“Get out of here, cop!” the voice shouted.

  “Throw your gun down here,” Hawes said. “There are four cops with me downstairs. You haven’t got a chance.”

  “You’re a liar,” the man shouted. “I saw you when you got here. You came alone. I saw you from the window.”

  Another shot exploded into the hallway. Hawes ducked below the top step. The bullet ripped plaster from the already chipped plaster on the wall. He squinted his eyes, trying to see into the dimness, cursing his position. Wherever Smith was, he could see Hawes without, in turn, being seen. Hawes could not move from his uncomfortable position on the steps. But perhaps Smith couldn’t move, either. Perhaps if he left wherever he was, he would be seen. Hawes waited.

  The hall went utterly still.

  “Smith?” he called.

  A fusillade of shots answered him, angry shots that whined across the hallway and ripped at the plaster. Chalk cascaded onto Hawes’s head. He clung to the steps, cursing tenement hallways and would-be killers. From the street below, he could hear excited yells and screams, and then the repeated, shouted word “Police! Police! Police! Police!”

  “Do you hear that, Smith?” he shouted. “They’re calling the cops. The whole damn precinct’ll be here in three minutes. Throw your gun down.”

  Smith fired again. The shot was lower. It ripped a splinter of wood from the landing near the top step. Hawes reared back and then instantly ducked. He heard a clicking at the other end of the hallway. Smith was reloading. He was about to sprint down the corridor when he heard a clip being slammed into the butt of an automatic. Quickly, he ducked down behind the top step again.

  The hallway was silent again.

  “Smith?”

  There was no answer.

  “Smith?”

  From the street below, Hawes heard the high whine of a police siren.

  “You hear that, Smith? They’re here. They’ll be—”

  Three shots exploded into the hallway. Hawes ducked and then heard a man scuffling to his feet, caught a glimpse of a trouser leg as Smith started up the stairway. Hawes bounded into the hallway, triggering a shot at the retreating figure. Smith turned and fired, and Hawes dropped to the floor again. The footsteps were clattering up the steps now, noisily, excitedly, hurriedly. Hawes got to his feet, ran for the steps, charged up them two at a time. Another shot spun into the hallway. He did not duck this time. He kept charging up the steps, wanting to reach Smith before he got to the roof. He heard the roof door being tried, heard Smith pounding on it, and then heard a shot and the spanging reverberation of metal exploding. The roof door creaked open and then slammed shut. Smith was already on the roof.

  Hawes rushed up the remaining steps. A skylight threw bright sunshine on the landing inside the roof door. He opened the door and then closed it again rapidly when a bullet ripped into the jamb, splashing wood splinters onto his face.

  Goddamn you! he thought. You goddamn son of a bitch, goddamn you!

  He threw open the door, fired a blind fusillade of shots across the roof, and then followed his own cover out onto the melting tar. He saw a figure dart behind one of the chimney pots and then rush for the parapet at the roof’s edge. He fired. His shot was high. He was not shooting to warn or to wound now. He was shooting to kill. Smith rose for an instant, poised on the edge of the roof. Hawes fired, and Smith leaped the airshaft between the buildings, landing behind the parapet on the adjoining roof. Hawes started after him, his shoes sticking in the tar. He reached the edge of the roof. He hesitated just an instant and then leaped the airshaft, landing on his hands and knees in the sticky tar.

  Smith had already crossed the roof. He looked back, fired at Hawes, and then rushed for the ledge. Hawes leveled his revolver. Smith climbed onto the ledge, silhouetted against the painful blue of the sky, and Hawes steadied the revolver on his left arm, taking careful aim. He knew that if Smith got onto that next roof, if Smith maintained the lead he now had, he would get away. And so he took careful aim, knowing that this shot had to count, watching Smith as he raised his arms in preparation for his jump across the airshaft. He aimed for the section of trunk that presented the widest target. He did not want to miss.

  Smith stood undecided on the ledge for a moment. His body filled the fixed sight on Hawes’s gun.

  Hawes squeezed the trigger.

  There was a mild click, a click that sounded shockingly loud, a click that thundered in Hawes’s surprised ears like a cannon explosion.

  Smith leaped the airshaft.

  Hawes got to his feet, cursing his empty pistol, reloading as he ran across the roof to the airshaft. He looked across it to the next roof. Smith was nowhere in sight. Smith was gone.

  Swearing all the way, he headed back for Smith’s apartment. There had been no time to reload until it was too late, and once it’s too late, there’s nothing to be done about it. Walking with his head down, he crossed the sticky tar.

  Two shots rang out into the stillness of the summer rooftops, and Hawes hit the tar again. He looked up. A uniformed cop was standing on the edge of the opposite roof ahead, taking careful aim.

  “Hold your fire, you dumb bastard!” Hawes yelled. “I’m on your side.”

  “Throw your gun away,” the cop yelled back.

  Hawes complied. The cop leaped the airshaft and approached Hawes cautiously. When he saw his face, he said, “Oh, it’s you, sir.”

  “Yes, it’s me, sir,” Hawes said disgustedly.

  The landlady was having none of Cotton Hawes. The landlady was screaming and ranting for him to get out of her building. She had never had trouble with the cops, and now they came around shooting. What was going to happen to her tenants? They’d all move out, all because of him, all because of that big redheaded stupid jerk! Hawes told one of the uniformed cops to keep her downstairs, and then he went into Smith’s apartment.

  The bed had been slept in the night before. The sheets were still rumpled. Hawes went to the single closet in the bedroom and opened it. There was nothing in the closet except the wire hangers on the rod. Hawes shrugged and went into the bathroom. The sink had been used sometime during that day. Soap was still in the basin, clotted around the drain. He opened the medicine cabinet. A bottle of iodine was on the top shelf. Two bars of soap were on the middle shelf. A pair of scissors, a straight razor, a box of Band-Aids, a tube of shaving cream, a toothbrush, and toothpaste were all crowded onto the lowest shelf. Hawes closed the door, and left the bathroom.

  In the bedroom again, he checked through Smith’s dresser. Smith, he thought, John Smith. The phoniest name anybody in the world could pick. The dresser was empty of clothing. In the top drawer, six magazines for an automatic pistol rested in one corner. Hawes lifted one of them with his handkerchief. Unless he was mistaken, the magazine would fit a Luger. He collected the magazines and put them into his pockets.

  He went into the kitchen, the sole remaining room in the apartment. A coffee cup was on the kitchen table. A coffeepot was on the stove. Bread crumbs were scattered near the toaster. John Smith had apparently eaten here this morning. Hawes went to the icebox and opened the door.

  A loaf of bread and a partially used rectangle of butter were on one of the shelves. That was all.

  He opened the ice compartment. A bottle of milk rested alongside a melting cake of ice.

  The lab boys would have a lot of work to do in Smith’s apartment. But Hawes could do nothing more there at the moment except speculate on the absence of clothing and food, an absence that seemed to indicate that John Smith—whatever his real name was—did not actually live in the apartment. Had he rented the place only to carry out his murder? Had he planned to return here after he’d done his killing? Was he using this as a base of operations? Because it was close to the precinct? Or because it was close to his intended victim? Which?

  Hawes closed the door to the ice compartment.

  It was then that he heard the sound behind him.

  Someone was in the apartment with him.

  His gun was in his hand before he whirled.

  “Hey!” the woman said. “What’s that for?”

  Hawes lowered the gun. “Who are you, miss?”

  “I live across the hall. The cop downstairs said I should come up here and talk to the detective. Are you the detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I live across the hall.”

  The girl was unattractive, a brunette with large brown eyes and very pale skin. She spoke from the side of her mouth, a mannerism that gave her the appearance of a Hollywood gun moll. She was wearing only a thin pink slip, and the one disconcertingly attractive thing about her was the bosom that threatened the silk.

  “Did you know this John Smith character?” Hawes asked.

  “The few times he was here, I seen him,” the girl said. “He only moved in a couple of weeks ago. You know, you noticed him right away.”

  “How often has he been here since he moved in?”

  “Only a couple of times. I came in one night he was here—to introduce myself, you know? Neighborly. What the hell?” The girl shrugged. Her breasts shrugged with her. She was not wearing a brassiere, and Hawes found this disconcerting, too. “He was sitting right there at the kitchen table, cutting up newspapers. I asked him what he was doing. He said he kept a scrapbook.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a week ago.”

  “He was cutting up newspapers?”

  “Yeah,” the girl said. “Goofy. Well, he looked goofy, anyway. You know what I mean.”

  Hawes bent to examine the kitchen table. Studying it closely, he could see traces of paste on the soiled oilcloth covering. Then Smith had composed the letter here, and it had been only a week ago, and not on the Sunday of June 23. He had simply used an old newspaper.

  “Was there paste on the table?” Hawes asked her.

  “Yeah, I think so. A tube of paste. Well, for his scrapbook, I guess.”

  “Sure,” Hawes said. “Ever talk to him again after that night?”

  “Just in the hall.”

  “How many times?”

  “Well, he was here one night after that. Last week, I mean. And then he was here last night.”

  “Did he sleep here last night?”

  “I guess so. How should I know?” The girl seemed suddenly aware that she was wearing only a slip. She crossed one arm over her abundant bosom.

  “What time did he get here last night?”

  “Pretty late. After midnight, it must’ve been. I was listening to the radio. It was very hot last night, you know. It’s almost impossible to get any sleep in these apartments. They’re just like ovens. The door was open, and I heard him down the hall, so I went out to say hello. He was putting the key in the lock, looking just like a Russian spy, I swear to God. All he needed was a bomb, and that would be the picture.”

  “Did he have anything with him?”

  “Just a bag. Groceries, I guess. Oh yeah. Glasses. You know. Opera glasses. I asked him was he just getting back from the opera.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He laughed. He was a hot sketch. Smith. John Smith. That was funny, don’t you think?”

  “What was funny about it?” Hawes asked.

  “Well, the cough drops and all, you know. He was a hot sketch. I guess he won’t be coming back after today, huh?”

  “I guess not,” Hawes said, trying to keep up with the somewhat vague conversation.

  “Is he a crook or something?”

  “We don’t know. Did he ever tell you anything about himself?”

  “No. Nothing. He didn’t talk so much. Anyway, he was only here those few times. And even then, he always seemed in a hurry. I asked him once if this was his summer place. You know, like a joke. He said yeah this was his retreat. A hot sketch. Smith.” She laughed at the name.

  “But he never told you where he worked. Or even if he worked?”

  “No.” The girl crossed her other arm over her bosom. “I better go put something on, huh?” she said. “I was taking a little nap when all the shooting started. I got so excited when it was over, I run downstairs in my slip. I’m a real sight, ain’t I?” She giggled. “I better go put something on. It was nice talking to you. You don’t seem like a bull at all.”

  “Thank you,” Hawes said and then wondered if he was being complimented.

  The girl hesitated at the door. “Well, I hope you get him, anyway. He shouldn’t be too hard to find. How many like him can there be in the city?”

  “How many Smiths, do you mean?” Hawes asked, and the girl thought this was hysterical.

  “You’re a hot sketch, too,” she answered. He watched her as she went down the hall. He shrugged, closed the apartment door behind him, and went downstairs to the street. The landlady was still screaming.

  Hawes told one of the patrolmen to keep everybody out of Apartment 22 until the lab boys had gone over it.

  Then he went back to the precinct.

  It was 5:00 P.M.

  Carella was sitting at one of the desks drinking coffee from a container when Hawes walked in. Willis and Meyer had not yet returned. The squadroom was silent.

  “Hello, Cotton,” Carella said.

  “Steve,” Hawes answered.

  “Understand you got into a little fracas on Twelfth?”

  “Umm.”

  “You all right?”

  “I’m fine. Except I keep losing people.”

  “Have some coffee. The desk was really jumping downstairs. Must have got fifty calls about the shooting. He got away again, huh?”

  “Umm,” Hawes said.

  “Well.” Carella shrugged. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Little of each.”

  Carella fixed the coffee and handed the cup to Hawes. “Relax. We can use a rest.”

  “I want to make a call first.”

  “Where?”

  “Pistol permits.” He emptied his pockets onto the desk. “I picked these up in his apartment. Do they look like Luger magazines to you?”

  “They damn well couldn’t be anything else,” Carella said.

  “I want to check on permits for Lugers in the precinct. Who knows? We may get a break.”

  “That’s the easy way,” Carella said. “Nothing ever comes the easy way, Cotton.”

  “It’s worth a try,” he said. He looked up at the wall clock. “Jesus,” he said. “Five already. Three hours to go.”

  He pulled the phone to him and made his call. When he’d finished, he picked up the coffee container.

  “They’ll call me back,” he said to Carella. He put his feet up on the desk. “Ahhhhhhhhh.”

  “Think this damn heat’ll ever break?”

  “God, I hope so.”

  In the silence of the squadroom, the two men sipped at their coffee. There was, for the moment, no need for communication. They sat with the afternoon sunlight filtering through the grilled windows, marking the floor with long golden rectangles. They sat with the hum of the electric fans rotating limpid air. They sat with the hushed, faraway street noise below them. They sat, and for the moment they were not policemen working on a difficult case on the hottest day of the year. They were simply two friends having a cup of coffee together.

  “I’ve got a date tonight,” Hawes said.

  “Nice?” Carella asked.

  “A widow,” Hawes said. “Very pretty. I met her this afternoon. Or was it this morning? Well, before lunch, anyway. A blonde. Very pretty.”

  “Teddy’s a brunette,” Carella said. “Black hair. Very black.”

  “When do I get to meet her?” Hawes asked.

  “I don’t know. Name it. I’m supposed to take her to a movie tonight. She’s a remarkable lip-reader. She enjoys the movies as much as anyone who can hear.”

  It no longer surprised Hawes to hear Carella talk about the handicap of his wife, Teddy. She had been born a deaf-mute, but this didn’t seem to hinder her in the pursuit of happiness. From what other detectives on the squad had told him, Hawes had pieced together the picture of a lively, interesting, vivacious, and damned beautiful girl, and his mental picture couldn’t have been more correct. Too, because he liked Carella, he was predisposed toward liking Teddy, and he really did want to meet her.

  “You say you’re going to a movie tonight?” Hawes asked.

  “Mmm,” Carella said.

  Hawes balanced the pleasure of meeting Teddy against the pleasure of entertaining Christine Maxwell alone. Christine Maxwell won out, proving the age-old adage, Hawes mused, that gentlemen prefer blondes.

  “This is a first date,” he said to Carella. “After I get to know her, we’ll make it a double, okay?”

  “Anytime you say,” Carella said.

  Again the squadroom fell silent. From the clerical office down the hall, they could hear the steady rat-tat-tat of Miscolo’s typewriter. They sat drinking their coffee silently. There was something peaceful about these few minutes of relaxation, these few minutes of suspended time, this breathing spell in the race with the clock.

  The moments ended.

  “What’s this? A country club?” Willis called from the railing.

  “Look at them, will ya?” Meyer said. “We’re shagging ass all over town, and they’re taking their tea and crumpets.”

  “Blow it out,” Carella said.

  “How do you like this?” Willis went on, refusing to let it go. “I hear you got shot, Cotton,” he said. “The desk sergeant tells me you’re a hero.”

  “No such luck,” Hawes replied, regretting the sudden rupture of silence. “He missed.”

  “Too bad, so sad,” Willis said. He was a small detective with the fine-boned body of a jockey. But Fats Donner had told the truth about him; Willis was not a man to fool with. He knew judo the way he knew the penal code, and he could practically break your arm just by looking at you.

  Meyer pulled a chair up to the desk. “Hal, go get us some coffee, will you? Miscolo’s probably got a pot going.”