“But this is—”

  “Read it,” Byrnes said.

  Carella read it.

  The bar was cool and dim.

  We sat opposite each other, Detective Stephen Carella and I. He toyed with his drink, and we talked of many things, but mostly we talked of murder.

  “I’ve got an idea I know who killed those three cops,” Carella said. “It’s not the kind of idea you can take to your superiors, though. They wouldn’t understand.”

  And so came the first ray of hope in the mystery which has baffled the masterminds of Homicide North and tied the hands of stubborn, opinionated Detective‐Lieutenant Peter Byrnes of the 87th Precinct.

  “I can’t tell you very much more about it right now,” Carella said, “because I’m still digging. But this cop‐hater theory is all wrong. It’s something in the personal lives of these three men, of that I’m sure. It needs work, but we’ll crack it.”

  So spoke Detective Carella yesterday afternoon in a bar in the heart of the Murder Belt. He is a shy, withdrawn man, a man who—in his own words—is “not seeking glory.”

  “Police work is like any other kind of work,” he told me, “except that we deal in crime. When you’ve got a hunch, you dig into it. If it pans out, then you bring it to your superiors, and maybe they’ll listen, and maybe they won’t.”

  Thus far, he has confided his “hunch” only to his fiancée, a lovely young lady named Theodora Franklin, a girl from Riverhead. Miss Franklin feels that Carella can “do no wrong,” and is certain he will crack the case despite the inadequate fumblings of the department to date.

  “There are skeletons in the closets,” Carella said. “And those skeletons point to our man. We’ve got to dig deeper. It’s just a matter of time now.”

  We sat in the cool dimness of the bar, and I felt the quiet strength emanating from this man who has the courage to go ahead with his investigation in spite of the Cop‐Hater Theory which pervades the dusty minds of the men working around him.

  This man will find the murderer, I thought.

  This man will relieve the city of its constant fear, its dread of an unknown killer roaming the streets with a wanton .45 automatic in his blood‐stained fist. This man…

  “Jesus!” Carella said.

  “Yeah,” Byrnes answered. “Now what about it?”

  “I never said these things. I mean, not this way. And he said it wasn’t for print!” Carella suddenly exploded. “Where’s the phone? I’m going to sue this son of a bitch for libel! He can’t get away with—”

  “Calm down,” Byrnes said.

  “Why’d he drag Teddy into this? Does he want to make her a sitting duck for that stupid bastard with the .45? Is he out of his mind?”

  “Calm down,” Byrnes repeated.

  “Calm down? I never said I knew who the murderer was! I never—”

  “What did you say?”

  “I only said I had an idea that I wanted to work on.”

  “And what’s the idea?”

  “That maybe this guy wasn’t after cops at all. Maybe he was just after men. And maybe not even that. Maybe he was just after one man.”

  “Which one?”

  “How the hell do I know? Why’d he mention Teddy? Jesus, what’s the matter with this guy?”

  “Nothing that a head doctor couldn’t cure,” Byrnes said.

  “Listen, I want to go up to see Teddy. God knows—”

  “What time is it?” Byrnes asked.

  Carella looked at the wall clock. “Six fifteen.”

  “Wait until six thirty. Havilland will be back from supper by then.”

  “If I ever meet this guy Savage again,” Carella promised, “I’m going to rip him in half.”

  “Or at least give him a speeding ticket,” Byrnes commented.

  The man in the black suit stood outside the apartment door, listening. A copy of the afternoon newspaper stuck up from the right‐hand pocket of his jacket. His left shoulder throbbed with pain, and the weight of the .45 automatic tugged at the other pocket of his jacket, so that—favoring the wound, bearing the weight of the gun—he leaned slightly to his left while he listened.

  There was no sound from within the apartment.

  He had read the name very carefully in the newspaper, Theodora Franklin, and then he had checked the Riverhead directory and come up with the address. He wanted to talk to this girl. He wanted to find out how much Carella knew. He had to find out.

  She’s very quiet in there, he thought. What’s she doing?

  Cautiously, he tried the door knob. He wiggled it slowly from side to side. The door was locked.

  He heard footsteps. He tried to back away from the door too late. He reached for the gun in his pocket. The door was opening, wide, wider.

  The girl stood there, surprised. She was a pretty girl, small, dark haired, wide brown eyes. She wore a white chenille robe. The robe was damp in spots. He assumed she had just come from the shower. Her eyes went to his face, and then to the gun in his hand. Her mouth opened, but no sound came from it. She tried to slam the door, but he rammed his foot into the wedge and then shoved it back.

  She moved away from him, deeper into the room. He closed the door and locked it.

  “Miss Franklin?” he asked.

  She nodded, terrified. She had seen the drawing on the front pages of all the newspapers, had seen it broadcast on all the television programs. There was no mistake this was the man Steve was looking for.

  “Let’s have a little talk, shall we?” he asked.

  His voice was a nice voice, smooth, almost suave. He was a good‐looking man, why had he killed those cops? Why would a man like this—

  “Did you hear me?” he asked.

  She nodded. She could read his lips, could understand everything he said, but…

  “What does your boyfriend know?” he asked.

  He held the .45 loosely, as if he were accustomed to its lethal power now, as if he considered it a toy more than a dangerous weapon.

  “What’s the matter, you scared?”

  She touched her hands to her lips, pulled them away in a gesture of futility.

  “What?”

  She repeated the gesture.

  “Come on,” he said, “talk, for Christ’s sake! You’re not that scared!”

  Again, she repeated the gesture, shook her head this time. He watched her curiously.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said at last. “A dummy!” He began laughing. The laugh filled the apartment, reverberating from the walls. “A dummy! If that don’t take the cake! A dummy!” His laughter died. He studied her carefully. “You’re not trying to pull something, are you?”

  She shook her head vigorously. Her hands went to the opening of her robe, clutching the chenille to her more tightly.

  “Now this has definite advantages, doesn’t it?” he said, grinning. “You can’t scream, you can’t use the phone, you can’t do a damned thing, can you?”

  Teddy swallowed, watching him.

  “What does Carella know?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “The paper said he’s got a lead. Does he know about me? Does he have any idea who I am?”

  Again, she shook her head.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She nodded, trying to convince him that Steve knew nothing. What paper was he referring to? What did he mean? She spread her hands wide, indicating innocence, hoping he would understand.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and tossed the newspaper to her.

  “Page four,” he said. “Read it. I’ve got to sit down. This goddamn shoulder…”

  He sat, the gun leveled at her. She opened the paper and read the story, shaking her head as she read.

  “Well?” he asked.

  She kept shaking her head. No, this is not true. No, Steve would never say things like these. Steve would—

  “What’d he tell you?” the man asked.

  Her eyes opened wide with pleading. Nothing, he told me nothing.

  “The newspaper says—”

  She hurled the paper to the floor.

  “Lies, huh?”

  Yes, she nodded.

  His eyes narrowed. “Newspapers don’t lie,” he said.

  They do, they do!

  “When’s he coming here?”

  She stood motionless, controlling her face, not wanting her face to betray anything to the man with the gun.

  “Is he coming?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re lying. It’s all over your face. He’s coming here, isn’t he?”

  She bolted for the door. He caught her arm and flung her back across the room. The robe pulled back over her legs when she fell to the floor. She pulled it together quickly and stared up at him.

  “Don’t try that again,” he said.

  Her breath came heavily now. She sensed a coiled spring within this man, a spring which would unleash itself at the door the moment Steve opened it. But he’d said he would not be there until midnight. He had told her that, and there were a lot of hours between now and midnight. In that time…

  “You just get out of the shower?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Those are good legs,” he said, and she felt his eyes on her. “Dames,” he said philosophically. “What’ve you got on under that robe?”

  Her eyes widened.

  He began laughing. “Just what I thought. Smart. Good way to beat the heat. When’s Carella coming?”

  She did not answer.

  “Seven, eight, nine? Is he on duty today?” He watched her. “Nothing from you, huh? What’s he got, the four to midnight? Sure, otherwise he’d probably be with you right this minute. Well, we might as well make ourselves comfortable; we got a long wait. Anything to drink in this place?”

  Teddy nodded.

  “What’ve you got? Gin? Rye? Bourbon?” He watched her. “Gin? You got tonic? No, huh? Club soda? Okay, mix me a Collins. Hey, where you going?”

  Teddy gestured to the kitchen.

  “I’ll come with you,” he said. He followed her into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and took out an opened bottle of club soda.

  “Haven’t you got a fresh one?” he asked. Her back was to him, and so she could not read his lips. He seized her shoulder and swung her around. His hand did not leave her shoulder.

  “I asked you if you had a fresh bottle,” he said.

  She nodded and bent, taking an unopened bottle from the lowest shelf of the refrigerator. She took lemons from the fruit drawer and then went to the cupboard for the bottle of gin.

  “Dames,” he said again.

  She poured a double shot of gin into a tall glass. She spooned sugar into the glass, and then she went to one of the drawers.

  “Hey!”

  He saw the knife in her hand.

  “Don’t get ideas with that. Just slice the lemon.”

  She sliced the lemon and squeezed both halves into the glass. She poured club soda until the glass was three‐quarters full, and then she went back to the refrigerator for the ice cubes. When the drink was finished, she handed it to him.

  “Make one for yourself,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “I said make one for yourself! I don’t like to drink alone.”

  Patiently, wearily, she made herself a drink.

  “Come on. Back in the living room.”

  They went into the living room, and he sat in an easy chair, wincing as he adjusted himself so that his shoulder was comfortable.

  “When the knock comes on that door,” he said, “you just sit tight, understand? Go unlock it now.”

  She went to the door and unlocked it. And now, knowing that the door was open, knowing that Steve would enter and be faced with a blazing .45, she felt fear crawl into her head like a nest of spiders.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  She shrugged. She walked back into the room and sat opposite him, facing the door.

  “This is a good drink,” he said. “Come on, drink.”

  She sipped at the Collins, her mind working ahead to the moment of Steve’s arrival.

  “I’m going to kill him, you know,” he said.

  She watched him, her eyes wide.

  “Won’t make any difference now, anyway, will it? One cop more or less. Make it look a little better, don’t you think?”

  She was puzzled, and the puzzlement showed on her face.

  “It’s the best way,” he explained. “If he knows something, well, it won’t do to have him around. And if he doesn’t know anything, it’ll round out the picture.” He struggled in the chair. “Jesus, I’ve got to get this shoulder fixed. How’d you like that lousy doctor? That was something, wasn’t it? I thought they were supposed to be healers.”

  He talks the way anyone does, she thought. Except that he talks so casually of death. He is going to kill Steve.

  “We were figuring on Mexico, anyway. Going to leave this afternoon, until your boyfriend came up with his bright idea. We’ll take off in the morning, though. Soon as I take care of this.” He paused. “Do you suppose I can get a good doctor in Mexico? Jesus, the things a guy will do, huh?” He watched her face carefully. “You ever been in love?”

  She studied him, puzzled, confused. He did not seem like a killer. She nodded.

  “Who with? This cop?”

  She nodded again.

  “Well, that’s a shame.” He seemed sincerely sorry. “It’s a damn shame, honey, but what hasta be, hasta be. There’s no other way. You can see that, can’t you? I mean, there was no other way right from the start, from the minute I started this thing. And when you start something, you’ve got to see it through right to the finish. It’s a matter of survival now, you realize that? Jesus, the things a guy will do. Well, you know.” He paused. “You’d kill for him, wouldn’t you?”

  She hesitated.

  “To keep him, you’d kill for him, wouldn’t you?” he repeated.

  She nodded.

  “So? So there.” He smiled. “I’m not a professional, you know. I’m a mechanic. That’s my line. I’m a damn good mechanic, too. Think I’ll be able to get work in Mexico?”

  Teddy shrugged.

  “Sure, they must have cars down there. They’ve got cars everywhere. Then, later, when things have cooled down, we’ll come back to the States. Hell, things should cool down sooner or later. But what I’m trying to tell you, I’m not a professional killer, so don’t get that idea. I’m just a regular guy.”

  Her eyes did not believe him.

  “No, huh? Well, I’m telling you. Sometimes, there’s no other way out. If you see something’s hopeless, and somebody explains to you where there’s some hope, okay, you take it. I never harmed nobody until I killed those cops. You think I wanted to kill them? Survival, that’s all. Some things, you’ve got to do. Agh, what the hell do you understand? You’re just a dummy.”

  She sat silent, watching him.

  “A woman gets under your skin. Some women are like that. Listen, I’ve been around. I’ve been around plenty. I had me more dames than you could count. But this one—different. Different right from the beginning. She just got under my skin. Right under it. When it gets you like that, you can’t eat, you can’t sleep, nothing. You just think about her all day long. And what can you do when you realize you can’t really have her unless…well…unless you…Hell, didn’t she ask him for a divorce? Is it my fault he was a stubborn son of a bitch? Well, he’s still stubborn—only now he’s dead.”

  Teddy’s eyes moved from his face. They covered the door behind him and then dropped to the doorknob.

  “And he took two of his pals with him.” He stared into his glass. “Those are the breaks. He should’ve listened to reason. A woman like her…Jesus, you’d do anything for a woman like her. Anything! Just being in the same room with her, you want to…”

  Teddy watched the knob with fascination. She rose suddenly. She brought back her glass and then threw it at him. It grazed his forehead, the liquid splashing out of the glass and cascading over his shoulder. He leaped to his feet, his face twisted in fury, the .45 pointed at her.

  “You stupid bitch!” he bellowed. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  Carella left the precinct at 6:30 on the button. Havilland had not yet come back from supper, but he could wait no longer. He did not want to leave Teddy alone in that apartment, not after the fool stunt Savage had pulled.

  He drove to Riverhead quickly. He ignored traffic lights and full stop signs. He ignored everything. There was an all‐consuming thought in his mind, and that thought included a man with a .45 and a girl with no tongue.

  When he reached her apartment building, he glanced up at her window. The shades were not drawn. The apartment looked very quiet. He breathed a little more easily and then entered the building. He climbed the steps, his heart pounding. He knew he shouldn’t be alarmed, but he could not shake the persistent feeling that Savage’s column had invited danger for Teddy.

  He stopped outside her door. He could hear the persistent drone of what sounded like the radio going inside. He reached for the knob. In his usual manner, he twisted it slowly from side to side, waiting for her footsteps, knowing she would come to the door the moment she saw his signal.

  He heard the sound of a chair scraping back and then someone shouted, “You stupid bitch! Why the hell did you do that?”

  His brain came alive. He reached for his .38 and snapped the door open with his other hand.

  The man turned.

  “You…!” he shouted, and the .45 bucked in his hand.

  Carella fired low, dropping to the floor the instant he entered the room. His first two shots took the man in the thigh. The man fell face forward, the .45 pitching out of his fist. Carella kicked back the hammer on the .38, waiting.

  “You bastard,” the man on the floor said. “You bastard.”

  Carella got to his feet. He picked up the .45 and stuck it into his back pocket.

  “Get up,” he said. “You all right, Teddy?”

  Teddy nodded. She was breathing heavily, watching the man on the floor.

  “Thanks for the warning,” Carella said. He turned to the man again. “Get up!”

  “I can’t, you bastard. Why’d you shoot me? For Christ’s sake, why’d you shoot me?”