"It looks like a long, hot summer," Detective Broderick said, groaning.
"Chief," Lieutenant Wilson T. Crane said, "we've got sixteen possibles from Records. These are women between the ages of twenty and fifty with sheets that include violent felonies. We're tracking them all down and getting their alibis for the night of the homicides. None of them used the same MO as the Hotel Ripper."
"Too much to hope for," Delaney said. "I don't think our target has a sheet, but it's got to be checked out. What about prisons and asylums?"
"No recent releases or escapes that fit the profile," Crane said. "We're calling and writing all over the country, but nothing promising yet."
"Have you contacted Interpol?"
The lieutenant stared at him.
"No, Chief, we haven't," he admitted. "The FBI, but not Interpol."
"Send them a query," Delaney advised. "And Scotland Yard, too, while you're at it."
"Will do," Crane said.
"Chief," Detective Daniel Bentley said, "we went back to the bars at the Hotel Coolidge and asked if anyone remembered serving a man with scarred hands. No one did. But two of the cocktail waitresses who worked in the New Orleans Room the night Jerome Ashley was offed, don't work there anymore. We traced one. She's working in a massage parlor now-would you believe it? She doesn't remember any scarred hands. The other waitress went out to the Coast. Her mother doesn't have an address for her, but promises to ask the girl to call us if she hears from her. Don't hold your breath."
"Keep on it," Delaney said. "Don't let it slide."
"We'll keep on it," Bentley promised.
"Chief," Sergeant Abner Boone said, "I think we've got this thing organized. The hotel trade magazine gave us a copy of their mailing list. We're checking out every hotel in the city that got a copy and making a list of everyone who might have had access to it. I've got men checking the Mayor's office, Chamber of Commerce, hotel associations, visitors' bureau, and so forth. As the names come in, a deskman is compiling two master lists, male and female, with names listed in alphabetical order. How does that sound?"
"You're getting the addresses, too?"
"Right. And their age, when it's available. Even approximate age. Chief, we've got more than three hundred names already. It'll probably run over a thousand before we're through, and even then I won't swear we'll have everyone in New York with prior knowledge of the convention schedule."
"I know," Delaney said grimly, "but we've got to do it."
From all these meetings with the squad commanders, he came away with the feeling that morale was high, the men were doing their jobs with no more than normal grumbling.
After three months of bewilderment and relative inaction, they had finally been turned loose on the chase, their quarry dimly glimpsed but undeniably there. No man involved in the investigation thought what he was doing was without value, no matter how dull it might be.
It was not the first time that Edward X. Delaney had been struck by the contrast between the drama of a heinous crime and the dry minutiae of the investigation. The act was (sometimes) high tragedy; the search was (sometimes) low comedy.
The reason was obvious, of course. The criminal acted in hot passion; the detective had only cold resolve. The criminal was a child of the theater, inspired, thinking the play would go on forever. But along came the detective, a lumpish, methodical fellow, seeking only to ring down the curtain.
On May 30th, all the detectives met at Midtown Precinct North. If Delaney's hypothesis was correct-and most of them now believed it was, simply because no one had suggested any other theory that encompassed all the known facts-the next Hotel Ripper slaying would take place, or be attempted, during the week of June 1-7, and probably during midweek.
It was decided to assign every available man to the role of decoy. With the aid of the hotels' beefed-up security forces, all bars and cocktail lounges in large midtown Manhattan hotels would be covered from 8:00 p.m. until closing.
The lieutenants and sergeants worked out a schedule so that a "hot line" at Midtown North would be manned constantly during those hours. In addition, a standby squad of five men was stationed at Midtown South as backup, to be summoned as needed. The Crime Scene Unit was alerted; one of their vans took up position on West 54th Street.
Monica Delaney noted the fretfulness of her husband during the evenings of June 1-3. He picked up books and tossed them aside. Sat staring for an hour at an opened newspaper without turning a page. Stomped about the house disconsolately, head lowered, hands in his pockets.
She forbore to question the cause of his discontent; she knew. Wisely, she let him "stew in his own juice." But she wondered what would happen to him if events proved his precious theory wrong.
On the night of June 4th, a Wednesday, they were seated in the living room on opposite sides of the cocktail table, playing a desultory game of gin rummy. The Chief had been winning steadily, but shortly after 11:00 p.m., he threw his cards down in disgust and lurched to his feet.
"The hell with it," he said roughly. "I'm going to Midtown."
"What do you think you can do?" his wife asked quietly. "You'll just be in the way. The men will think you're checking up on them, that you don't trust them to do their jobs."
"You're right," he said immediately and dropped back into his chair. "I just feel so damned useless."
She looked at him sympathetically, knowing what this case had come to mean to him: that his expertise was valued, that his age was no drawback, that he was needed and wanted.
There he sat, a stern, rumpled mountain of a man. Gray hair bristled from his big head. His features were heavy, brooding. With his thick, rounded shoulders, he was almost brutish in appearance.
But she knew that behind the harsh facade, a more delicate man was hidden. He was at home in art museums, enjoyed good food and drink, and found pleasure in reading poetry-although it had to rhyme.
More important, he was a virile, tender, and considerate lover. He adored the children. He did not find tears or embraces unmanly. And, unknown to all but the women in his life, there was a core of humility in him.
He had been born and raised a Catholic, although he had long since ceased attending church. But she wondered if he had ever lost his faith. There was steel there that transcended personal pride in his profession and trust in his own rightness.
He had once confessed to her that Barbara, his first wife, had accused him of believing himself God's surrogate on earth. She thought Barbara had been close to the truth; there were times when he acted like a weapon of judgment and saw his life as one long tour of duty.
Musing on the contradictions of the man she loved, she gathered up the cards and put them away.
"Coffee?" she asked idly. "Pecan ring?"
"Coffee would be nice," he said, "but I'll skip the cake. You go ahead."
She was heating the water when the phone shrilled. She picked up the kitchen extension.
"Abner Boone, Mrs. Delaney," the sergeant said, his voice at once hard and hollow. "Could I speak to the Chief, please?"
She didn't ask him the reason for his call. She went back into the living room. Her husband was already on his feet, tugging down vest and jacket. They stared at each other.
"Sergeant Boone," she said.
He nodded, face expressionless. "I'll take it in the study."
She went back into the kitchen and waited for the water to boil, her arms folded, hands clutching her elbows tightly. She heard him come out of the study, go to the hallway closet. He came into the kitchen carrying the straw skimmer he donned every June 1st, regardless of the weather.
"The Hotel Adler," he told her. "About a half-hour ago. They've got the hotel cordoned, but she's probably long gone. I'll be an hour or two. Don't wait up for me."
She nodded and he bent to kiss her cheek.
"Take care," she said as lightly as she could.