'Why not?'
'I'm not ready to marry him yet.'
'Why not?'
'When I get married, I want to stop working. But I want to live the way I live now. Jo makes a decent amount of money. The diner's a going business, and he splits everything fifty-fifty with George. But he still doesn't make as much money as I do.'
'Where do you work, Miss Pannet?'
'For a television packaging outfit. Trio Productions. Have you heard of it?'
'No.'
Felicia Pannet shrugged. 'Three people,' she said. 'A writer, a director, and a producer. They banded together and formed their own producing company. We package shows for a good deal of the industry. The "Pennsylvania Coal Hour" is one of our shows. Surely you've seen that.'
'I don't own a television set,' Hawes said.
'Don't you believe in art?' she asked. 'Or can't you afford one?'
Hawes let the remark pass. 'And what do you do with Trio Productions?' he asked.
'I'm one of the original three, one of the trio. I'm the producer.'
'I see. And this pays well, does it?'
'It pays extremely well.'
'And Jo's cut of the business doesn't pay as well?'
'No.'
'And you're not going to marry him until you can stay home and knit booties and raise a family on his earnings, is that—?'
'Until I can live the way I'm living now, yes,' Felicia said.
'I see.' Hawes took the folded picture from his pocket. Slowly he unfolded it and handed it to Felicia. 'Ever see this man before?' he asked.
Felicia took the picture. 'Is this your subtle way of getting my fingerprints?' she asked.
'Huh?'
'By handing me this picture?'
'Oh.' Hawes smiled, beginning to dislike Miss Pannet intensely now, beginning to dislike Trio Productions, and beginning to dislike the 'Pennsylvania Coal Hour' even though he had never seen the damned show. 'No. I'm not trying to get your fingerprints. Would I have reason to want them?'
'How would I know?' she said. 'I still don't know why you're here.'
'I'm here to identify this man,' Hawes said. 'Do you know him?'
She looked at the picture. 'No,' she said. She handed it back to Hawes.
'Never saw him before?'
'Never.'
'Possibly with Jo? Would he be one of Jo's friends?'
'All of Jo's friends are my friends. I never saw him with that man. Unless it's a bad likeness.'
'It's a pretty good likeness,' Hawes said. He folded the picture and put it in his pocket. His last chance seemed to have evaporated. If Jo Cort was on a fishing trip, there was no way to reach him before eight o'clock tonight. There was no way to show him the picture. There was no way to identify the potential killer. Hawes sighed. 'A fishing trip,' he said disgustedly.
'He likes fishing.'
'What else does he like?'
For the first time since he'd been in the apartment, Hawes saw Felicia smile. 'Me,' she said.
'Mmm,' Hawes answered, refusing to comment on the taste that makes horse races and ball games. 'Where'd you meet him?' he asked.
'He picked me up,' she said.
'Where?'
'On the street. Does that shock you?'
'Not. particularly.'
'Well, that's the way it happened. Are you familiar with The Quarter?'
'Downtown? Yes.'
'I was walking there one Wednesday. Our big show is Tuesday night, the "Coal Hour". It's our only live show. We sort of relax right after it, generally take Wednesdays off unless there's a crisis in the office. I went down there that Wednesday to buy some jewellery. They have these unusual jewellery shops down there, as you may know.'
'Yes,' Hawes said. He looked at his watch. Why was he wasting time here? Why didn't he get back to the squad-room, where the company was congenial and pleasant?
'I was looking in one of the shop windows at a beautiful gold bracelet when I heard a voice behind me. It said, "Would you like me to buy that for you?" I turned. A rather pleasant-looking man with a moustache and chin whiskers was standing behind me.'
'Jo Cort?' Hawes asked.
'Yes. At first, I thought he was a Quarter artist. Because of the moustache and beard, you know. I said to him, "Can you afford it?" He went into the shop and bought it for me. It cost three hundred dollars. That was the beginning of our relationship.'
It figured, Hawes thought, and he began to form his own impressions of Jo Cort, a bearded jerk who'd spend three hundred dollars to pick up a girl like Felicia Pannet.
'He always wear this beard?' he asked, thinking of bearded men he had known in the past. One had grown the chin brush to hide the lack of a jaw. Another—
'Always,' Felicia said. 'He grew it when he was eighteen, and he's kept it ever since. I imagine he grew it because he was 4-F. A punctured eardrum. The beard made him feel more manly, I supposed. At a time when all of his friends were pretending to be men because of their uniforms. It's really quite attractive.' She paused. 'Have you ever been kissed by a man with a beard?'
'No,' Hawes said. 'I prefer my men with long sideburns instead.' He rose. 'Well, thanks a lot, Miss Pannet,' he said.
'Is there anything you want me to tell Jo when I see him again?'
'By the time you see him again,' Hawes said, 'it'll be all over.'
'What will be all over?'
'It,' he said. 'You might tell him that he picked an inconvenient time to go fishing. He might have been able to help us.'
'I'm sorry,' Felicia said, and again her voice indicated no regret.
'Yeah, well, don't lose any sleep over it.'
'I shan't.'
'I didn't think you would.'
'May I ask a personal question?' Felicia said.
'Sure. Go ahead.'
'That white streak in your hair. Where did you get it?'
'Why do you want to know?'
'I'm attracted by oddities.'
'Like Jo Cort's beard and moustache?'
'I'll admit his beard attracted me.'
'That and the three-hundred-dollar bracelet,' Hawes said.
'It was a very unusual approach,' Felicia said. 'I don't usually allow myself to be picked up on the street.' She paused. 'You still haven't answered me.'
'I got stabbed once,' Hawes said. 'They shaved the hair to get at the wound. When it grew back, it was white.'
'I wonder why,' she said, expressing real interest.
'It probably turned white from fright,' Hawes said. 'I've got to be going.'
'If you ever want television work -' she started.
'Yes?'
'You'd make a good menace. In a spy story. The streak in your hair is loaded with intrigue.'
'Thanks,' Hawes said. At the door, he paused. 'I hope you, and Mr Cort, and the beard are very happy together.'
'I'm sure we will be,' Felicia Pannet said.
From the way she said it, he didn't doubt a word of it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was 7.35 p.m.
In twenty-five minutes The Lady would become a target. In twenty-five minutes the threat would become a reality, a potential killer would become a real killer.
It was 7.36 p.m.
In twenty-four minutes a Luger would spit bullets into the night. A woman would fall. A phone would ring, and the desk sergeant would say, 'Eighty-seventh Precinct', and the call would be transferred upstairs, and Homicide North and Homicide South and police headquarters and lab technicians and assistant medical examiners would be called in to deal with a fresh homicide.
It was 7.37 p.m.
A pall of gloom had settled over the squad-room. Bert Kling was anxious to get home. He'd had a trying day at the waterfront, but he waited now with his leather jacket slung over his arm, waited for something to break, waited for Byrnes to pop out of his office and shout, 'Bert! I need you!'
It was 7.38 p.m.
They sat around the desk looking at the letter again, Meyer, Carella, and Hawes. Meyer was sucking cough drops. His throat was worse, and he blamed it on the heat.