Chapter VI: Part 6

"Okay," the man said. "Guess one more won't hurt me."

Ray pretended to look at his wrist watch. "One's about all I'll have time for myself. Got to get in an all-night poker game and it's starting about now. Say, my name's Ray Fleck--don't tell me yours 'cause I'm lousy on names and won't remember it anyway. I'll call you Bill. You married, Bill?"

The man shook his head. And the bartender came with their drinks. Ray paid him and left his wallet on top of the bar; he was going to need it in a minute.

"Well, I am," he said. "Married, I mean. Got the prettiest, sweetest little wife in town. And you know it worries me--with what's been happening--to leave her all alone, in a building all by herself, while I play all-night poker. But hell, a man's got to get out once in a while, and I think this is my lucky night."

He was thinking: it could be; it could be, if this works.

The man picked up his glass. "Thanks," he said. "Here's how."

"Bumps," Ray said. He took a pull from his own glass.

"Yeah," he said. "All alone in the building, the whole damn building, that's what worries me a little. We live in a third floor, top floor, flat over a store, see. And the second floor flat is vacant right now; people moving in on the first of the month but that's a week yet. And she's the prettiest--Say, let me show you."

He opened a compartment of his wallet and took out two snapshots of his wife. He always carried them. Not out of sentiment but because so many other men carried pictures of their wives or kids or both and he didn't want to be left out if it came to a photo showing match. Besides, Ruth _was_ damned pretty. One of the photos was a close-up and made her look sweet and tender. The other had been snapped at the beach, Ruth in a bathing suit. She'd probably have been annoyed that he carried that one and showed it to other men, who usually whistled when they saw it, but what she didn't know didn't hurt her.

He pushed the pictures over to the man and used the motion as an excuse to slide over one stool and sit next to him. "That's Ruth," he said. "Ruth Fleck, if you forgot my name. Ain't she a honey?"

"Sure is."

The man was bent over the photographs on the bar, studying them as closely as though he were nearsighted. Ray Fleck couldn't see his eyes, which was perhaps just as well; they might have unnerved him and he needed every bit of nerve and every bit of acting ability he had, to put this over.

He asked casually, "Ever eat at a restaurant called Mikos'? Out on North Broadmoor?"

The man still didn't look up. "Know where it is; I've driven past. But I never ate there. Why?"

"Just that if you had you might have seen Ruth. She's working there, just temporarily. Waitress on the evening shift till eleven-thirty, gets home about midnight."

The man pushed the pictures back. He still didn't look at Ray; now he was looking at his drink, and put a hand around it, moving the glass in slow circles. "Good looking, all right. But what you worrying about? You got a chain bolt on the door, ain't you? Everybody has, somebody told me."

Suddenly Ray's mouth felt dry, and he knew he was winning. He had to wait a second to get saliva in his mouth so he could talk naturally. "Ordinary bolt, not a chain bolt. But she has to open up when I come--" He broke off and laughed suddenly.

"What the hell, I clean forgot. We got a system, Ruth and me. A code knock so she knows it's me if I get home after she does. She don't open the door otherwise. But I haven't had to use it for a few weeks and I clean forgot about it for the minute."

He took a sip of his drink and put the glass down again. "Imagine me forgetting, when we picked a code I couldn't forget. Same as our address. We live at three one two Covington Place, see, three knocks, then one, and then two. That way I don't have to yell out my name or anything and anyway somebody else could say 'It's Ray,' so that wouldn't mean anything. Say, who do you think will be playing in the series this year?"

The man shrugged. "I don't follow baseball."

"I don't either, much," Ray said. "But I'd sure like to see the Yankees lose a pennant for once. Spoils baseball, same team winning every year in one league."

"Yeah," the man said. "I go along on that." He finished his drink and slid off the stool. "Well, I gotta go. Unless you'll let me buy back."

"Nope. This better be my last, if I'm gonna play poker."

"Okay, then. Thanks."

Ray didn't turn as the man walked behind and past him to the door. But after the man was outside he turned just slightly and managed to watch out of the corner of his eye, through the window, without appearing to be watching. The man crossed the street and went into the drugstore. He headed for the phone booth and started thumbing through the phone book that hung on a chain beside it.

Checking up on what Ray had told him by verifying the address in the phone book? It could be. But then the man looked up another number, thumbing to another part of the directory, and then entered the phone booth and closed the door behind him.

What call would he be making, Ray wondered. To Ray's own phone number, just to verify that no one answered there? That wouldn't prove much. Calling someone to tell them that he wouldn't be home till later? That didn't seem too likely; he probably lived alone, and besides he'd had to look up a number. He'd certainly know the number whereever he lived.

Then Ray realized what call the man would be making. He was checking Ray's story down the line. First he'd looked up Ray's listing just to make sure of the address, then he'd looked up Mikos' restaurant and was now calling it. He'd ask for Ruth Fleck and be told--Ray glanced at his wrist watch and saw that it was eleven thirty-four--that yes, Ruth Fleck worked there and had just left to go home. Mikos would still be there to answer the phone; he knew enough about restaurant routine to know that Mikos always stayed at least a little while after Ruth left, to check the cash register, maybe put chairs on tables, do whatever else had to be done to shut up shop for the night.

He reached out a hand for his drink, and saw that the hand was shaking so badly from reaction that he put it quickly down on the bar instead. He had to get himself under control now, and stay that way. He didn't dare let himself think about what was going to happen to Ruth.

The die was cast now, and there was no way he could call back what he had done. All that remained was to sit there until he was calm again, and think things out. He needed an alibi.

Ruth would die any time after midnight. And so, from midnight on, he had to have a solid, airtight, unbreakable alibi. One with lots of witnesses. With a ten-thousand-dollar motive for killing his wife, the police would be utter fools if they didn't at least slightly suspect him of having done the murder himself, using the psycho's _modus operandi_--knockout, rape, strangling, in that order--and so his alibi had to be above suspicion. Already he knew approximately how he was going to work it, but there were still a few details to think out.

And his nerves. But they'd be all right; they were probably all right right now. He lifted his hand from the bar and reached for his drink. It still trembled a little, but not so badly. In a few more minutes he'd be completely okay.

If he could keep himself from thinking about Ruth.

11:34 P.M.

Ruth Fleck had not yet left the restaurant. George had told her to go at eleven-thirty, but the last customer, at the counter, had obviously been within a minute or two of finishing and she'd decided to wait. It had paid off, too, with a two-bit tip that he probably wouldn't have left if he'd seen her leave; he wouldn't have known that George would hold the tip for her and give it to her tomorrow evening.

She'd carried his dishes back and was putting on the light summer coat over her uniform dress when she heard the phone ring up front. She didn't hurry because George was up there starting to check the cash register, and anyway the call was unlikely to be for her. Nobody she knew would be calling her at this hour except possibly Ray--and if he looked at his watch before calling he'd think that she'd already left.

But George's voice called out "Ruth. For you." And she called back "Coming" and hurried a bit.

George was back at the register when she came through the swinging doors, and the wall phone was off the hook, dangling on its cord. She went to it and said, "Hello." But no voice answered and after a second she realized that the faint buzz she heard was a dial tone.

She hung up the phone and looked toward George. "That's funny," she said. "Nobody on the line. It must have been Ray, but he must have been cut off. Maybe I should wait around a few more minutes to see if he tries again."

There was suddenly a peculiar expression on George Mikos' face. He left the register and came around the counter.

"That wasn't your husband," he said. "He's called often enough for me to know his voice. This voice was deeper. But I think you better wait a minute anyway. Sit down."

Ruth was puzzled but she pulled a chair out from under the nearest table and sat. George sat on one of the counter stools and stared at her. "Ruth, outside of Ray, do you know anyone at all who might have any reason at all for calling you at this time?"

Ruth thought, and shook her head slowly. "No," she admitted. "No man, anyway. Just what did he say? Could he have got the wrong number and you misunderstood the name he asked for."

"No. And the conversation was so short I can give it to you verbatim. He said, 'Is Ruth Fleck there?' Incidentally, that's proof, besides the voice, that it wasn't your husband. The several times he's called when I've answered he's always said, 'Hi, George. Can I talk to Ruth?' Knows my voice and calls me by name, and never bothers adding the Fleck to yours.

"But back to this call. I said, 'She's just about to leave, but she's still here. Just a minute.' And then I called out to you, and went back to the register. And that's all."

"He couldn't have misunderstood you and thought you said I'd just left?"

"Pretty unlikely, Ruth. My diction is at least passable, and it was a good connection. Besides, although my mouth was away from the mouthpiece when I called you I called loudly enough and was still close enough that he'd surely have heard that."

He frowned. "Have you had any other mysterious phone calls recently? Such as answering the phone and having someone hang up when he hears your voice?" Ruth shook her head. "Or such as wrong numbers? Or a call from a stranger who could be a phony for all you know, asking what television program you're watching, or anything like that?"

Ruth shook her head more slowly this time. "No, George. Oh, wrong numbers once in a while, things like that. But not recently. Not that I remember right now, anyway. Most calls we get are for Ray, and the caller always leaves a name or a number or both. Or if they're for me, they're from someone I know."

"And you've never been followed that you know of? Never had anything happen to indicate that someone has been checking up on you or asking questions about you?"

"No. George, you're taking this awfully seriously. I can guess what you're thinking--but why would the psychopath pick on _me_?"

"For the same reason," George said, "that he picked on those other women. Doubled in spades, because you're prettier than they were. And you've got a husband who--What time does Ray usually come home at night?"

"Usually about ten or fifteen minutes after the taverns close at one o'clock. I always stay up that long to wait for him. If he isn't home by--oh, about one twenty--I figure he probably got into a poker game or something and go to sleep. Then he has to knock loud enough to wake me--but that's not too hard; I'm a light sleeper."

"That would give the psycho a full hour, from midnight till one, most nights. Some nights longer, if he's been casing your husband too and happens to know he's going to be later. Ruth, I don't like that phone call at all. To be honest about it, it worries the bejesus out of me."

"You're scaring me too, George. I guess you want to, so I'll be careful. And I will. I told you about the special knock Ray uses when he gets home late. I wouldn't open the door except to that knock. But isn't it enough of a precaution?"

"I suppose so, unless Ray's told someone about it. Suppose he got talking to a friend in a tavern--but with the psycho in hearing distance--and told him about it. There's plenty of talk about the psycho, including in taverns. If the subject came up naturally, mightn't he tell what precaution you and he are using, if he knew and thought he could trust whoever he was talking to."

"Well--he might mention that we use a code knock. But he surely wouldn't tell just what the code knock _is_. There'd be no reason for him to tell that--unless he deliberately wanted to get me murdered. And he's not that bad, George."

George Mikos sighed. "I suppose you're right there. But don't you see that, code knock or no, you can be in danger? That you _are_ in danger if friend psycho is checking up on you and has you on his little list, even as a possibility?"

"I realize that--but still, if I don't open the door--"

"Wait, I hadn't finished. If he's even intelligent enough to read the newspapers he knows by now that women alone just aren't opening doors these days, not unless they have chain bolts on them anyway. He knows he's going to have to vary his procedure if he's going to succeed again. And what simpler variation would there be than for him to find a woman who went home alone, late, and be waiting for her _inside_ her house or flat when she gets there?

"Let me make a hypothetical case to show you how that could be. Let's say he picked you out a week ago. Maybe he eats here; maybe you've talked to him and he got to know your name. Let's say the first night he followed you home and knows where you live.

"Let's say he's been checking up on you ever since. It wouldn't be hard for him to learn that you're married, but only you and your husband live in that flat."

"Only Ray and I live in the whole building right now, George. It's a small, narrow building, two flats over a hardware store. And the flat on the second floor, under us, is vacant. I understand it's been rented for the first, and we'll have neighbors soon, but--"

"That makes it a perfect setup for him, Ruth. Better than he could have hoped for. He wouldn't have to come in the restaurant here again, or follow you home again. Let's say he's just been keeping an eye on your building late evenings and nights since. He's seen you get home about midnight every night. And he's seen Ray--How long has it been since Ray has got home early, before a few minutes after one?"

"Not for over a week."

"All right. Then he knows you get home at midnight, and Ray doesn't get home until after one. Since there are only two of you in the whole building he wouldn't have to know Ray even by sight to know that the man who came in an hour or more after you got home is your husband. He wouldn't have to know a thing about Ray except that he gets home after one. He probably figures Ray holds a night job somewhere and that's when he gets off, so he's even surer than he should be that Ray isn't going to get home earlier. Are you following me, Ruth?"

"I'm getting plenty scared, if that's what you mean."

"So he knows he's got an hour with you there alone, and that's probably a lot more time than he needs. His attacks are probably as quick as they are sudden and brutal.

"So all he has to do is break into your flat any time before midnight and wait for you. Break in or let himself in with a skeleton key or something. How good is your lock?"

"Just an ordinary one. And of course the bolt isn't thrown inside the door when no one's there. I guess a skeleton key would get him in."

"He could be there right now waiting for you. And that call for you here--he could have made it right from your phone, just to assure himself that you were getting off on time and not working late. He must have expected me to say that you'd just left, and when I said you were still here he couldn't think quickly enough of anything unsuspicious to say to you so he hung up before you got to the phone. And he did learn that you'll be there soon; I gave him that information gratuitously when I told him you were still here but just about to leave."

"George, this is--horrible. It's an awful lot to build on one unexplained phone call but--but it could be. Do you think we should go to the police?"

He shook his head slowly. "Not tonight. I'm afraid they'd think, as you suggested, that it's an awful lot to build on one unexplained phone call. They might think it worth investigating and they might not. In any case, they'd want to talk to us first, maybe have us come in, and that would waste a lot of time. And don't forget that if he _is_ there waiting for you, he isn't going to wait forever. If you're not home by--oh, say, half past twelve, he'll figure something's gone wrong and beat it.

"No, I'm going to handle it myself, tonight. I'm going to drive you home. You're going to give me your key and then wait in the car till I go up and check your flat. Thoroughly. You go up only when I tell you it's safe as houses. And then lock yourself in and don't open the door till your husband uses his trick knock. And bolt the door again after him. That way you'll be safe for tonight.

"And we'll worry about the police tomorrow--unless by then we've found some explanation of that phone call--and I'll go right to my homicide captain friend and lay it in his lap. If he takes this as seriously as I do you'll be under police protection from then on. I'd call him tonight but I happen to know he's out of town till tomorrow morning. And I don't want to mess with any lesser lights. Come on."

He stood up and went to the front door to double check that it was locked. "My car's out back. We'll go that way."

Ruth had stood but she said, "George--I don't like this. Your going up there alone, I mean. If he's _there_, he's dangerous. You don't know how big and strong he may be."

He grinned. "I know how big and strong _I_ am. And clothed in armor of righteousness at that. Believe me, nothing would make me happier than finding him."

"But--he might be armed. Do you have a gun?"

"He probably isn't. People who kill with their hands seldom carry other weapons. But yes, I've got a gun, back in the sanctum. I'll take it along if only to make you feel easier. And a flashlight to help me find wall switches and look under beds. Come on."

This time she followed him and waited in the kitchen while he went briefly into his office. They turned out the rest of the lights and left.

In the car, which was parked on a vacant lot across the alley, she gave him the address and directions, since he'd never been there before. It was only five minutes by car, she thought; she'd be getting home earlier than usual instead of later. The bus took half an hour because it was roundabout and she had to transfer once.

She had a thought, as he started. "George, what if Ray came home early and is there? What are you going to tell him?"

"The truth, what else? And he'll have no cause for suspicion, if that's what you're worrying about. If I were taking you there for an assignation I'd hardly leave you in the car and go up alone, would I? Besides, next to the psycho I'd _like_ to find him there. I'd feel safer about leaving you. And there's a possibility, just a possibility, that he could tell us something about that mysterious phone call. For some reason or another he might have asked or told someone to call you. And the hanging up _could_ have been a misunderstanding or an accidental disconnection. Why did you ask? He isn't jealous of me, is he?"

"I've never given him any cause to be. I mean, I haven't talked about you too much or anything like that. He knows I think you're nice, and generous, and a good employer."

"Uh-huh. Do you have any reason for thinking he might come home earlier than usual tonight? Or, for that matter, later?"

"Well, there could be--either way. I told you about our quarrel this afternoon because I wouldn't borrow money against the policy for him. It was pretty bitter. He might deliberately stay out later because of that, if he's still mad. Or he might come home early or be there already for the opposite reason, I mean if he's repentant or wants to apologize. But I doubt that. If he _is_ home early it's more likely to re-open the argument and have another try at convincing me. Or--This is Thursday, isn't it?"

"Yes. What's that got to do with it?"

"Only that quite frequently he plays poker Thursday nights, all night or quite late. But he probably won't play tonight--he didn't have too much money and I guess it's a pretty steep game, one he wouldn't try to get into with a few dollars."

"He might have borrowed some. But skip Ray. Tell me something about the flat I'll be casing in a minute. Has it got a fire escape, could it be broken into from the outside?"

"No fire escape. There's a front and back door. The back door leads to stairs that go down to the alley. But it's kept bolted and I never use it except to take down garbage or trash. I won't do that tonight."

"Nor tomorrow either. You're going to be extra careful in all directions at least until I've had a talk with my friend in homicide and see what we can work out with him. How many windows?"

"Five--no, six. Two at the front that look on the street, three along one side and one kitchen window at the back. But he couldn't get at any of them without using a long ladder, and I can't picture him taking the risk of carrying one around."

George said, "Just the same I'm going to see that all windows are closed and locked when I go up there. It's a coolish night and you can survive without ventilation for that long. How about access to or from the roof?"

"There's a trap door, but it's outside the kitchen door; if he came through it he still wouldn't be inside the flat. Besides, it's kept fastened on the inside."

"This the right block?"

"Yes. Third building from the next corner, on your right."

She started fishing in her handbag for her key and had it ready for him by the time the car stopped directly in front.

He got out and closed the door, spoke through the open window. "Don't leave the car. If he's by any chance watching from somewhere and approaches the car--if _anyone_ approaches the car--start yelling like hell, loud enough for me to hear you up there. Not that your yelling wouldn't make him run in any case."

He left her and Ruth Fleck lighted a cigarette and waited till he came back. This time he came to her side of the car and opened the door for her. "False alarm," he said cheerfully. "Not a psycho in sight--and I checked carefully. Closets, under the bed, anywhere a man could hide."

She got out of the car. "Thanks, George. I can't tell you how much I--"

"Don't try then. And I'm not leaving you this second anyway. Escort service right to your door, and I want to hear the bolt slide when you've closed it after you. Here's your key."

He stopped at the door of the flat and didn't try to enter after her. She turned to face him. "Good night, George. And thanks again, a million."

"Forget it. But listen a moment. My guess that he might be waiting here for you was wrong, but I'm still worried and I guess you are too. Would you feel safer spending the night in a hotel room? You could write a note for Ray--I'd have had to bring you here to do that in any case--and then I could drive you on downtown. It might be the safest thing."

She shook her head. "No, I'll be all right here."

"Okay. But one final instruction--and I don't mean not to open the door except for your husband; you know that. It's this: if you hear anyone trying to get in either door or at a window, if you even _think_ you hear anything suspicious, don't waste time phoning the police--you could be dead by the time they get here. Just open a front window, lean out and start screaming bloody murder at the top of your lungs, loud enough to carry six blocks away. He wouldn't follow through on trying to get in while you're doing that. Okay, good night--and let me hear that bolt slide."

"Good night, George."

She closed the door and slid the bolt, stood there a moment listening to his footsteps going down the stairs and thinking how wonderful he'd been to her and how concerned he'd been about her. And how brave to have come up here alone when he'd really thought that a dangerous criminal, a murderer, might be waiting.

When she turned she saw by the clock that it still lacked six minutes of midnight. Because of the lift, she was home earlier than usual despite all the talking they'd done and the time George had taken to search the flat.

She went into the bathroom and started drawing water in the tub. She was tired, if not sleepy, and a hot bath would be just the thing to relax her body and her nerves.

11:55 P.M.

Ray Fleck looked at his watch again and saw that it was just time for him to leave. He'd sat there nursing his drink ever since the psycho had left--thinking. There couldn't be any possible slip-ups on his alibi and he'd thought it out and covered every contingency.

The all-night poker game at Harry Brambaugh's was, of course, the basis of it. But he'd worked things out so that game would alibi him for all night no matter what happened. Someone in the game might or might not buy the diamond ring to let him play. And if someone did buy it, he might still go broke within the first hour, and that would be no good at all. His alibi had to be for _all_ night, clear up to dawn.

He'd told the psycho, in effect, that an attack on Ruth would be safe any time after midnight; he couldn't possibly pinpoint it by suggesting a specific time or even a deadline. And for all Ray knew the guy might as easily make his call at two or three in the morning as at half past twelve. Besides, even if he had any way of timing it, he didn't dare get home too soon after the psycho had left. The minute he got home and found Ruth dead he'd have to call the police--and if she were freshly dead they'd still suspect him of having killed her and having done it in such a way as to throw suspicion on the psycho. He didn't dare find her until she'd been dead at least a couple of hours, and with him having a solid alibi for the time at which she'd died.

To be safe he didn't dare get home before five in the morning and six would be better.

So, since the psycho had left, he'd been planning carefully; he was going to have an all-night alibi from Harry and whoever else was in the game, whether or not he could sell the ring and whether or not he went broke quickly if he did sell it. All it took was the right build-up.

Harry had a downtown apartment, only a block and a half from here. Five minutes walk and if he left at five of twelve he could establish the time of his arrival by saying "Cold on the stroke of midnight," when he walked into the room. That wouldn't sound suspicious or as though he was trying to establish an alibi because it was a phrase he often used anyway. So did some of the other boys. It was a quotation from a poem or something, and it was a cliché that fitted in any time the question of time came up at or within a minute of midnight.

Second step: The minute he got in he'd tell Harry he felt lousy, had an upset stomach and a headache. He'd say it would probably wear off, but did Harry have a Bromo-Seltzer or an Alka-Seltzer around, and maybe a couple of aspirin tablets too. And Harry would have; Harry had a bad stomach and headaches himself and was always well stocked with patent medicines; Harry would give him something and he'd take it. Point made.

Then, at the poker table but before sitting down, he'd explain apologetically that he was short on cash but had a hell of a bargain in a diamond ring, if anyone might be interested in buying it, and he'd pass it around. He'd try to get a hundred, but settle for fifty if someone wanted it but quibbled about price. Either someone would buy it or no one would buy it.

If no one bought, well, he'd laid his groundwork, by convincing Harry he was sick. He'd say he didn't feel up to going home right away, and would Harry mind if he lay down on the sofa a while first. Harry had a comfortable sofa right in the living room, the room in which they played cards. Lying there he'd be in sight of everyone in the game. And Harry was a nice guy; he certainly wouldn't mind. That sofa had been used before for similar purposes; once in a while someone got tired in the middle of a game and wanted to rest a while and then get back in.

So he'd pretend to go to sleep on the sofa--or really go to sleep if he could. And stay there till the game broke up, which was never before five o'clock.

Same deal with a minor variation if he sold the ring but lost the money too soon. His upset stomach and headache would have come back by then; he'd take more Alka-Seltzer and aspirin and then lie down a while to give them a chance to work.

It would work. Parts of the story might sound mildly strange to the police when they questioned him, but there'd be too many witnesses for them to have any serious doubts. Especially if Milt Corbett was there as one of the witnesses, as he probably would be; Milt was a prominent member of the city council and the strength of his word would be as the strength of ten, to the police.

He left a dollar tip on the bar, to make the bartender remember him; it wouldn't hurt to be able to extend his alibi backward a bit in case Ruth died very shortly after midnight, and left.

He'd timed it right; it was midnight on the head when he rang the bell of Harry Brambaugh's apartment.

Stella, Brambaugh's wife, opened the door. On a chain, of course, but she opened it the rest of the way when she recognized Ray. He was a little surprised to see that she was wearing a robe and had her iron gray hair in pin curlers; usually she stayed dressed and made coffee and sandwiches about one o'clock, and then went to bed.

"Cold on the stroke of midnight," Ray said. "Game been going on long?"

"Ray, I tried to call you but you weren't home. There isn't any game. Harry got a telegram while we were eating tonight; his brother is seriously hurt in a car accident and he had to leave right away, the first plane. He gave me a list of six men to call up, and I got all of them except you."

Ray frowned, thinking frantically. "Mrs. Brambaugh, I wonder if you could give me that list. I know all the boys on it, but not all their phone numbers. And maybe we can still get a game going, especially if you'd let me use your phone so I can call them right away."

She shook her head. "I might find the list in the wastebasket, but it wouldn't work anyway, Ray. Three of them said they wouldn't have been able to make it tonight anyway. I don't know whether Harry would have played four-handed or not; he'd probably have postponed it. But that leaves only two besides yourself, and they've probably got doing something else by now. Or gone to bed."

His mind went in frantic circles as he walked down the stairs and out into the night. What now? He could alibi himself by going to any tavern where he was well known, between now and one o'clock when the tavern would close. God, oh, God, what could he do? He could go to a hotel, but what good would that be as an alibi? The clerk could testify when he checked in and when he checked out, but could he give positive testimony that he had not sneaked out and back in again sometime during the night?

Of course if he picked up a woman and took her to a hotel, or to her own place--He considered that and abandoned it reluctantly. The testimony of a woman like that would be of only slight value, for one thing. For another, the chances of his finding such a woman were slight, especially since he had less than an hour to do it in. There'd been a recent crackdown and available pickups in bars were currently few and far between. Outside of bars, he didn't have the faintest idea where to start looking. He didn't have a little black book of addresses; for the last few years, his only extramarital adventures had been those with Dolly, and Dolly--well, he could forget Dolly tonight, if not forever.

Besides, he was broke. He couldn't have over a few dollars left after all the drinks, many of them doubles, that he'd been buying.

For a moment he entertained the wild idea of walking in front of a car, getting himself injured and taken to the hospital. But that was too risky; he could be killed--or permanently crippled, which would be almost as bad. Or if for safety he picked a slowly moving car and just let it knock him down his injuries would probably be so superficial that a hospital would simply check him over and discharge him immediately. Could he feign a heart attack? No, it would take the admitting physician only half a minute with a stethoscope to learn that his heart was as sound as a preinflation dollar. Acute appendicitis? Hardly, with his appendix already out and a scar to prove it. Or--no, damn it, he knew too little about illnesses to be able to get away with feigning anything. He'd never had a sick day in life, except for that attack of appendicitis and the time he'd been in the army infirmary on account of his allergy to wool.

The hospital idea wouldn't work. But what else would be open all night after the taverns closed?

The answer was so simple that he wondered why he'd sweated thinking about hotels and hospitals. The jail was open all night. It wouldn't hurt him to spend a night in the drunk tank, to save his life, and to pay a ten-buck fine in the morning. Maybe even no fine, just a warning, for first offense; and what alibi could possibly be better than being in jail? He wondered why he hadn't thought of it the moment he'd learned that the poker game was called off.

But he'd better make it good and _really_ get drunk, roaring drunk, not depend on acting. He looked at his watch. It was only five minutes after twelve. Fifty-five minutes to go and that was plenty of time, if he drank straight shots, doubles. He had a hell of a good capacity for liquor if he took it in highballs and reasonably spaced his drinks--as he had thus far tonight--but straight whisky always hit him hard and fast. With the slight edge he already had, five or six straight doubles would be plenty, if he took them no more than five minutes apart.

Money wouldn't be a problem, even though he had only two bucks, enough for two doubles, left. Since he'd never done so before, he could borrow five or ten from almost any bar owner or bartender in town. And even five, with what he had, would get him seven doubles, more than enough. He'd been walking without thinking where he was going, but now he looked to see where he was. Half a block from the Log Cabin, run by Jerry Dean. It would be as good a place as any. He was known there at least as well as at any other tavern, and Jerry was at least as likely to lend him money as anyone else; he'd spent hundreds of dollars in Jerry's.

Jerry was behind the bar and, Ray was glad to see, so was his son Shorty Dean, whom Jerry was teaching to be a bartender. Two witnesses would be better than one--and he might as well establish the time right away. He put a dollar on the bar and asked for a straight double. Then while Jerry was pouring it he glanced up at the wall clock. "Hey, your clock's half an hour off."

Jerry looked up at the clock and then at his own watch. "Seven after twelve. That's what I got. How about you, Shorty?"

Shorty had five after but said his watch had been running a minute or two slow a day.

"Then seven after must be right," Ray said. He held his own watch to his ear. "Hell, mine's stopped. Must have forgot to wind it." He wound it and pretended to set it. "Say, Jerry, I ran short of cash tonight. Can you spare a sawbuck, just till tomorrow night?"

"Sure, Ray." Jerry pulled out a wallet. "Can even make it a double-saw, if you want."

"Swell," Ray said. He left the bill on the bar and tossed off his double. It tasted like hell to him; he didn't like the taste of raw whisky. But he ordered another.

Twenty minutes and four drinks later he was feeling high, definitely high. His tongue was thick and if he stared fixedly at anything or anybody he found himself seeing double; to keep his eyes focused he had to move them frequently. And he knew that the full force of the drinks hadn't hit him yet; fifteen minutes or half an hour more and he'd feel them a lot worse.

"One more," he said.

"Listen, Ray, you've had plenty. Don't you think you'd better call it off for tonight?" Jerry sounded genuinely concerned. "Uh--are you driving?"

"Nope. Car's being worked on. So one more, then I'll call it off. Okay?"

But he sat staring at the one more, and he was realizing that maybe getting arrested for being drunk wasn't as easy as getting drunk was. How do you get arrested if there isn't a cop around? Was he going to have to start trouble or a fight so Jerry would have to call the cops? He hated trouble, and he hated fights worse, but--

And then the answer came through the door. Officer Hoff and his squad car partner, the pair he'd talked to earlier in Jick's place, came in. Hoff said, "Hi, Jerry. Two damn quick quickies. Hi, Ray. How goes it?"

This was his chance. With drunken dignity Ray got off the stool and started back toward the juke box. He tried to stagger--and found that he didn't have to try. He almost fell, caught himself with a hand against the wall, and apparently forgot where he'd been going and came back to his stool, but stood there behind it, swaying. He reached for his drink and spilled half of it, got the rest down and dropped the glass. He swayed back onto the stool--he was exaggerating, acting, but not much--and sat there glowering at Hoff. "Goddam cop," he said thickly. "God, how I hate cops."

"Look, Hoffie," Jerry said, conciliatingly, "he's drunk, so don't get mad. And don't blame me. This hit him sudden like, or I'd of cut him off sooner. He's been in here only twenty minutes or so, and he acted cold sober till just now. I'd hate to see him get jugged--Ray's a nice guy. Could you guys spare time to run him home and get him out of trouble?"

Hoff said, "Sure, Jerry. Ray's all right. It can happen to any of us." He downed his shot quickly and then came back and put his hand on Ray's arm. "Come on, Ray. Time for beddy-bye. Where do you live?"

Ray slid off the stool and jerked away. If only violence was going to get him arrested, then he might as well get it over with. "Keep your goddam hands off me. Mind your own damn business." And he started a roundhouse swing. He didn't really know whether or not he was trying to make it connect--but it didn't. And then he saw Hoff's fist coming up in a short sharp uppercut for his own chin--saw it, but not in time to duck. The lights went out.

He came to, to the sound and motion of a car. Thank God, it had worked; they were taking him in. He shook his head to clear it a little and saw that Hoff was sitting beside him in the back seat, the partner was driving.

Hoff said, "Take it easy, Ray. I can handle you but I don't want to have to hurt you. And you're not pinched--this time. I got your address from your wallet--and put your money that was on the bar in it. We're taking you home to the little wifie."

_Oh, God, Oh, God_, he thought; _this can't be happening. They can't take me home now. It's only half past twelve or a few minutes later. It's too early, it's hours too early._

Under an alcoholic haze, part of his mind worked; it scuttled like a rat trying to get out of a trap. And it found a hole--a dangerous hole, but still a hole.

He reached into his left pants pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, unfolded it. As they passed a street light, jewels flashed. "Lookit, Hoffie," Ray said. "Why I was getting drunk. Stole this. Conscience. Give m'self up."

Hoff called out, "Hey, Willie. Pull in to the curb and give me the dome light on."

On the way back downtown, the way toward the police station, Hoff kept questioning him and he kept ducking. Yeah, he'd stolen the jewels. Didn't remember who from. Drunk. Needed sleep, let him tell 'em everything tomorrow when he'd sobered up.

He played drunker than he was and he was thinking that he hadn't really given anything away. Tomorrow he could deny everything. He could say he'd found the jewelry, in a handkerchief just as it was, and how could they prove he hadn't. They'd doubt him, but they couldn't prove a thing. Dolly and Irby weren't reporting the robbery, now that they had the check and confession, so there'd be no theft report to match the stuff. Why then had he told Hoff he'd stolen it? How did he know why? He was drunk, didn't remember anything after taking a swing at Hoff in Jerry's place. Some drunken impulse must have made him tell Hoff that, but he couldn't remember what it was, couldn't even remember having been in a squad car.

He was safe. They might doubt him, but they couldn't prove a thing, except the drunk and disorderly charge--and they certainly wouldn't press even that after they had to tell him that his wife had been killed during the night, by the psycho. And on that angle, he was even safer; his alibi was solid from seven minutes after twelve on. From midnight on, really; Stella Brambaugh could testify she'd talked to him cold on the stroke of midnight, and just seven minutes away from Jerry's Log Cabin. Even farther back than that if the dollar tip had made the bartender at the Palace Bar remember him, and remember what times he'd been there. But even midnight was safe enough; Ruth didn't even get home until then.

Hoff said, "Ray, we've got to take you in. Want me to phone your wife so she'll know where you are?"

"God no," Ray said, and then made his voice calmer. "She won't worry about me--thinks I'm in an all-night poker game so won't 'spect me home anyhow."

"Okay. We're going to have to book you on suspicion of theft. Want a lawyer? He might get you out on bail right away."

"Hell no, Hoffie. Too drunk to do any good if I did get out. Too drunk, too sleepy. Just book me and jug me, and let me get some sleep."

"If that's the way you want it," Hoff said. The squad car pulled up in front of the station.

1:01 A.M.

Bare feet tucked under her, Ruth Fleck sat on the sofa in the living room. After her leisurely bath she'd put on pyjamas and a quilted housecoat, but no slippers; she liked to go barefoot around the house. The reading lamp was on and she had a magazine in her lap, opened to the beginning of a story. But she hadn't started it yet; she was still thinking about her coming conversation with Ray.

Not about what she was going to say; she'd already decided that, but about how she was going to say it. She was going to give him an ultimatum, but to spare his pride as well as to avoid another argument, she wanted to figure how to word it so it wouldn't sound like an ultimatum.

She'd thought about it all evening at work and had finally, if a bit reluctantly, decided to give him the five hundred he needed to pay off his bookie. George was probably right in saying that Joe Amico wouldn't have him beaten up, let alone taken for a ride. But still, Ray _was_ in trouble, with that big a debt hanging over him and she should help him out, this once. She'd agree to go downtown with him tomorrow and arrange the loan against the policy.

But she was going to attach a condition to it, and she thought she had every right to do so. He'd have to promise, and mean the promise and stick to it, to quit gambling on credit--or for heavy stakes, whether on credit or not. Gambling was in his blood, and she knew it would be meaningless for her to demand his promise never to gamble again. He might make such a promise--for the sake of getting the money from her--but he wouldn't mean it in the slightest and wouldn't keep it for a single day. She might as well make a clean break with him right now as to demand a promise like that.

Would she be better off in any case to make a clean break? She pushed that thought away. She should give him one more chance before she decided anything like that. And maybe the sweating he was doing right now about that five-hundred-dollar debt had taught him the lesson he needed. She'd see.

She'd give him the money--and the ultimatum. Henceforth his gambling had to be moderate and for cash only, when he could afford it. If he wanted to make two-dollar bets, or even an occasional five- or ten-dollar bet, for cash, that was all right. But no more going in over his head, on credit. Certainly that was a reasonable thing for a wife to expect.

But if he ever got into trouble like this again--well, again she'd borrow five hundred against the policy (that would still leave nine thousand coming, a nice nest egg, when the policy matured in another five years or so) but she wouldn't give it to Ray to pay off gambling debts. She'd use it herself for a trip to Reno. That was just about what such a trip, and a divorce, would cost her. Less than that, of course, if she could find work there during her waiting period, but she wouldn't count on that. A lot of women who go there for divorces must look for work to help out and to occupy their time during the six weeks--she thought it was six weeks--they had to wait for their divorces. The labor market might be glutted.

She hoped he wouldn't be late tonight--but no matter how late he might be, she was going to wait up for him. Morning was a bad time to talk with him, especially about anything serious. He was always irritable and grumpy in the morning, likely to fly off the handle over even the most innocent remark she might make.

She heard footsteps coming up the stairs and thought _Good, he's even a little earlier than usual_. It was only a few minutes after one; he couldn't have waited even till the bars closed to start home. Maybe that was a good sign.

She got off the sofa and went to the door. But, remembering the phone call and George's warning, she didn't reach for the bolt or the knob until he knocked.

He knocked. Three knocks, a short pause; one knock, a short pause, then two knocks.

She threw back the bolt and opened the door.

1:05 A.M.

Silently screaming, Benny Knox awakened from the nightmare. Occasionally, not too often, he had nightmares but this one was the worst ever.

It was a hell of a nightmare, quite literally. He'd been in hell, the very literal hell that his father had talked about so often, either to him alone or in sermons that Benny had heard. He was stark naked and standing knee deep in a lake of boiling, bubbling pitch. His feet and legs hurt horribly.

At the edge of the lake, a few feet away, stood three devils. Bright red devils with tails and horns and hoofs. Two of them had long pitchforks and they were jabbing them into Benny's chest and stomach, to drive him farther and deeper into the boiling lake. His arms were stuck; he couldn't use them to try to ward off the pitchforks. The pitchforks hurt badly and he was forced to take a step backward and was suddenly in the boiling pitch up almost to his waist. The slope was steep, and with another step or two he'd be completely in the lake.

The other devil, the one in the middle, didn't have a pitchfork. He was just standing there laughing. And even through his dream Benny knew that he had heard that exact laugh before and that he'd seen that devil's face before--but he couldn't remember where or when.