something more
than we've dragged out of him."
"I don't know," said Palliser. "It's
not the kind of hotel where they give guests the eagle eye to see if
they're respectable. And it was about ten o'clock at night."
"All the more reason for him to notice, damn it.
Business'd be slow," said Hackett. "I want to talk to him
again, anyway."
"Wish you luck,"
said Palliser, shrugging again. It had been a hot day, and he was
tired. But he had a date with Roberta Silverman and was anxious to
get away, to a cool shower and a shave and a clean shirt, and
Roberta's dark eyes smiling at him across a table and a long cold
drink. He didn't know then that this was an important conversation,
that tomorrow he'd be racking his brains to remember just exactly
what Hackett had said to him. 'The night shift was coming on. He told
the night desk man where he'd be and went down to the lot for his
car.
* * *
That night, at ten minutes past ten, the man full of
hate took his pleasure in blood again. He had been with the old lush
Rosie, but it hadn't lessened the taut violence in him. He had taken
the half-empty bottle with him when he left, and on the street he
stopped to drink from it. The raw spirit didn't seem to get to him,
though he'd had four or five drinks before, with Rosie.
He walked on down the dark street, the vague hatred
churning inside him. At the corner he turned; he had taken a room at
a place on this street, just today. But he didn't feel like going
there, to sleep.
There was a full moon, a great silver circle of
serenity riding high above the city, casting clear silver light on
the streets. He walked under it, hating.
At a corner two blocks up, a young and pretty Negro
girl waited for her husband to pick her up. She had been visiting her
sister and her sister's new baby, just home from the hospital; and
her husband, Joe Lincoln, would pick her up here on his way home from
work as a clerk at a local supermart. She was smiling, thinking about
her new niece, for she was expecting her own first child in two
months.
It was a nice warm night, and there was a bench here;
Joe would be along in a few minutes. Besides the moon, there was a
street light at the corner, it wasn't dark.
The man full of hate came up behind the bench and
stopped to drink from the bottle again. She heard his steps and
turned her head, and saw him clearly. Small shock registered in her
eyes, and she turned quickly away. Another one, looking at him as
if-- And a nigger girl too. Everybody always--
His hand closed on the
knife in his pocket and he lurched toward the bench.
* * *
Most of the night shift were out on that one from
ten-twenty on. The husband found her there--not fve minutes after
she'd died, said the surgeon, in all probability, blood still
flowing. She'd really been cut up, it was quite a mess, and they
called every car in the vicinity to stop any and all pedestrians
within six blocks. But again they drew blank--the Slasher seemed to
have vanished into air. When they'd been that close, it was
irritating to say the least. They'd go on hunting, but the longer he
stayed loose the colder the trail.
Higgins came back off that at twelve forty-five,
talking bitterly to himself about it. Really a mess. By all rights
they should have picked him up as easy as-- He couldn't have been
more than a couple of blocks away when the husband found her. Of all
the Goddamned bad luck.
Sergeant Farrell, on the night desk, welcomed him in
and said he'd go off for a coffee break, then, somebody to mind the
desk. Higgins sat down at the desk dispiritedly and lit a cigarette.
He was still sitting there three minutes later when
the call came in.
He said, surprised, "Why, yes, Mrs. Hackett ....
What?" As he listened to the distrait, carefully
controlled voice, his hard-bitten face went grim. "I see. All
right, we'll get on it. No, he hasn't been in tonight so far as I
know .... Yes, I see. We'll find out. I'll be in touch."
As a realist, he didn't tell her not to
than we've dragged out of him."
"I don't know," said Palliser. "It's
not the kind of hotel where they give guests the eagle eye to see if
they're respectable. And it was about ten o'clock at night."
"All the more reason for him to notice, damn it.
Business'd be slow," said Hackett. "I want to talk to him
again, anyway."
"Wish you luck,"
said Palliser, shrugging again. It had been a hot day, and he was
tired. But he had a date with Roberta Silverman and was anxious to
get away, to a cool shower and a shave and a clean shirt, and
Roberta's dark eyes smiling at him across a table and a long cold
drink. He didn't know then that this was an important conversation,
that tomorrow he'd be racking his brains to remember just exactly
what Hackett had said to him. 'The night shift was coming on. He told
the night desk man where he'd be and went down to the lot for his
car.
* * *
That night, at ten minutes past ten, the man full of
hate took his pleasure in blood again. He had been with the old lush
Rosie, but it hadn't lessened the taut violence in him. He had taken
the half-empty bottle with him when he left, and on the street he
stopped to drink from it. The raw spirit didn't seem to get to him,
though he'd had four or five drinks before, with Rosie.
He walked on down the dark street, the vague hatred
churning inside him. At the corner he turned; he had taken a room at
a place on this street, just today. But he didn't feel like going
there, to sleep.
There was a full moon, a great silver circle of
serenity riding high above the city, casting clear silver light on
the streets. He walked under it, hating.
At a corner two blocks up, a young and pretty Negro
girl waited for her husband to pick her up. She had been visiting her
sister and her sister's new baby, just home from the hospital; and
her husband, Joe Lincoln, would pick her up here on his way home from
work as a clerk at a local supermart. She was smiling, thinking about
her new niece, for she was expecting her own first child in two
months.
It was a nice warm night, and there was a bench here;
Joe would be along in a few minutes. Besides the moon, there was a
street light at the corner, it wasn't dark.
The man full of hate came up behind the bench and
stopped to drink from the bottle again. She heard his steps and
turned her head, and saw him clearly. Small shock registered in her
eyes, and she turned quickly away. Another one, looking at him as
if-- And a nigger girl too. Everybody always--
His hand closed on the
knife in his pocket and he lurched toward the bench.
* * *
Most of the night shift were out on that one from
ten-twenty on. The husband found her there--not fve minutes after
she'd died, said the surgeon, in all probability, blood still
flowing. She'd really been cut up, it was quite a mess, and they
called every car in the vicinity to stop any and all pedestrians
within six blocks. But again they drew blank--the Slasher seemed to
have vanished into air. When they'd been that close, it was
irritating to say the least. They'd go on hunting, but the longer he
stayed loose the colder the trail.
Higgins came back off that at twelve forty-five,
talking bitterly to himself about it. Really a mess. By all rights
they should have picked him up as easy as-- He couldn't have been
more than a couple of blocks away when the husband found her. Of all
the Goddamned bad luck.
Sergeant Farrell, on the night desk, welcomed him in
and said he'd go off for a coffee break, then, somebody to mind the
desk. Higgins sat down at the desk dispiritedly and lit a cigarette.
He was still sitting there three minutes later when
the call came in.
He said, surprised, "Why, yes, Mrs. Hackett ....
What?" As he listened to the distrait, carefully
controlled voice, his hard-bitten face went grim. "I see. All
right, we'll get on it. No, he hasn't been in tonight so far as I
know .... Yes, I see. We'll find out. I'll be in touch."
As a realist, he didn't tell her not to
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