Chapter I: Part 1

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

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?