KNOCK THREE-ONE-TWO

By FREDRIC BROWN

E. P. DUTTON & CO., INC.
New York

Copyright, © 1959 by Fredric Brown
All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A.

First Edition

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

A shortened version of this book appeared in the June issue of High Adventure, © 1959, under the title of Night of the Psycho.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 59-10773

[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

By Fredric Brown

THE DEAD RINGER
COMPLIMENTS OF A FIEND
HERE COMES A CANDLE
MURDER CAN BE FUN
THE BLOODY MOONLIGHT
THE FABULOUS CLIPJOINT
THE SCREAMING MIMI
NIGHT OF THE JABBERWOCK
DEATH HAS MANY DOORS
THE FAR CRY
WE ALL KILLED GRANDMA
THE DEEP END
MOSTLY MURDER
HIS NAME WAS DEATH
WHAT MAD UNIVERSE
THE LIGHTS IN THE SKY ARE STARS
ANGELS AND SPACESHIPS
THE WENCH IS DEAD
MARTIANS, GO HOME
THE LENIENT BEAST
ROGUE IN SPACE
THE OFFICE
ONE FOR THE ROAD
THE LATE LAMENTED
KNOCK THREE-ONE-TWO

Contents

KNOCK THREE-ONE-TWO

5:00 P.M.

He had a name, but it doesn't matter; call him the psycho.

That's what the newspapers and everyone who read them called him now, since his second murder two months ago. At first he'd been called by various designations: insane rapist-killer, homicidal maniac, sexual psychopath, and others. For convenience, for shorthand, it had boiled down to the psycho. The police called him that too, although they had been moving heaven and earth to find a better name for him, a name like Peter Jones or Robert Smith, a name that would let them find and apprehend him before he killed again. And again.

And now tonight the Need was on him again. The need to rape and kill a woman.

He stood in the hallway of an apartment building, before a door. Nervous tension was making him flex and unflex his hands—his tremendously strong, strangler's hands that had already killed twice and, if everything went well, were about to kill again. He forced himself to hold them still. Not that it mattered here and now, with no one watching him, but it was a habit that had been growing on him and one that he had to break, lest he forget sometime and do it when people were watching him and make them wonder about him, about why he did it. And maybe go on wondering from there; in this city right now just about everybody was watching his neighbor suspiciously, watching for just such little signs as that.

He took a deep breath and then raised a hand and knocked on the door. A light, almost diffident knock, not a peremptory one.

He heard the click of high heels coming to the door. And her voice called out, "Yes? Who is it?"

He made his voice as soft as his knock had been, and as unfrightening, just loud enough to carry to her. "Western Union, ma'am. Collect telegram, from Pittsburgh." Collect, of course, so she couldn't ask him to slide it under the door. And the "from Pittsburgh" should allay any suspicion she might have, since that's where her husband had gone yesterday, on a business trip. She might wonder why he'd wire her collect—but there could be reasons for that.

He heard the knob turn and tensed himself, ready. Then the door opened—a few inches, on a chain—and he knew that he had failed. He threw himself back flat against the wall alongside the door so she wouldn't get a glimpse of him.

And ran, down the flight of stairs and out to the street. Thank God her apartment was a back one and didn't have a window on the street from which she could still get a look at him. Once out the door he forced himself to walk slowly to his car. He got in and drove away, being careful not to drive too fast or too slow.

What a hell of a lousy break. He'd checked that apartment three days ago and there hadn't been a chain bolt on the door then. Her husband must have put it on for her just before he left on his business trip.

Well, at least he had got away safely.

He was five blocks off and had just turned onto a main traffic artery when he heard the sound of squad car sirens converging on the building he had just left.

5:02 P.M.

After his wife had left, Ray Fleck paced the flat in rage and despair. With rage, at first, predominating. Damn her, damn her, he thought. What kind of wife would flatly refuse to help her husband when he was in a jam, a real jam? The bitch, she could give him the money so easily, and never feel it. All she had to do was cash in that accursed insurance policy. What did she need it for? A policy on herself. And it had a cash surrender value of over three thousand dollars—maybe almost four thousand by now; several payments had been made since they'd last argued about it.

Or she could at least borrow against it, and all he needed was five hundred bucks. Four hundred and eighty, to be exact, but he'd made it a round figure. But no, that damned policy of hers was sacrosanct; she wouldn't even borrow against it. Sacrosanct for what, for God's sake? Sure it was her savings, her stake, and she'd taken it out herself, had started saving that way, before they were married. But now that she was married and had a husband to support her, why should she feel she needed a stake? Unless she was planning to leave him, or thinking that she might decide to do so—that was possible. They had had some pretty bitter quarrels, the past two years out of the three they'd been married. But she'd fought to keep that policy even during the first year, and they'd been pretty happy at first. He'd been in a lucky streak, riding high, and they'd both been in love. Women love you when you're in the chips. When it comes to money, women are a one-way street. You can spend it on them, but try to get some of it back. Just try.

Besides, some of the money in that policy was his, rightfully his. Hadn't he, for most of that first year, given her money to pay the premiums on it? Under protest, of course; he'd tried to talk her out of wanting to keep on carrying it. "Honey," he'd said, "what do we want a policy on you for? I don't want you to die, and if you should die I don't want ten grand out of it." But she'd had an answer for that. Women always have an answer.

"Ray, darling," she'd said, "I'd agree with you if this were just an insurance policy—but it isn't. It's a ten-year endowment policy, and that's a way of saving. A good way. I've carried it for over four years now and in less than another six years we'll have ten thousand dollars in cash. Won't that be nice?"

"Yeah, but it's a long time away—and those are damn high premiums. Why short ourselves now to have money when we're old? What good will ten thousand do us then?"

She laughed. "We won't exactly be old in six years. I'll be twenty-nine and you'll be thirty-five. As to what we can use it for—a house, if we haven't already bought one by then. It doesn't have to be big or expensive, but I want us to have a home of our own someday; I don't want to live in furnished flats the rest of my life. Or if we already have our own home by then, maybe it would be enough to let you start in business for yourself; you've said you would like to, if you had capital."

That had made sense to him. Not the part about "a home of our own"; he was a city dweller and wouldn't live in a house in the suburbs if somebody gave him one, but he could talk her out of that idea when the time came.

But with ten thousand capital, all at once, he could do himself a lot of good. He was a liquor salesman and seldom made less than a hundred a week in commissions: he averaged considerably higher than that. He worked for J. & B. Liquor Distributors, and he had a good following among taverns and liquor stores all over the city. And he had at least some contacts with salesmen for wholesalers and distillers; they knew he was a good salesman. If he could set himself up as an independent distributor, make a profit on what he sold instead of just a commission, he'd be on his way toward making big money instead of peanuts. But it would be a long, slow pull. He'd need capital, all right.

He'd made only one more effort. "But wouldn't it be better to put that much money in the bank instead? Then if there was an emergency, we could get at it easier."

But Ruth had shaken her head firmly. "We could put money in the bank, but you know you wouldn't, most weeks. Having regular premiums to meet will make us save. And if an emergency comes up we can borrow against the policy—and get the money the same day, since the company has an office here. But, Ray, I'd do it only for a real emergency—an accident or serious illness, an operation, something like that. Not to let you bet heavily on a horse race because you've got a hot tip, or to let you pay off a gambling debt if you run in the hole." Well, she'd warned him.

But he'd given in, and had given her money to keep up the premiums for a while, ten or eleven monthly premiums. Then he'd run into a streak of bad luck instead of good and had told her he couldn't give her the money; he just didn't have it.

She'd taken it calmly. "All right, Ray. But I'm not going to cash in that policy. I'll take a job, part time anyway, and make enough to pay the premiums myself. More than that, I hope."

And she had taken a job, and had worked ever since. He hadn't objected. Why should he? If the damn policy meant that much to her, why shouldn't she earn the money to keep it up? And, for that matter, to kick in on household expenses or at least to buy her own clothes? Why should he have to earn everything for both of them and let her do nothing?

She'd held several jobs. Checker at a supermarket, ticket seller at a movie. Currently, and for the past eight or nine months, she was working an evening shift as a waitress in a Greek restaurant. Thirty hours a week, from five-thirty to eleven-thirty five nights a week. Usually when he was home at this time he drove her to work—and sometimes when he was doing nothing important around eleven-thirty, picked her up after her work. But this afternoon he'd had to leave his car at a garage to have some work done on it (that would be another damn bill on top of everything else) so the question hadn't arisen. Just as well, since they'd quarreled so bitterly. They'd probably have kept on quarreling in the car, and it would have done him no good. He recognized by now that he'd lost the argument; she was adamant and she'd stay that way. She hadn't believed him when he'd told her he was in physical danger.

Well, he didn't really believe that himself. Joe Amico was tough but he wasn't a gangster, and he wasn't going to risk having anybody killed for four hundred and eighty bucks.

True, he might go to the length of having someone beat up a little if he thought the guy was welshing on him, didn't even intend to pay off. But Joe knew him better than that. He'd owed Joe before and had always paid off—although never anything like almost five hundred bucks; how had it ever run that high? Joe knew he had a good job and was good for the money eventually.

All he needed was a lucky streak, and he was due for one. Overdue for one. At poker, maybe, if the horses kept running badly for him. Sometimes when the horses ran badly the cards ran well for him. And vice versa.

There was a poker game tonight that might do the trick, if he had or could raise enough of a stake to sit in on it. Yes, this was Thursday night, and Harry Brambaugh always had a Thursday night poker game at his place. From eleven o'clock on, sometimes well into the next day. But—

Although he knew approximately how much money he had, he took out his wallet and counted it. Twenty-eight bucks, twenty-eight lousy bucks. Not enough to sit in on a game at Harry's. He ought to have a hundred to start with to buck that game, not a stake that could go in the first pot he got into beyond the ante. But if he could raise a hundred—well, a lucky streak could easily run it to enough to let him pay off Joe Amico and maybe some left over.

Raising a hundred didn't sound nearly as impossible as raising four hundred and eighty. Even if he had to borrow ten bucks apiece from ten guys. With all evening to do it in.

The phone rang. He picked it up and said "Ray Fleck."

And then recognized the voice that said "Hi, Ray," and wished he'd let the phone ring. It was Joe Amico.

He said, "Listen, Joe, I haven't been able to do anything yet—but I'm working on it. I'll raise it somehow, pretty soon. I'm sorry, but you know I'm good for it."

"I know you're good for it. You'd better be. But I want you to drop in and see me this evening."

"Sure, Joe, if you want me to. I'm coming downtown anyway. But it won't do any good. I'm flat."

"Flat or not, you come in. I'll be here till ten. Any time between now and then. Got me?"

"Okay, Joe. I'll see you."

He sighed as he put down the phone. Well, he was going downtown anyway; that had been the truth. And probably Joe was going to give him an ultimatum, a time limit. And it would be an unpleasant interview but at least he'd know the worst. He'd know how long he had to raise the money. Or whether Joe would take it in weekly payments if he simply couldn't raise it any other way. He'd hate that; he'd hate it like hell. Because, for a hell of a long time, it would leave him no surplus to do any betting with. And his luck was due to change; it had to change.

He strolled to the front window and stood looking down at the street, wondering whether he should go downtown now and eat whenever he got hungry, or save himself money by rustling something to eat here before he left. Since Ruth had to leave for work at five he had to fend for himself or eat out the five evenings she worked, but he didn't mind that; sometimes he even enjoyed cooking simple things for himself, and of course she did the cleaning up and dishwashing the next morning.

Aside from that he was glad she worked an evening shift; in fact, he'd talked her into doing it. He was out almost every evening himself; he'd explained to her that it was his best time for selling. And that was partly true. Some of his bar owner customers delegated the duller daytime hours to a bartender who wasn't authorized to do any buying and themselves took over the bar, with or without the help of a bartender or two, during the evening hours. Even tonight he should probably make a business call or two, although he didn't feel in the mood to do it. Just downtown bars, of course, since he wouldn't have his car till tomorrow. Yes, he could see Harry Webber and Chuck Connolly; they were both due to be called on.

Brakes squealed in the street below and his eyes swiveled toward the source of the sound, the nearby corner. It was a near accident. A kid, a boy about ten, had run across the street right in front of an oncoming car and the driver had slammed on his brakes and skidded, had managed to stop with only inches to spare. A close thing, a very close thing. But the kid ran on and the driver must have been the more shaken up of the two; he sat there almost a minute before starting up the car again.

Accidents can happen, even though this one didn't. And unbidden a thought rose in Ray Fleck's mind. What if an accident should happen to Ruth, on her way to work right now or on her way home tonight? Not that she'd run in front of a car like that crazy kid had, but pedestrians can be hit even when they're not at fault. By a drunken driver or a driver who loses control of his car. Sometimes cars even ran up onto a sidewalk and—

Oh, the chances of anything like that happening, of Ruth being killed, were a million to one against. Pretty poor odds—but good God, wouldn't it be a perfect answer to his problem, to all his problems, if it should happen? As beneficiary of her policy he'd have ten thousand dollars, ten whole grand, all at once. What he owed Amico would be peanuts; he'd still have nine and a half grand. It would be enough; he could make the break right away. He'd no longer be Ray Fleck, liquor salesman, but Ray Fleck, Distributor. And on the way to a real income.

Funny he'd never thought seriously about the possibility of his ever collecting that ten grand as a beneficiary. Maybe because Ruth was such a healthy girl; she hadn't been sick a day in the three years of their marriage. But even a healthy person can have an accident.

Or—He pushed that thought aside. He was no angel and he'd done a lot of dishonest things in his life, but he wasn't a murderer. Even if he was he'd never get away with it. If a woman is killed her husband is always the prime suspect, even if he hasn't any insurance on her.

Forget it, he told himself, and forgot it. Abruptly he made up his mind not to stick around the flat until he got hungry enough to eat here, to save a buck. What was a buck in the jam he was in? And the sooner he got downtown the more chances he'd have to raise a stake to get in that poker game with, at eleven. The game that was the only chance he knew of to win any real money tonight. The game he had to get into.

He left the flat, walked down the two flights of stairs and out to the street. He was lucky; a taxi was going by and he flagged it and got in. Downtown was only a short cab ride, half a buck plus tip, and he hated waiting for buses. "Main and Willis," he told the driver. "Drop me off at the northwest corner."

That was the corner where Benny had his newsstand and his first stop would be to pick up a Racing Form. Not that he'd be placing any bets tonight—or tomorrow unless he won really big at poker, but he always liked to study the Form anyway and do his handicapping. Besides Benny always—when he remembered; Benny's memory wasn't too good—held out a Form for him and if Benny had, he didn't want to leave him stuck with it. Poor Benny. Crazy Benny, some people called him; but Ray didn't think he was really crazy, just a little lacking upstairs, prone to forgetting things. And sometimes (Ray had heard, although he'd never run into this himself) to remembering things that hadn't really happened. But he ran the newsstand all right and never made a mistake in making change.

He paid off the taxi and strolled to the wooden enclosure from which Benny sold his papers. "Hi, Benny," he said. "Remember to hold a Form for me?"

"Sure, Mr. Fleck. I always remember to." And this time Benny really had remembered. He reached behind him and took a copy of the Racing Form down from a shelf at the back of the stand. Ray put down the coins to pay for it and picked it up, started to fold it as he turned, then had a sudden thought and turned back. Since he was going to have to raise his poker stake by borrowing a little each from as many friends as he could put the bite on, why not start here and now by seeing if Benny was good for a sawbuck? He'd never borrowed anything from Benny before, but what was to lose trying.

"Benny," he said. "I'm a little short on dough, wonder if you could lend me ten bucks. Just till Saturday, day after tomorrow, when I get my commission check."

Benny's big moon face didn't show any surprise. He said, "Why—why, I guess I can, Mr. Fleck." He took from under the counter the cigar box in which he kept bills—coins he kept in a change dispenser on his belt—and opened it. There were quite a few bills in it and for a second Ray considered whether he should ask if Benny could make it twenty instead; then he saw that all of the bills he could see were singles and maybe all of them were. In fact apparently all of them were because Benny didn't fish through them to look for a ten or two fives; he started counting out ten singles, one at a time, with the slow carefulness with which he always counted money or made change. He handed the ten bills over and Ray stuffed them into his wallet. "Thanks, Benny."

"Mr. Fleck. I just thought uh somethin'. You'll have to mail that money to me. I won't be here Saturday."

"Sure. Taking a vacation, huh? You better give me an address."

"You wont need no address, Mr. Fleck. I mean, you'll know from the papers. I been thinkin' it over all day and made up my mind. I'm goin' to give myself up to the p'lice, before I do anything more. Soon as I close up the stand tonight."

"What are you talking about, Benny? Before you do any more what?"

"You been readin' in the papers about this sex psycho—" He pronounced the ch as in checkers. "Psycho—whatever it is?"

"Psychopath. What about him?"

"I'm him, Mr. Fleck. I killed them two women."

Ray Fleck put his head back and laughed heartily. "Benny, you're cr—I mean, get that idea out of your head. You didn't kill those women. I know. You wouldn't hurt a rabbit, Benny."

He started chuckling as he turned and walked away.

Feeling a little ashamed of himself, too, for having laughed in Benny's face. But he hadn't really been laughing at Benny at all, although he'd never be able to explain that to poor Benny. He'd been laughing at the crazy fact, the ridiculous fact, that Benny had chosen to make his confession to the one and only person in the entire city—outside of the psychopathic killer himself—who could know and did know, immediately and certainly, that Benny, no matter how crazy he might be, was not the killer.

5:20 P.M.

George Mikos surveyed his domain, his restaurant, and found it good. Everything was set up and ready for the dinner hour. No customers at the moment, except for one man having coffee at the counter, but they'd start coming in soon. Only one waitress on duty at the moment, but Ruth Fleck would be coming in ten minutes, and he knew he could count on her getting there; Ruth was dependable.

He turned and went through the swinging door back to the kitchen, ducking his head a little as he did so. He was a big man, six feet two inches tall, and that doorway was an inch or so too short for him. When he'd first bought the restaurant he'd intended to have the doorway made higher but he hadn't got around to it and by now he was so used to ducking that it was completely automatic; he didn't even know he did it.

The cook was scraping the top of the range, but looked around as he heard George come through the door. "Everything under control?" George asked him. "Sure, George," the cook said.

"Fine. I'll be in my office a while. Give a yell for me if and when I might be needed, either back here or up front."

He went into the room, a fair-sized room, off the kitchen that served him as an office. He left the door ajar. The kitchen and restaurant noises, the banging of pots and the clatter of dishes and such, wouldn't bother him; he was conditioned to concentrate away from them. He was also conditioned to hear them and evaluate them subconsciously. To know, especially from the frequency with which waitresses called back orders, when things were getting busy enough so his help might be needed, even if the cook did not, as he suggested, give a yell for him.

He sat down at the oak typewriter desk. The typewriter was already raised into typing position. There was a sheet of paper in it, blank except for a numeral 3 at the top; it was to be the third page of a letter he'd started early in the afternoon.

Before resuming the letter he picked up the two pages of it he'd already written and reread them rapidly.

Dear Perry:

It was wonderful to hear from you again after lo, these many years (almost ten of them, isn't it?) since we roomed together at college. I'm so glad you happened to run into Walt, that he was able to give you my address.

Congratulations on having gone on to a Ps.D. And on having opened your own office as a consulting psychologist—in New York and on Park Avenue, no less; it must be really a happy hunting ground and if you're not coining money already you will be soon.

No, I have not continued my formal education. Nor do I intend to, any more. By now I yam what I yam, a Goddam Greek who runs a restaurant. But I read a lot, study some; I'm not letting my mind stagnate completely. I try to keep up with things. For instance I subscribe to and read the Journal of Psychology, even though—I realize now—I'll never be more than a layman in that field. And although about half of my reading is escape reading, the other half isn't; I read classics too. My knowledge of and taste in literature is far ahead of what it used to be in our college days.

As for keeping in shape, I go to a gym two, sometimes three, mornings a week. I still go in for Graeco-Roman wrestling, when I can find an opponent, and I haven't found one here who can take me at it.

You want a description of my restaurant, what it's called, everything about it. Everything about it would be a large order and wouldn't interest you unless you think you might start one of your own, and I doubt if you have that in mind. But I'll give you a rough idea.

First, it's called Mikos'; I don't go in for fancy names and have no intention of trying to hide the fact that a Greek runs it. It's small—but not tiny. Between counter and tables it will seat thirty people, and during rush hours, usually does seat that many or almost that many.

It'll never make a Duncan Hines's rating, but neither will anyone ever call it a Greasy Spoon; it's clean. Our forte is good food at reasonable prices.

I employ an average of ten people. Not that many all at once, of course; they work varying shifts, since we're open from 7 A.M. till 11:30 P.M.

I myself come in at about 11 A.M., before the lunch hour, and stay until closing time. That sounds a long working day—twelve and a half hours—but don't let it fool you because I actually work only about half of the time. There's a fair-sized room off the kitchen which I've converted into a combination office and den. I do my bookkeeping here, write checks for bills and salaries, type menus, all that sort of thing—but that doesn't take over an average of four hours a day.

Another two or three hours a day I spend in the kitchen or up front, helping out wherever needed. Some days more than that if someone fails to show up and we're short handed. But other days things go smoothly and I'm not needed at all. Call it an average of two hours a day.

So you see my actual working day is about six hours; the rest of the time I'm around, in case of emergency or to solve problems if any arise, but in general my time is my own. I read or study or think. If for any reason I'm short on sleep I take naps. Or I write letters, as I'm doing now.

And so much for the restaurant, except for the most important thing about it: it makes money. More than I, as a bachelor with relatively simple tastes, can spend. I've been investing in land just outside the city limits to the west, and as the city is growing in that direction, and rapidly, the land is equally rapidly appreciating in value. So, within another five years—but I'm beginning to sound as though I'm bragging and I'll stop. Suffice it to say there is no wolf at my door.

You ask me how my love life is doing. Probably your question was facetious, but I'm going to give it an honest answer.

That was where the second page of the letter had ended. George Mikos turned to the typewriter to go on and then decided, before starting page 3 to take a look to make sure Ruth Fleck had shown up; it was just five-thirty, her starting time.

He went to the door and opened it wider, and had to look no farther. She was just about to pass it, coming from the closet where the employees hung their coats.

"Hello, Ruth," he said. And then, "Ruth, you've been crying. Is something wrong? Is there anything I can do? Can you come in and talk a moment?"

She hesitated. "I—There is something I'd like to ask you about, George. But please not now. Later, after the dinner rush, I'll be calmer and much more sensible."

She went on, without giving him a chance to say anything more, through the swinging door into the restaurant. George watched until it had swung shut behind her. Then he pushed his own door partly shut again and went back to the desk. This time he started typing.

Now, and for the first time in my life, at least since late adolescence, I am in love, deeply in love, and with a woman with whom I have not had an affair and with whom I don't want or intend to have an affair, even if I could. At least I have found the right woman for me and I want everything or nothing. I want to marry the girl.

There is a fly in the ointment; the fly is the husband she already has. I am trying to convince her to divorce him and to marry me. Offhand, this may sound reprehensible, but I do not think that it is, really. Her husband is, if I may change my entomological metaphor, a louse.

He is a liquor salesman; that's nothing against him, but there is plenty else that is. He is a compulsive, congenital gambler, mostly on the horses; he's the type of horse player who does his own handicapping and thinks he can beat the game, which of course he can't. He probably earns at least a hundred a week but spends, or rather loses, at least half of that gambling, for which reason his wife has to work—and works for me as a waitress. Most of the time he's broke and in debt, living on his next week's commission check.

I don't think he's brutal to Ruth (that's her name; his is Ray Fleck) physically. I almost wish he were, because I think that if he ever struck her she would leave him, which, of course, is what I want to happen.

I know quite a bit about him, including the fact that he is at least occasionally unfaithful to her—which in itself justifies to me my breaking up their marriage if I can.

No, I didn't tell Ruth anything about what I heard. I was afraid that, whether or not those reports would decide her to divorce Fleck, she'd be angry at me for having had the presumption to tell her. Besides for all I know she may already know or at least suspect that Fleck cheats on her. Wives, I am told, can usually tell. What's the opinion of a consulting psychologist on that?

But that's not what I really want to ask you about. It's about something that doesn't concern me personally.

We have among us here a rapist-killer, obviously a psychotic, who has already raped and killed two women. Raped and killed in that sequence; he is not a necrophile. His first rape-killing was about four months ago, his second two months ago. The interval between two crimes is hardly sufficient to establish a time interval. But if it does, if it takes him about two months to build up pressure to make him kill again, then he is about due to strike a third time. His method—

But wait. Before I give the details, such as they are, I'll tell you where I come in, and where you come in. The captain in charge of our homicide department is a friend of mine. He is understandably a very worried guy. He's been under pressure from the chief of police, the police commissioner, the newspapers and the public to get friend psychopath. He may get demoted if he doesn't. And he hasn't a single clue or lead.

He knows, of course, that I majored in psychology and every time we see one another he heckles me to make deductions about the killer. Or even guesses. I've made a few, but I'm afraid that, whether they are correct or not, they're not very helpful on the practical level of police work.

Maybe you can do better. You've studied a lot more abnormal psychology than I have. Anyway, I'm going to toss you the few known facts about our psycho and ask if you can make any suggestions that I haven't already made. I'll pass them on to the captain. If you can come up with anything at all helpful, it may save a life, or several lives. Here goes:

Both victims were young housewives. Both were attractive. Each was home alone (home was a house in one case, an apartment in the other) at the time of the attack. In one case the husband was out of town on business, in the other working a swing shift at an airplane parts factory.

In neither case was there any sign of forcible entry; the woman herself must have admitted him or at least opened the door for him.

Both women were knocked unconscious with a blow to the chin, then carried to a bed; their clothes were torn off them and they were raped, then strangled to death. Still, from the lack of anything indicating a struggle, unconscious from the knockout. (Don't ask me how the autopsies could prove or even indicate that the rape preceded the strangling but my friend tells me that the medical examiner is absolutely certain, so I'm willing to take his word for it.)

Both crimes occurred in the evening. We happen to know the exact time of one of them, ten o'clock. This was the one who lived in an apartment. The couple who lived in the apartment under hers heard a thud at that hour; they're certain of the time because the husband was just switching channels on the television to get their favorite ten o'clock program. Knowing that their upstairs neighbor was home alone they looked at one another, each wondering whether she might have had a fall and need help. But before either spoke to the other they heard footsteps moving around and decided she was all right, that she'd either dropped something fairly heavy or had a fall that hadn't hurt her.

That was the first of the two murders. We don't know the time of the second one so accurately. The woman's body wasn't found until early the next afternoon when her husband returned from his business trip. After so many hours the M. E. could only say that death had occurred late the previous evening, probably between nine o'clock and midnight.

We know him to be a man of considerable strength, not only from the steam behind the knockout blows he struck but from the way in which he ripped the clothes from his victims after carrying them to a bed. One of the women was wearing a quilted house coat that zipped open about halfway down the front; he tore it the rest of the way, and quilted material does not tear easily.

From the speed and accuracy with which he struck the police theorize that he may be or may have been a boxer. Also, from his strength, they believe he is more likely to be a laborer than a white collar worker. I'll go along with both of these deductions as possibilities or probabilities and not as certainties. A man with no boxing experience but with good coordination and a little luck could have struck those blows. And if he has a good mind (except for its warp) and/or a good education he'd certainly be doing something better than manual labor.

So much for the physical side, and to the mental. First, I do not believe he is a moron. He must have cased those jobs and known that the woman would be alone at the time he came. Otherwise he had incredible luck—and I refuse to credit the incredible. Also, he left no fingerprints at the scene of either crime; he either wore gloves or avoided touching any surface that would take them. A moron wouldn't think of fingerprints.

But to a more important point, the nature of his psychosis. I have a theory; I hope you'll be able to expand on it if you agree or to offer a better one if you disagree.

I believe that he fears women to a psychotic degree, and hates them because he fears them. Call him a womanophobe. And because of his fear of women he is self-conscious in the presence of one to the point of complete impotence, even if the woman is willing; only with an unconscious woman can he find an outlet for his sex drive. His reason for killing women after he has used them can be sheer psychopathic hatred, flaring to highest pitch with or immediately after the orgasm. Or it can be caution; a dead woman can't describe him or identify him. My guess is that his reason for killing is a mixture of both those reasons.

If this description of his psychosis is correct it is almost certain that he is a bachelor. I use the "almost" because he may have been married once; an early very bad marriage might have been the starting point of his psychosis. But, whether once married or not I'd say it's certain that he is not currently living with a woman.

And I'd say that it's probable that, if he has any choice of occupations, he's working at a job that brings him into as little contact with women as possible. And living at a Y.M.C.A., a men-only hotel or—if he makes enough money—in a bachelor apartment.

Those are only probabilities, though. He may be smart enough, and actor enough, to have perfectly normal business and social contacts with women. If that's true he's going to be a lot harder to catch.

Speaking of how smart he is, we'll have a strong indication of that if and when he attempts a third crime. If he tries the same modus operandi he used the first two times he'll show himself to be much more stupid than I think he is. Because that method simply won't work a third time.

The women of this city are scared, have been scared ever since the second crime. Women alone in a house or flat simply don't open the door, even by day, until and unless they're damned sure who's on the other side of it. Chain bolts have been selling so fast that the hardware stores keep reordering by air express and still can't quite keep up with the demand. And from the number of speakeasy-type peepholes that have been made in doors you'd think we were back in the days of Prohibition again.

The scare has had an odd incidental effect on our economy. Normally, in a city this size, there are several hundred house-to-house salesmen and canvassers working. Here and now there are none. For the past two months, since the second rape-killing, they have been able to gain entry into such a small percentage of homes that they simply can't make a living. They've all had to move on elsewhere to greener pastures or switch to some other occupation. Even big outfits like Fuller and Watkins have closed their local offices—temporarily, they hope. And not only salesmen are affected, but mailmen—if they have a C.O.D. or a registered letter that must be signed for—bill collectors, deliverymen, meter readers, collectors for charity drives, what have you.

It's amazing what strange effect two crimes by a....

George Mikos paused to think out the rest of the sentence and in the pause heard his cook's voice. "Hey, George, better come out and give a hand."

"Coming," he called back. And came.

6:15 P.M.

He wasn't hungry, but Ray Fleck decided that he'd better eat. He'd slept late and had only coffee for breakfast, and only a light lunch. And this evening he'd had two drinks already in his quest for money to get him into the poker game; like as not he'd have to take at least a dozen more in the course of the evening, and if he wanted to be able to play good poker he'd damn well better lay a foundation of food under that dozen drinks.

The bad thing about the two drinks he'd already had was that he'd taken them in vain. Worse than in vain because instead of helping him raise money they'd cost him the ten bucks he'd borrowed from Benny and had put his slender capital back where it had been before. He'd seen through the window of the Palace Bar that Dick Johnson was there; Dick was usually a soft touch and he went inside and bellied up the bar beside Dick. He tried to buy him a drink, but Dick beat him to it by signaling the bartender with two upraised fingers, so Ray waited until he'd had a chance to buy back before he put on the bite, for twenty. And, because he'd genuinely forgotten, he was startled when Dick reminded him that he already owed him ten dollars from three weeks before. "My God," Ray said, "I clean forgot. Why the hell didn't you remind me sooner?" And then, because it was the only way out, he laughed and made a joke of it, pulled a ten out of his wallet and handed it to Dick. "Now we're all even; let's start over. Can you lend me twenty, just till Saturday?" He'd still come out ten ahead, he thought. But Dick Johnson had shaken his head. "Sorry, Ray-boy, I'm short this week myself. Need all I've got, and this ten comes in handy too." And there went the ten he'd just got from Benny.

He stopped at the corner of Fourth and Main, the middle of downtown, to make up his mind where to eat. Feratti's seemed like a good bet; they put out good dinners for two-fifty—unless you ordered steak or lobster or something fancy—and he wouldn't be tempted, as he might be in some of the other good restaurants, to waste some of his drinking capacity on a cocktail or two before dining; Feratti's didn't have a liquor license. He turned on Fourth and headed for Feratti's.

And, as he walked, found himself thinking about Benny again. He never should have laughed like that at Benny. Especially now that he'd learned Benny was good for a sawbuck in an emergency once in a while. Of course maybe he was worrying about nothing; maybe Benny's feelings hadn't been hurt at all. But if he passed Benny's stand again this evening he ought to stop, buy a paper as an excuse, and see how Benny acted. If Benny was mad or had been hurt, he'd know easily and now, the same evening, would be the time to square things. And he wasn't a salesman for nothing; he could convince Benny that he hadn't been laughing at him but at a joke he'd just thought of, and tell Benny a joke. Some simple joke that even a moron couldn't help getting.

And then, if he could figure out a way to do it, try to talk Benny out of going to the cops to give himself up as the psychopathic killer. Not that the cops would really believe Benny, but they might keep him out of circulation for a while and maybe work him over a bit for details, until they were sure.

Because the cops couldn't eliminate Benny as readily and surely as he, Ray Fleck, could. The cops didn't know what the psycho looked like, and he did. At least enough to be positive that he didn't look even remotely like Benny.

It had been about two months ago, the night of the second murder—although he hadn't known that until the next day. It had been somewhere around ten o'clock in the evening. And it had happened in the nineteen hundred block on Eastgate. Howie Borden lived at 1912 Eastgate and Ray had agreed to pick him up around ten that evening; Howie was going to take him to a stag party at Howie's lodge, and Ray was to provide the transportation since Howie had a badly sprained right wrist and couldn't drive.

He'd got there just about ten and had parked in front of Howie's house and beeped the horn. Howie had raised a window and called out, "Be about five minutes yet. Come on in." But he'd called back that he'd wait in the car. He didn't want to go in because Howie's wife might be around, and she always made him feel uncomfortable.

Since he knew that five minutes might easily mean fifteen or twenty, he turned out his car lights for the wait. He was sitting there staring at nothing through the windshield a few minutes later when he saw the man.

The man came through the gate in the fence in front of a house on the other side of the street and three or four houses away. Ray noticed the man at all for only two reasons. One was the fact that in an otherwise completely static vista the eye is drawn to the only moving object. The other was the fact that as the man stood there just outside the gate he looked both ways and while he did so his hands at his sides were flexing and unflexing, as though they were cramped from gripping something very tightly and for quite a while. The gesture an oarsman might make when he unclamps his hand from the oars after rowing a mile or so, or a lumberjack when he lets go his ax to rest his hands after a bout of chopping. Or that a strangler might make—But Ray Fleck didn't think of that at the time. The man went the other way and was out of sight and out of mind by the time Howie came out and got in the car.

It wasn't until late the following afternoon, when he read the mid-afternoon edition of the evening paper, that he knew he had seen the murderer leaving the scene of his second crime. The address was 1917 Eastgate, on the opposite side of the street from Howie Borden's, and about three houses away in the direction in which Fleck's car had been facing. If the address had left any doubt in his mind that the house was the one he'd seen the man leaving, the doubt was dispelled by a picture of the house's exterior that was published with the story. It showed a three-foot iron fence in front; the house the man had left had been the only house on that side of the short block that had been fenced in. And that flexing and unflexing of the hands....

Give him credit. He considered going to the police to tell them what he had seen, considered it seriously. He was home and alone at the time, as Ruth had just left for work, so he had all the time to think that he wanted. He paced the apartment for all of twenty minutes before coming to a decision. The decision was negative on three counts.

First, he couldn't give them a description that would really mean anything and he couldn't—or he was fairly sure he couldn't—identify the man if he ever saw him again. He'd seen him at a distance of about a hundred feet and in pretty dim light; the nearest street light had been behind Fleck's car, farther from the man than Fleck had been. His impression had been of a man of average height and average build—or maybe a little heavier than that. It could have been his own description, except—Except what? Thinking back, he decided that, although their weight was probably about the same, the man had been a bit narrower in the waist, a bit broader in the shoulders. But he could have been wrong even about that, the nearest to a positive point he could think of; after all he was trying to describe a vague and illusive memory, something he'd hardly noticed at the time. He thought the man had worn a dark suit and a dark hat, but he wasn't sure of those things either. The face had been a white blur in the instant it was turned toward him, before the man had turned and walked the other way.

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."

"I see," Ruth said. "And the police think he'll try a different—uh—modus operandi the next time?"

"They do. He'll almost have to, to succeed. Just what he'll try, they don't know, of course. He might slug a woman on the street and drag or carry her into an alley or an areaway. He might break into her place while she's away and be there waiting for her when she comes home and lets herself in. Those are the two main possibilities, but there are others. The point is, a woman can't consider herself safe just because she keeps the door bolted whenever her husband is out. Not that she should neglect that precaution, either. He may try his former method several times, and vary it only if he finds out that it doesn't work. You do have a chain bolt, don't you?"

"Not a chain bolt, just an ordinary one. I've been using it since the scare started. Ray doesn't like it much, having to wake me up to let him in when he gets home after I do, but he goes along with it."

"I hope you make sure it's Ray before you unbolt the door."

"Oh yes. And not just by recognizing his voice. We have a code. It's—"

"Don't tell me." He interrupted almost sharply. "I mean if you have a recognition code, that's good, but you shouldn't tell anybody what it is. Ruth, you said at five-thirty there was something you wanted to talk to me about. Shall we talk here, or go into my office?"

"I guess we can go inside. I'm cooled off now."

He followed her through the kitchen and into his sanctum, leaving, as always, the door a little ajar. He motioned her to the comfortable reading chair, then turned the chair at the desk around to face her and sat down. He said, "I hope it's not bad news, Ruth. That you're thinking about leaving or anything like that."

"No, nothing like that, George. Do you know a man named Joe Amico? He's a bookie."

George frowned. "I know him slightly. And know a little about him. He's not small time but not quite big time either, somewhere in between. He operates from an apartment on Willis. I don't know whether or not he lives there too. What do you want to know about him?"

"Ray has gone in debt to him, betting, and can't pay off. About five hundred dollars, he says. He wants me to cash in or at least borrow against my insurance policy—the one I told you about—and give him the money to pay off Amico. He says if he doesn't pay Amico will have him beaten up badly, maybe even killed. I—I didn't quite believe him and I said no. But what if I'm wrong? I'd never forgive myself if something did happen to Ray, something bad, because I wouldn't give him the money. What do you think?"

George Mikos shook his head slowly. "It's a bluff. I don't know whether Ray was trying to bluff you or Amico was trying to bluff him, but Amico isn't going to risk everything he's got by going in for violence, over an amount like five hundred dollars.

"He's a fairly slimy character, I'd say—a half-pint who wouldn't weigh over a hundred pounds soaking wet who has an inferiority complex over his size and tries to act like a Little Caesar to make up for it—but he's also a smart operator who has a good thing and knows it. He pays protection, and gets it, but the police aren't going to let him get away with beating up people, let alone rubbing them out. Besides, he's more interested in getting his five hundred dollars than in fixing things so he can't get it."

Ruth sighed audibly with relief. But she couldn't quite believe it. "You mean Ray could just not pay him and nothing would happen?"

"Not quite that. He'd make trouble, I imagine. But not in the way of physical violence. He could get Ray marked lousy with all the other gamblers so they wouldn't have anything to do with him. He might even manage to make him lose his job; Amico has connections. But he'd do that only as a last resort—he'd much rather get his money even if he had to take it so much every week, and he couldn't very well do that if he lost Ray's job for him. No, Ruth, I don't think you have anything to worry about. Nor has your husband, except that he's going to have to get along with less spending money—or gambling money—for a while."

Ruth Fleck stood up. "Thanks, George, thanks an awful lot. I—I was horribly worried that I'd done the wrong thing, but what you told me is exactly what I hoped you'd say. Thanks a million."

"Sit down again, Ruth. It isn't eight o'clock yet, is it?"

"I'm afraid it is—almost. And I don't want to make Margie have to stay overtime. Maybe we can talk again later."

When Ruth got back up front the first thing she noticed was that the shy young man had left. Either he hadn't had a chance to talk to Margie or she had turned him down, otherwise—since she'd be getting off work so soon—he'd have waited around. There was one customer at the counter but Margie had served him and he was just starting to eat. There were parties in one of the booths and at two of the tables, but they'd been served too.

Margie came over and talked a minute and then, cold on the stroke of eight, went back to change into her street clothes. Since she was so often picked up at eight for a date Margie never wore her uniform to and from work, as Ruth did.

Ruth checked the big chromium coffee urn to make sure there was plenty in it and then went up to the cash register; there was a stool behind it where she could sit down when there was nothing for her to do. She sat down and looked out through the window, at nothing.

She did, as she had told George, feel better now, much better. Her conscience didn't bother her as to whether or not she had done the right thing in turning Ray down on the money. She'd hated the nagging thought that she might be getting him into serious trouble, sent to the hospital or even killed.

But if losing his job was the worst thing that could happen to him—well, that might be for the better. He was a good salesman and could easily get another job—selling hardware or groceries or something safe. With his weaknesses the job he had, making him spend most of his working time in taverns, was the worst job possible for him. In another job he might make less money for a while but that would be all right. Or even if he kept his present job, having gone into debt over his head from gambling might be a good thing to have happened to him. If he had to pay Joe Amico off a little at a time out of his earnings he wouldn't have much left to gamble with and might, during however long it took him, get out of the habit of gambling so heavily. That was all she asked; she didn't mind if he kept on betting on the horses if he made small bets, ones he could afford to lose.

At any rate he was past the limit of his credit now; he'd have to behave himself for a while. And if, after he'd worked himself out of the hole this time, he didn't straighten out—

She didn't carry through with the thought consciously, because she still did love him, at least a little, and she hated the thought of divorce. But down deep she knew it was something that would have to happen eventually, unless Ray changed—and down deep she knew that he would never change. And her insurance policy was an ace in the hole there; if he should want to contest a divorce she'd have to go to Nevada to get one—but her policy would cover even that.

George Mikos would be more than glad to finance one for her, but she'd never let him do that. Nor would she let her growing feeling for George, her knowledge of how secure it would be to be married to him, affect her decision. Whether or not she would stay with Ray depended solely, in all fairness, on Ray himself, whether he overcame his weakness or let it overcome him.

She wondered what he was doing now, out there in the darkness....

8:03 P.M.

Out there in the darkness—but downtown, where it wasn't dark at all—Ray Fleck was passing a tavern. It was called Chuck's Chuckhouse, although it was basically a tavern and served only cold sandwiches in the way of food, and was run by Chuck Connolly. It was the one business stop Ray really should make this evening; he was overdue to make a call there and Chuck always gave him a good order, including half a dozen to a dozen cases of Ten High, which he used as his bar whisky. Ray had been distracted by his financial troubles and hadn't worked very hard that afternoon. He had only a few small orders to turn in and seeing Chuck tonight would make the difference between having a good batch of orders to turn in at the office tomorrow or a poor one. Besides, if he waited too long to call Chuck might possibly change his bar whisky and order from another outfit. Losing Connolly as a customer would cut into his income appreciably.

Just the same, tonight, he wanted to be sure the place wasn't crowded before he went in. It's customary for a liquor salesman to stand a round of drinks for the house when he walks in to get an order and Ray Fleck didn't want to get stuck for ten bucks or so for that round. True, he'd put it on the swindle sheet—and make it a little higher than it actually was—and get his money back eventually. But that wouldn't help tonight; he'd spent three bucks since his steak dinner and hadn't been able to borrow anything so he was down to twenty-five already and getting seriously worried about that stake. This seemed to be a hell of a bad night for running into people he could borrow from, and a ten-buck round would put him down to fifteen dollars.

So he walked past first, turning his head to glance in the window, but staying on the outside of the sidewalk so Chuck would be unlikely to see him.

But he was lucky; Chuck was behind the bar and there were only three men in front of it, so he turned and came back and this time went in. He could see now that there was also a couple sitting in a booth. That meant seven drinks, counting one for himself and one for Chuck, but it still wasn't too bad.

Chuck said, "Hi, stranger. Wondered if you'd deserted me." Ray said, "Hi, Chuck. Set 'em up, huh? I'm going to use your telephone a minute." He went on past and to the phone booth at the back and dialed Dolly Mason's number for the third time this evening. There still wasn't any answer.

He came back and sat down at the bar, watched while Chuck made drinks. He made two for the people in the booth first and took them over. He said, "Compliments of Mr. Fleck there." The couple looked over and thanked him and Ray nodded to them. He didn't know any of the customers so he didn't have to talk to them; he was just as glad because he didn't feel like talking.

Damn Dolly Mason, he thought. Was she going to be out all evening, just when he needed to see her? The more he thought about it the surer he felt that Dolly was his only good chance to borrow money in any sizable chunk this evening. And also that she'd give it to him if he could connect with her. He'd ask for a hundred; surely she'd have at least half that much on hand. It made sense, that short story he'd read once; the Frenchman knew what he was talking about. A wife will turn you down when a mistress won't. A wife has got you hooked, and knows it; a mistress is more understanding. Well, he'd keep phoning every fifteen or twenty minutes until he got her.

Oh, he wasn't the only man in Dolly's life, not by a long shot. He knew that. But she liked him a lot; he didn't think it was only because of the presents he gave her that she was so nice to him. If it was only that, then she was really a wonderful actress; she should be in Hollywood instead of here.

Dolly was tiny, not over five feet tall, and very slightly on the plump side, a brunette with olive skin. Just the opposite of Ruth on all counts; that was probably what had attracted him to her in the first place. A man likes a change. And she was vivacious while Ruth was quiet. She liked to drink; Ruth didn't, much. She was frankly passionate whereas Ruth—well, Ruth hadn't been cold at all when they were first married but she was tending more and more to become that way. Of course she said that was his fault, but he had a hunch that wives always said that.

Connolly was making drinks for the bar now, one screw-driver and two highballs for the strangers and a highball for Ray; he'd pour his own drink last, the short straight shot he always took when someone bought him a drink.

Ray watched him, thinking how easy it would be to borrow ten or twenty bucks from Connolly, once he'd got his order. But it was the one principle he'd always stuck to—never borrow money from a customer. His one virtue, he thought sourly; let them carve it on his tombstone when he was dead: "He never borrowed money from a customer." Besides, if he ever did and if J. & B. Distributors ever found out about it he'd lose his job like a shot. A salesman always had to appear prosperous whether he was or not.

Connolly passed around the drinks; there were thanks and skoals and everybody took a sip except Connolly who downed his short straight shot at a gulp and then looked quizzically at Ray. "Well, I guess you want an order, huh?"

"Could use one." Ray grinned at him. "And you could use some liquor by now, I'd guess. Here, let me pay for this round before I forget." He put a five on the bar and Connolly rang up three-seventy and put a dollar, a quarter and a nickel on the bar in front of Ray. Ray jittered; the bar owner didn't sound too friendly. Was he going to say he'd already given an order to someone else?

"Yep," Connolly said. "I can use some liquor. Don't stay away so long next time. I'll give you an order, but you better mark it rush so it'll be delivered tomorrow. I'm damn near out of a few things. Come on down to the other end of the bar."

He moved that way and Ray picked up his drink—but left his change where it was—and followed, walking around the three men he'd bought drinks for. On the way, now that his mind was relieved about the order, he had a sudden thought. Maybe he could leave here with more money than he'd come in with at that. Connolly played the ponies, not regularly but frequently, and they often talked about the races and traded tips or hunches. If he could talk Connolly into making up his mind about something for tomorrow, he could say he was going to see Joe Amico later, which he was, and offer to place the bet. And, of course, keep it to cover himself, as he'd done with Sam the waiter. It could be a nasty wallop if it hit, worse than Sam's bet would be, but tomorrow was another day and it was tonight he was worried about.

But he'd better get business over with first so the other matter would look casual, so when he sat down across from Connolly at the front end of the bar he took out an order blank and spread it open on the bar in front of him, took out his ball point. "Okay, Chuck," he said. "How many Ten Highs?"

He got a good order, better than he'd expected. Ten cases of the bar whisky, a case each of gin and vodka, the equivalent of a couple of mixed cases of Scotch, rye and other brands of bourbon, and some wine. A mixed case of vermouth, half dry and half sweet, and a few odd bottles of cordials and liqueurs. It didn't take long; Connolly always knew exactly what he wanted and the exact quantities and talked almost as fast as Ray could write it down. And Ray had learned long since not to try to increase any of the orders Connolly gave him or to try to sell him anything he didn't ask for.

Connolly was just saying "That's it, Ray," when two more men walked into the bar. Again strangers to Ray; his friends seemed to be staying home in droves this evening. Connolly excused himself to serve them and Ray called after him, "On me, Chuck." That would just about kill the change out of his five and he hoped no other customers would walk in till he could get away.

He took the Racing Form from his pocket, spread it open on the bar in front of him and pretended to be studying it; that would automatically bring conversation into the right channel when Connolly came back.

It did. He was actually studying, not pretending at all, when he heard Connolly's voice. "See anything that looks good?"

He looked up. "Sure, Chuck. Blue Belle in the fifth. That's a filly you've been following, ain't it?"

"Yeah, but she's cost me money doing it, damn her. Hasn't run in the money last five times out. Used to be a good horse, especially on a fast track, but I'm beginning to think she's had her day."

"Hell, Chuck, ten to one they've been holding her back. She was running too well for a while and it shot the hell out of the odds. Now the odds are good again and I figure she's due. Now's the time to win back, and maybe get even more than she owes you."

"Maybe you got something there. I ain't seen a Form today. Lemme see who she's running against."

Ray handed him the Form and pointed out the race so he'd not have to look for it. He said, "And Aqueduct'll be a fast track tomorrow. No rain there for two weeks and none in sight."

"Yeah," Connolly said after a minute. "I guess I'll put something down on her."

"I'll be seeing Amico soon as I leave here," Ray said casually. "Got a date with him. If you want me to save you calling him I'll put your bet down for you when I put mine."

"Might as well," Connolly said; he took his wallet out of his hip pocket and then hesitated. "Wonder whether to put ten on the nose or fifteen across the board."

An across-the-board bet, Ray thought, would get him five bucks more—and would cost him less if the horse did win. "I'm playing her across myself," he said. "Thirty bucks, ten each way. So if she even runs third I'll break even."

One thing he'd learned long ago: if you give a man a tip on a horse let him think you're betting at least as much as he is and preferably more. That way if the horse loses he blames you less, because you've lost too; you're a fellow sufferer.

This time it paid off even better than he'd expected. Connolly hesitated only a second and then took a twenty and a ten out of his wallet, handed them over. "Make mine the same way," he said. "If you can go thirty I guess I can."

"Good," Ray said. He put the bills into his wallet, holding it with the open edge toward himself so Connolly wouldn't be able to see how little had been in it before—a ten and two fives.

He looked at his wrist watch and pretended to be surprised by what he saw there. "Good God," he said. "A quarter after—and I told Amico I'd see him at eight. I'd better run. Maybe see you later in the evening, Chuck. So long."

Outside he took a deep breath of the cool evening air and decided that he felt swell, and that his luck had turned. Thirty bucks in one crack, even if he'd had to spend five to get it. And he now had fifty—enough, if a bare minimum, to get into the big game that would really change his luck.

And since his luck had changed maybe he'd find Dolly home now if he called again.

He went into the drugstore on the next corner and dialed her number in the phone booth. And this time, after seven rings—a lucky number?—Dolly's voice answered, a bit breathlessly.

8:17 P.M.

Dolly Mason heard the first ring of the phone when she was in the hallway outside her apartment, returning from dinner with Mack Irby. Mack was with her and she thought she had a free evening to spend with him. She ran to the door, fished the key out of her handbag and stuck it in the lock. It jammed there for several rings of the telephone inside, till Mack said, "Let me, Doll." He reached around her and turned the key. Dolly got to the phone just as it finished the seventh ring. "Hello," she said, a bit breathlessly.

"Hi, Dolly," the phone said to her. "This is Ray. Ray Fletcher."

"Oh. Hi, Ray honey. Long time no see."

"Too long. Can I see you a while tonight? Just for a few minutes?"

"Well—maybe just for a little while. But not right away. 'Bout an hour from now, huh?"

"An hour? Can't you make it a little earlier than that, Dolly?"

"Well, maybe a little earlier." She looked at her wrist watch. "Nine o'clock? That's a little over forty minutes."