Lady Killer

I WILL KILL THE LADY TONIGHT AT 8.

WHAT CAN YOU DO ABOUT IT?

The answer was in each of the detectives' minds.

NOTHING.

We can do nothing about it.

'Maybe it is a dog,' Meyer said, sucking on his cough drop. 'Maybe it's a dog called Lady.'

'And maybe it isn't,' Hawes said.

'Or maybe it's that hooker,' Carella said. 'Marcia. The Lady. If it's her, we're okay. She's covered, isn't she?'

'She's covered,' Hawes said.

'Lady Astor, too?'

'She's covered,' Hawes said again.

'Pete didn't send anybody to the ballet, did he?'

'No,' Hawes said. 'Bannister's clean. He didn't look anything like that damn picture.'

'And nobody at the diner could identify it, huh?' Meyer asked. He swallowed and reached for another cough drop.

'I only saw one of the partners,' Hawes said. 'The other one's out of town.' He paused. 'The first one had the right idea, all right.'

'Anybody want one of these?' Meyer asked, extending the box.

The other men ignored him. 'What idea was that?' Carella asked.

'He was heading for a beer as soon as the eating crowd thinned. A place right down the street, he said. That's for me, too. As soon as I get out of here. You fellows join me? I'm buying.'

'Where's the diner?' Carella asked, interested.

'Huh?'

'The diner.'

'Oh. Thirteenth and The Stem.'

'Near that bar, isn't it?'

'What bar?'

'The Pub. The bar where Samalson might have lost the glasses. The Pub. That was on North Thirteenth and Amberly.'

'You think there's a connexion?' Hawes asked.

'Well,' Carella said, 'if the guy ate at the Jo-George Diner, maybe he stopped for a drink at The Pub down the street. Maybe that's where he found Samalson's binoculars.'

'Where does that lead us?'

'Noplace,' Carella admitted. 'But maybe it rounds out the picture.' He shrugged. 'I'm just batting it around.'

'Yeah,' Hawes said.

It was 7.40 p.m.

'This guy at the diner couldn't identify it, though, huh? The picture?' Meyer asked.

'No. It was a bum lead. All George wanted to talk about was how much he loved his partner, Jo. A son to him, that kind of kick. George is an orphan, all alone in the world. He's attached himself to this kid.'

'Kid?' Carella asked.

'Well, he's thirty-four. But that's a kid to George. George is fifty-six.'

'Funny partnership,' Carella said.

'They met a long time ago.'

'The usual partnership set-up?'

'What do you mean?'

'In case of death, where there are no relatives, the surviving partner gets the business.'

'I suppose so,' Hawes said. 'Yes. George mentioned that it was the usual partnership set-up.'

'Then if George kicks off, his partner inherits the diner, right? You said George was all alone in the world, didn't you? No relatives to make claims?'

'That's right,' Hawes said. 'What are you thinking?'

'Maybe Jo is getting itchy for George to drop dead. Maybe he's going to help him along tonight at eight.'

Mention of the time caused each of the men to look up at the clock. It was 7.42 p.m.

'Well, that's a nice theory, Steve,' Hawes said. 'Except for a couple of items.'

'Like?'

'Like… does George sound like a lady?'

'Mmm,' Carella said.

'And most important, we showed that picture to both George and the girl-friend of Cort. Neither of them recognized it. Our killer ain't Jo Cort.'

'What made you think George was a lady, Steve?' Meyer asked. 'The heat getting you?'

'Is he a queer or something?' Carella asked, refusing to drop it. 'This George character?'

'Nope. I'd recognize it, Steve. He was legit.'

'I was thinking… you know… some tie-in with The Lady.' He tapped the letter. 'But if he's not… well…' He shrugged.

'No, no,' Hawes said, 'you're on the wrong track.'

'Yeah, you're right,' Carella said. 'I just thought… well, the motive looked damn good.'

'It's too bad it doesn't fit with the other facts,' Meyer said, smiling. 'Maybe we can change them to fit your theory, huh, Steve?'

Carella grinned. 'I'm getting weak. This has been a busy day.'

'You coming for a beer?' Hawes asked. 'When this is all over?'

'Maybe.'

'He had the right idea, George did,' Hawes said. 'As soon as his place cleared out, he was heading for this.' Unconsciously his finger tapped the Ballantine sign that had been used to form the figure 8 in the letter. And then his finger stopped.

'Hey!' he said.

'The eight,' Carella said. 'You think…?'

'I don't know.'

'But—'

'Is the killer telling us? Is he telling us where?'

'A bar? At eight? Is that it?'

'Holy Jesus, Cotton, do you think so?'

'I don't know. Steve…'

'Hold it, Cotton. Now hold it.'

The men were sitting on the edge of their chairs. The clock on the wall read 7.44 p.m.

'If it's a bar… could it be The Pub?'

'It could. But who?'

'The Lady. It said The Lady. But if this damn eight had a hidden meaning… The Lady. The Lady. Who?'

The men were silent for a moment. Meyer took another cough drop and threw the box on to the desk.

'George may be headed for The Pub,' Carella said. 'He said a bar down the street, didn't he? And that's where Samalson lost the glasses. Maybe George is the victim. Cotton, I can't see it any other way.'

'The Lady? How the hell can George Laddona be The Lady?'

'I don't know. But I think we—'

'Holy…!'

'What?' Carella stood up. 'What?'

'Oh, Jesus. Translate it! You're Italian, Steve. Translate Laddona. The Lady! The Lady!'

'La donna!' Carella said. 'Oh, my aching… then he wants to be stopped. Goddamnit, Cotton, the killer wants to be stopped! He's told us who and where. The killer—'

'But who's the killer?' Hawes asked, rising. And then his eye fell on the cough-drop box on the desk, and he shouted 'Smith! Smith!'

And then they ran like hell out of the squad-room because the clock on the wall read 7.47 p.m.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Standing on top of the garbage can in the alley alongside The Pub, the man could see into the small window directly to the table where George Laddona was sitting.

He had not been wrong, then. He had known George's habits well enough to realize that he would stop at The Pub again tonight on the way home from the diner, would sit at his regular table, and would order a large schooner of beer. And when that was consumed, he would order another… except that tonight he would not order another, he would never order another glass of beer again because at eight o'clock he would die.

The man looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It was 7.52.

In eight minutes, George Laddona would die.

He felt a sudden sadness. It was a thing he had to do, of course. It was the only way he could see. And he had planned it very well, had planned it so that he would be in the clear, so that even if he was suspected of motive, the facts would never tie in with him, the facts would never tie in with the man who'd be seen running down the street after the shooting.

And then to his own apartment. And then, tomorrow morning, back to work, unchanged, seemingly the same. Except that he would have committed a murder.

Would they stop him?

Had his letter been too subtle? Well, of course, he could not tell them, could he have come right out and told them? But hadn't there been enough hints, hadn't he cleverly indicated what was going to happen, and shouldn't they have figured it out?