believe_ that his impression, his memory, was as vague as all that? He doubted it. Having nothing to lose, they'd operate on the theory that he might have got a better look than he remembered, that if he saw the man again his memory might come back and let him make a positive identification.

And he knew what that meant--line-ups. They'd expect him to attend the line-up every morning for God knows how long. Could they force him to? Maybe not, but they could be damned unpleasant about it, maybe make trouble for him, if he tried to refuse. Maybe they could even hold him, for a while anyway until a lawyer could get him out of it, as a material witness.

But even that wasn't the worst thing against taking his story, such as it was, to the police. Even if the police tried to keep it under wraps there was always a chance some damn reporter would get hold of the story and print it. Complete with his name and address. And how'd you like to have a crazy killer know who you were and think, however wrongly, that you knew him by sight and could put the finger on him the first time you saw him?

The cops would try to protect him, sure. But what if the killer was smarter than the cops? He had been, so far. And how _long_ would the cops be able to keep up a twenty-four-hour guard duty on him, and wouldn't it mess his personal and private life to hell and back while they did?

So Ray Fleck had sensibly kept his mouth shut about what he'd seen that night. He'd even almost forgotten about it himself; he was thinking about it this evening only because of that ridiculous would-be confession of Benny's. Crazy Benny might be, but the sex killer, no.

At Feratti's he took his favorite table. It was a small one against one side of the room but a light fixture in the wall right above it made it the best lighted table, and he needed good light to read the fine print and hieroglyphics of a Racing Form. He took his out of his pocket and unfolded it, turning first to the Aqueduct results for yesterday. He swore under his breath when he saw that Black Fox had won in the fifth and had paid ten to one for a win ticket. Black Fox was a horse he'd been following and had figured was due to win. If he'd had twenty-five bucks on the nag it would have made him more than half what he owed Amico and would have taken the pressure off. Damn Joe for having cut off his credit; otherwise he'd probably have made that bet, phoned it in. He glanced over results of the other races but with less interest; none of them were races he'd have bet anyway. He'd handicapped some of them but he'd have had to play the favorite in each if he played at all, and he almost never played favorites. You didn't win enough money to matter if they came in and they could always fool you and run out of the money. Really long shots weren't good either. The way to cash in on handicapping is to find a horse that pays better than the real odds against it, say a horse quoted at five or six to one but with one chance out of three or four of coming in. Then was the time to get the bank roll down, when the odds were in your favor.

He heard the deferential clearing of a throat and looked up; Sam, the waiter who always served this table, was standing there with a menu in his hand. "'Scuse me, Mist' Fleck. You wanna order now? Or shall I come back when you've had more time to figger them ponies?"

"I'll order now, Sam. Won't need a menu. Bring me the Special Sirloin."

"Yes, suh, Mist' Fleck. Medjum rare, like allus. An' Ah'll tell th' chef to pick out a nice big one."

Ray Fleck frowned as the waiter ambled off. He hadn't really intended to order a steak. But it didn't matter much. He'd be able to eat it; he was always able to eat. And it was probably better at that to get a good meal under his belt while he was at it.

He killed time with his Racing Form--not that he was going to do any betting tonight and probably not tomorrow, but a horse player has to stay in touch whether he's betting or not--until Sam brought his dinner. Then he gladly put the Form back in his pocket and dived in. Just ordering a steak and waiting for it had made him hungry, and he ate heartily. And rapidly, wolfing the steak as fast as he could cut it into bites. Ruth always kidded him about how fast he ate, but he could never see any use in dawdling over food.

And then, replete, he took a cigar from his pocket, unwrapped and lighted it. He sighed with a satisfaction as he inhaled the rich smoke.

The evening stretched ahead of him, a pleasant evening now, an exciting evening. True, he had to see Joe Amico, and that would be unpleasant, and a bit embarrassing. But he could handle Joe all right, no sweat at all.

And, true, he had to spend part of the evening raising money for a poker stake, but that ought to be easy; he knew hundreds of people; he'd run into dozens of them during the course of the evening. And once he had a stake, he was going to be lucky in the game. He had more than a hunch. He felt sure of it.

He caught Sam's eye and lifted a finger, a signal for Sam to bring over the check. Sam brought it over and put it face down in front of him. But he didn't have to turn it over; he knew a sirloin steak was four bucks and this one had been well worth it. He counted out four singles from his wallet and then, the fifth one in his hand, hesitated. Sam liked to gamble. "Double or nothing on the tip, Sam?"

Sam's teeth flashed, white in black. "Sho', Mist' Fleck. How? You want flip a coin and me call it?"

Suddenly Ray Fleck had a better idea. He didn't mind Sam winning, but if he did win it would be two bucks cash tonight. And cash tonight was more important than something he could pay off the next time he ate in Feratti's. He said, "Got a better idea, Sam. I'll give you _two_ tips. One of 'em's on a beetle named Birthday Boy in the fourth at Aqueduct tomorrow. Oughta pay about six to one, but I dope it he's got a better chance than that of winning. Want me to make book on him for you for a buck?"

Sam laughed. "Birthday Boy! Man, that's a real hunch bet, fo' me. Tomorra's my birthday, Mist' Fleck. Sho. An' I'm goin' to try to put some more dough down on him aftah wuk tonight. You said fourth race, Aqueduct?"

"That's it. Say, I'm seeing my bookie tonight. Want me to put down your bet for you? Might as well save you the trouble."

"That'd be fine, suh. Ah might miss the man Ah mostly bet with." Sam pulled wadded bills out of his pocket. Straightened out they proved to be a five and a half dozen ones. He handed the five to Ray Fleck. "Sho 'preciate yo puttin' this down fo' me, Mist' Fleck. Thanks muchly."

"Don't mention it, Sam. Glad to." And of course he was glad, because it put him five bucks ahead. Unless, of course, Birthday Boy won, but that was something he wouldn't have to worry about until tomorrow. Not even tomorrow, come to think of it; if the nag did come in he'd owe Sam about thirty bucks but he wouldn't have to drop into Feratti's right away to pay off. He could wait till next week, after his next pay check. Sam wouldn't come looking for him.

After Sam had left he put the money in his wallet and, while he had it open, counted what was there. He was a little surprised to find out it was exactly what he'd left home with no more and no less, twenty-eight bucks.

Then he figured, and that was right. He'd got ten from Benny but had had to give the same amount to Dick Johnson. The five he'd just got from Sam covered his taxi fare and his dinner. He'd bought the Racing Form and had paid for a couple of drinks, but he must have had enough change to cover those things.

Well, he was still even. But damn it, he'd have to keep his mind on raising more, and damn fast. By rights he should have at least a hundred to sit in on that poker game. Fifty was rock bottom; he could hardly go around with less than that. Even with fifty, he'd have to count on winning some early pots or he'd go broke before he hit his stride and got really started.

Good God, wasn't there _someone_ who could and would lend him a sizable chunk of cash, say a hundred, in one chunk without his having to try to chisel it out five or ten bucks at a time?

There _had_ to be. With all the friends he had....

Ruth now. She was not only being selfish as hell, but she was being penny wise and pound foolish. If she'd only cash in that ridiculous, horribly expensive endowment policy and turn over the money to him so he'd be on his feet again, she wouldn't have to work. He could and would support her. If she'd only borrow five hundred against it, she'd take him off the spot. And damn it, wasn't anything she had half his anyway? Sure it was. This was a community property state.

Damn her, if he divorced her everything they owned would be split down the line and he'd get half of it. But he didn't have any grounds for divorce. He sometimes suspected that damned Greek she worked for of being soft on her--but he doubted that Ruth had ever encouraged him or had anything to do with him. And even if she had, how could he prove it? He couldn't afford to put private detectives on her, not now. Someday maybe. And even if he tried now and succeeded, a divorce took time. And cost money; it might even cost more than he'd get out of any property settlement.

Damn the stubborn bitch, he thought; when she gets an idea in her head....

But there must be someone besides Ruth who could help him. And who would.

Suddenly he remembered a short story he'd read once, a long time ago. He wasn't much of a reader, outside of newspapers and the Racing Form, but once--before he had met Ruth--a girl he'd been going with had given him as a present a book called _Great Short Stories of the World_. And not long after that he'd been home sick for a week with a case of bronchitis and had read most of the stories in the book and had even enjoyed some of them. One of them--he couldn't remember the title--had been by a Frenchman, Maupassant or somebody. It had been about a man who'd been in a bad financial jam. He'd needed money in a hurry and had gone to his wife, in whose name he'd put a lot of his property, and had asked her for money; she'd turned him down flat. In despair he'd gone to his mistress for help--and she'd given him back all the jewelry he'd given her, and he'd been saved.

Why not? Dolly wasn't exactly his mistress but she was the next thing to one. And while he hadn't given her any jewelry to speak of, except a wrist watch once, he'd given her, times when he'd been flush, plenty of other valuable presents. Hundreds of dollars' worth over the year and a half he'd known her. Of course she didn't love him; he knew that. But she liked him a lot and she was understanding. Wouldn't she lend him a hundred bucks if he asked her? Suddenly he felt sure that she would. Especially if he gave her a profit motive by telling her that if she lent him a hundred now he'd give her back a hundred and twenty-five in a week or two. And a hundred bucks tonight would sure be worth more than that some other time, when he was solvent again.

Sure, Dolly would do it. If not because of Cupid, then out of cupidity. Ray Fleck grinned to himself. Maybe there was something to reading great literature after all. If he hadn't read that story he might never have thought of Dolly Mason as a source of money. If only she was home, and alone, so he could see her this evening....

Well, he could find that out right away. He got up and got his hat first so he could leave right after the call, and then went to the phone booth. He dialed Eastgate 6-6606, Dolly's number--and a very easy one to remember. When the phone rang a dozen times or so he frowned, realizing that it wasn't going to be answered.

Then he thought to look at his wrist watch and realized why. Dolly was out somewhere eating dinner at this time. Her apartment had a kitchen but she never kept food in it; she always ate out. Alone, if there wasn't anyone to take her out. She never cooked, either for herself or for company.

He hung up and got his dime back, then left the booth. On his way out he passed Sam turning in some money at the cashier's desk and said, "Happy birthday, Sam. Hope your hunch hits."

Sam said, "Thanks muchly, Mist' Fleck. Ah hopes we both hits."

7:25 P.M.

It was dark outside now, and the blackness pressed against the windowpanes of the restaurant. Funny, Ruth Fleck thought, how black that blackness looked, because if you went outside through the door the sidewalk wasn't really dark at all. It was lighted by a street lamp not far away and by the lights of the restaurant itself shining through the big front windows. But from inside it looked like a solid wall of darkness.

Things were quiet now; the early dinner rush was over. There were four people still eating at one of the tables, a couple had just come in and were studying the menu at another, but both tables were in Margie's territory. At this time of evening, with two waitresses on, Ruth had only the counter--there were three people eating at it but they had all been served--and the two tables nearest the back end of the counter. In a few minutes there'd be only one waitress on; Ruth took off from seven-thirty to eight, to eat and rest. When she came back on Margie left for the day and Ruth took care of things alone the rest of the evening. Usually she could handle things quite easily alone. Mikos' Restaurant was a family type restaurant on the main street of a suburb; its customers were people of the type who ate their dinners relatively early and business after eight wasn't too heavy. Sometimes there was a flurry between ten and eleven--people dropping in on their way home from movies--and George came on and helped her.

She looked at her customers at the counter. One was just finishing and she walked down the counter to him. "Dessert, sir?" He was a clean-looking, well-dressed young man with blue eyes and dark curly hair. He looked up at her. "Thanks, no. I'd like some more coffee, though."

And, while she was pouring it, "I beg your pardon, hope you won't think I'm fresh, but I heard the other waitress call you Ruth. May I ask the rest of your name? Mine's Will Brubaker."

Here comes a pass, Ruth thought. But she didn't really mind; it happened about once an evening and she'd probably have wondered if it hadn't happened--have wondered whether she was losing her appeal and attractiveness. Of course there was always George Mikos to convince her that she wasn't. George was a rock.

And this young man was nice, shy; he'd had to work up his courage to take the first step of asking her name. She smiled at him. "Ruth Fleck," she said. "Mrs. Ruth Fleck." She didn't embarrass him by emphasizing the _Mrs._ but it was clear enough.

"Oh," he said. "I'm sorry."

"For what? It's my fault, not yours. I keep my rings in my purse while on duty because I don't like to work with them on. So you couldn't have known I was married." She took out her pad of checks and a pencil. "I'm going back into the kitchen now to eat my own dinner. I'd better give you your check."

"Sure. Uh--shall I pay it now?"

"Oh, no. The other waitress will take care of you at the register." She smiled again, a little mischievously this time. "Her name is Margie Weber and she's single."

He grinned and said "Thanks." He should have, Ruth thought. Margie was a very cute little redhead, much prettier, Ruth thought, than she herself was. And occasionally Margie did let customers make dates with her if they were nice enough; she might well think this one was nice enough.

The clock on the wall now said seven-thirty. Ruth caught Margie's eye and pointed toward the back of the restaurant to show that she was taking off. Margie nodded.

Ruth went back into the kitchen and through it to the closet-dressing room where the waitresses put their coats and those who didn't wear their uniforms to and from work (Ruth did) changed into them. She looked into the full-length mirror on one wall and liked what she saw there. She was tall for a woman; in high heels she was only an inch shorter than Ray, who was five feet ten. But she was slender and had a nice figure. The tiny waitress cap enhanced rather than hid her golden hair. Her eyes were deep blue. The only fault she could find was in her face; it was a square, honest face, attractive but not beautiful, with high cheekbones almost like an Indian's. The mouth was perhaps a trifle too wide, but the better for that when she smiled.

Right now, though, she wasn't smiling and her face looked tired. Well, it had a right to be; she'd cleaned the house thoroughly today, quite a bit of work to undertake before coming on for an evening shift that kept her on her feet almost all the time. That and the quarrel with Ray; quarrels always left her physically as well as emotionally exhausted.

But her eyes no longer showed that she'd been crying; two hours of work had taken care of that. Her nose was a little shiny though and she powdered it lightly, turned and looked over her shoulder to make sure her slip didn't show, and then went out into the kitchen again.

Tex, the cook, was taking advantage of a hiatus in order to scrape the big range. He nodded to her. "Some nice little club steaks, Ruth. Shall I fry one for you?" She shook her head. "Thanks no, Tex. I'll just help myself to something." She took a plate and went with it to the steam table, helped herself to a stuffed bell pepper, a small helping each of beets and peas, and took it to the table in the corner. It felt good to sit down and get off her feet.

She heard George Mikos come out of his office and walk up behind her. He said, "That isn't much of a meal for a healthy wench, Ruth."

She looked up at him over her shoulder. "I'm just not hungry. I'm going to have to make myself eat this much. I guess I don't feel very well."

"Want to take the rest of the evening off? I can handle things easily. Or maybe Margie would want to get in a little overtime."

"Oh, no, George. I'm not sick. Just a little tired." She smiled up at him. "I'll get my second wind soon." She wasn't exaggerating; it happened every evening when she'd done quite a bit of housework. She'd be tired for the first few hours of the evening and then get a second wind and feel fine the rest of the time.

"All right," he said. "When you're through eating don't forget you wanted to talk to me about something."

He walked away and she could tell by the sound of his footsteps that he went through the swinging doors to the front of the restaurant. She noticed for the hundredth time how lightly he walked for so big a man. She wondered if he was a good dancer and decided he probably was; most men who are light on their feet are. Ray hated dancing and she'd danced only a few times since she'd been married.

Ray took her out about once a month, on one of her evenings off, never to a show and never to dance. Even if they went to a night club where there was dancing between floor shows. Ray's idea of an evening out with her was to sit at a booth in a tavern or, if he was flush, at a table in a night club, to drink and talk. To talk, that is, if he ran into friends of his whom he could get to sit in the booth or at the table with them, as generally happened. If they were alone he was generally quiet and moody as though taking her out was a duty and he resented the loss of an evening that it entailed. And in either case they generally got home earlier than he himself would have come home had he been without her.

She supposed she might as well admit it--to herself; her marriage with Ray had been, thus far at least, a failure. But she also had to admit that it was partly her fault; she should have known him longer--and got to know him better. She had known, of course, that he enjoyed gambling, but she had no objection in principle to gambling, as long as it was in moderation. Her father, whom she had loved deeply, had gambled all his life and had been a wonderful man. She just hadn't known Ray well enough to know that with him gambling wasn't a mild vice, as it had been with her father, but was an obsession, the most important thing in his life. He was addicted to it as some even more unfortunate people become addicted to morphine or heroin. He had neither the will nor the will power to stop, and she felt sorry for him.

She wondered sometimes if Ray realized by now that their marriage had been a worse mistake for him, in all probability, than it had been for her. His mistake had been not in marrying her in particular; she was probably as tolerant a wife as he could have found. It had been in marrying at all. He had been made to be a bachelor. (Spoiled by a doting mother? He never talked about his early life and all she knew about his parents was that they were dead, as were her own.) He wasn't made for married life, for domesticity. He didn't want a home of his own; he'd have been happier living in a hotel, as he had lived before marriage, even than living in a rented flat. She wondered if he'd ever thought of their getting a divorce; he'd never mentioned one, not even late this afternoon when they'd had their worst quarrel to date. Or had that been because he still hoped that she might relent and either cash in or borrow against that policy to give him the money he wanted?

She'd finished eating and got up and put her plate, knife and fork with the dirty dishes. The kitchen clock showed her that only ten minutes of her lunch period had gone by, and George was still up front.

It was uncomfortably hot in the kitchen. The door to the alley was open and the light outside was on. She went through it and a step to one side to stand there for a breath of cool, fresh air. Well, cool air, anyway; the row of garbage cans to the other side of the door kept it from being too fresh.

There were quiet footsteps again, and then George stood beside her. He said, "You shouldn't be out here in the alley, alone."

"It's safe, George. It's right under a light and right outside the door. I'd have plenty of time to get back inside if I saw or heard anyone coming from either direction."

"I suppose so," he said. "I guess I worry too much. But did you read the editorials in both of yesterday's papers?"

"No, I didn't. Something about the--the psycho?"

"Yes, and it was something that needed to be written. In fact, the police suggested to the editors of both papers that it _be_ written, and my friend, the captain in charge of homicide, talked it over with me before he made the suggestion to them. I've got a copy of one of the editorials--and the other says approximately the same thing--in my office if you'd care to read it. Or I can tell you what it says, if you'd prefer."

Ruth said, "I think I'd as soon you tell me, if you don't mind. I suppose it warns women to stay out of dark alleys."

"Among other things, yes. You see, Ruth, a criminal--whether sane or psychotic--does tend to repeat the pattern of a crime. The _modus operandi_. But unless he's a moron he'll vary the pattern if and when his _modus operandi_ becomes impossible, for any reason, for him to repeat.

"And that's exactly what our psychotic killer is going to find himself up against if and when he decides to commit another crime. We don't know what kind of a gimmick he used to get his first two victims to open their doors for him, but whatever it was it's not likely to work for him again. Every woman in the city is scared and has been since the second crime, since it's looked as though he may be starting a series of such crimes."