The glasses were central focusing, right ocular adjustable individually. The price of the glasses when new, sold together with a stiff-sole leather casing and straps, was $92.50.

  There were two sets of prints on the glasses. One belonged to Cotton Hawes. The other, which—because of the very way in which binoculars must be held—consisted of fairly good thumb and finger impressions for both hands, had been left on the glasses by Hawes’s assailant. Photos were taken of the prints. One photo was sent immediately to the Bureau of Criminal Identification. The other was photo-transmitted to the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington. Each agency was asked for extreme speed in making a possible identification from the prints.

  Sam Grossman prayed that the man who’d left the prints on the glasses had also left a record of those prints somewhere in the United States.

  It was 1:10 P.M.

  Lieutenant Byrnes spread the newspaper on his desk. “How about this, Hawes?” he asked.

  Hawes looked at the page, his eye running down it until he found the ad. The ad said:

  Appearing now at the Brisson Roof!

  Jay “Lady” Astor

  Piano stylings and Songs

  in the

  Lady Astor manner

  There was a picture of a dark-haired girl in a skintight evening dress, smiling.

  “I didn’t know she was in the city,” Hawes said.

  “Ever hear of her?”

  “Yes. She’s pretty popular. Sophisticated stuff, you know. Cole Porter, like that. And lots of special material with off-color lyrics in impeccable taste.”

  “How’s your wrist?”

  “Fine,” Hawes said, feeling it with his left hand.

  “Do you want to look her up?”

  “Sure,” Hawes said.

  The phone on Byrnes’s desk rang. He picked it up.

  “Byrnes here,” he said. He listened. “Sure, put him on, Dave.” He covered the mouthpiece. “The lab,” he said to Hawes. He uncovered the mouthpiece and waited. “Hello, Sam,” he said, “wie gehts?” Hawes listened, Byrnes listened, interjecting an occasional “Uh-huh” into the phone. He listened for about five minutes. Then he said, “Thanks a lot, Sam,” and hung up.

  “Anything?”

  “A good set of prints on the glasses,” Byrnes said. “Sam’s already sent copies to the LB and to Washington. Keep your toes crossed. He’s sending a written report back with the glasses. They’re 1952 vintage, discontinued for the later models. Once we get them, I’ll have Steve and Meyer start checking the hockshops. How about this Lady Astor? Think she’s the target?”

  Hawes shrugged. “I’ll check her out.”

  “It could be,” Byrnes said, returning the shrug. “What the hell? Person in the public eye. Maybe some jerk doesn’t like the dirty songs she sings. What do you say?”

  “I say it’s worth a try.”

  “Make it fast,” Byrnes said. “Don’t stop to listen to any of her songs. We may have a few other tries to make before eight tonight.” He looked at his watch. “Jesus, the time flies,” he said.

  A call to the Brisson Roof told Hawes that Jay Astor’s first show went on at 8:00 P.M. The roof manager refused to divulge her address even when Hawes told him he was a detective. He insisted that Hawes give him a number to call back. Hawes gave him the Frederick 7 number, and the manager called back immediately, apparently satisfied after talking to the desk sergeant and being transferred to the Detective Division that he was talking to a bona fide cop and not one of Miss Astor’s great unwashed. He gave Hawes the address, and Hawes left for the apartment immediately.

  It seemed odd that Miss Astor was not staying at the hotel where she was performing, but perhaps she didn’t like to mix business with pleasure. Her apartment was in uptown Isola, in the swank brownstone neighborhood on the south side, some thirty blocks below the first street in the 87th Precinct territory. Hawes made the drive in ten minutes. He left the car at the curb, climbed the twelve steps to the front door, and entered a small, immaculate lobby. He scanned the mailboxes. There was no Jay Astor listed on any of the boxes. He stepped outside and, standing on the front stoop once more, checked the address again. It was the right address. He went into the lobby again and rang for the superintendent. He could hear the loud bell sounding somewhere beyond the curtained inner-lobby door. He heard a door opening and closing, heard footsteps, and then the curtained door opened.

  “Yes?” the man said. He was an old man wearing house- slippers and a faded-blue basque shirt.

  “I’d like to see Miss Jay Astor,” Hawes said.

  “There’s no Miss Astor here,” the man answered.

  “I’m not a fan or a reporter,” Hawes said. “This is police business.” He took out his wallet and opened it to his shield.

  The man studied it. “You’re a detective?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s not in any trouble, is she?”

  “She might be,” Hawes said. “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Just a minute,” the man said. He went inside, leaving the curtained lobby door open, and also leaving the door to his ground- floor apartment ajar. Hawes could hear him dialing a phone. Upstairs, Hawes heard a phone ringing. The ringing stopped abruptly, and Hawes heard the old man talking. In a few minutes the old man came back.

  “She said you should go up. It’s Apartment 4-A. That’s the one she uses for the entrance. She’s got the whole top floor, actually. That’s 4-A, 4-B, and 4-C. But she uses 4-A for the entrance, got the other ones blocked off from inside with furniture. 4-A. You can go right on up.”

  “Thank you,” Hawes said. He moved past the old man into the hallway. Carpeted steps led from the inner hallway upstairs. An ornately carved banister was on one side of the steps. The hallway was suffocatingly hot. Hawes climbed the steps, thinking of Carella and Meyer hitting the hockshops. Would Byrnes ask for interprecinct assistance on this one? Or did he expect the 87th to hit every hockshop in the city? No, he’d ask for other men. He’d have to.

  There was a small placard set in a brass rectangle screwed to the doorjamb of Apartment 4-A. The placard simply read, ASTOR.

  Hawes pressed the buzzer.

  The door opened so rapidly that Hawes suspected Jay Astor had been standing just inside it

  “You the detective?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Come in.”

  He walked into the apartment. If anything, Jay Astor was a disappointment. She had appeared sexy, slinky, and seductive in her newspaper photo, the skintight gown molding the abundant curves of a naturally endowed body. Her eyes had been provocative, and her smile had held the flash of promised evil, the tantalizing challenge of a mysterious woman. Here, in person, there was no challenge and no promise.

  Jay Astor wore shorts and a halter. Her bosom was full and rich, but her legs were somewhat muscular, the legs of a tennis player. Her eyes were slightly squinted, but he realized instantly that the squint was a result of myopia and not sexuality. Her teeth revealed by her smile were rather large, giving her the appearance of a benevolent horse. Or perhaps he was being too cruel. He supposed, unprepared by the photo, he would have considered Miss Astor an attractive woman.

  “The living room’s air-conditioned,” she said. “Come on in there, and we’ll close the door.”

  He followed her into a room done in extreme modern. She closed the door behind him and said, “There. Isn’t that better? This heat is the most. I came up from a South American tour two weeks ago, and believe me, it wasn’t as hot down there. What can I do for you?”

  “We received a letter this morning,” Hawes said.

  “Oh? What about?” Jay Astor went to the bar lining one side of the long room. “Would you like a drink? A gin rickey? A Tom Collins? You call it.”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  Her face expressed mild surprise. Unperturbed, she began mixing herself a gin and tonic.

  “The letter said, ‘I will kill The Lady tonight at eight. What can you do about it?’” Hawes said.

  “Nice letter.” She pulled a face and squeezed a lime into the drink.

  “You don’t seem particularly impressed,” Hawes said.

  “Should I be?”

  “You are known as ‘The Lady,’ aren’t you?”

  “Oh! Oh!” she said. “Oh, yes. The Lady. I will kill The Lady tonight. I see. Yes. Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “A crank,” Jay said.

  “Maybe. Have you had any threatening letters or calls?”

  “Recently, do you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, not recently. I get them every now and then. Jack the Ripper types. They call me smutty. They say they will kill me and cleanse the world in the blood of the lamb and like that. Buggos. Cranks.” She turned from the bar, grinning. “I’m still alive.”

  “You seem to take all of it pretty lightly, Miss Astor.”

  “Call me Jay,” she said. “I do. If I had to worry about every buggo who writes or calls, I’d become a buggo myself. There’s no percentage in that.”

  “All the same, you may be the person indicated in this letter.”

  “So what do we do about it?”

  “First of all, if you don’t mind, we’d like to give you police protection tonight.”

  “All night?” Jay asked, raising an eyebrow coquettishly, her face expressing for a fleeting instant the promise and the challenge that was in the newspaper photo.

  “Well, from when you leave the apartment until your show is over.”

  “My last show is at two,” she said. “Your cop’ll be busy. Or will the cop be you?”

  “No, he won’t,” Hawes said.

  “Worse luck,” Jay answered, and she pulled at her drink.

  “Your first show goes on at eight, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The letter says—”

  “That could be a coincidence.”

  “Yes, it could. What time do you generally leave for the Brisson?”

  “About seven.”

  “I’ll have a patrolman stop by for you.”

  “A handsome Irish cop, I trust.”

  “We have a lot of those,” Hawes said, smiling. “In the meantime, can you tell me whether or not anything has happened recently that would—”

  “Cause someone to want me dead?” Jay thought for a moment. “No,” she said.

  “Anything at all? An argument? A contract dispute? A disgruntled musician? Anything?”

  “No,” she said pensively. “I’m easy to get along with. That’s my rep in the trade. An easy lady.” She grinned. “I didn’t mean that to sound the way it did.”

  “How about the threatening letters and calls you mentioned? When was the last time you got one of those?”

  “Oh, before I went to South America. That was months ago. I’ve only been back two weeks, you know. I doubt if the buggos know I’m around. When they hear my new album, they’ll begin their poison penmanship again. Have you heard it?” She shook her head. “But of course you haven’t. It hasn’t been released yet.”

  She went to a hi-fi unit, opened one of the cabinets, and pulled a record album from the top shelf. On the album cover, Lady Astor was riding a white horse, naked. Her long black hair had been released so that it cascaded over her breasts, effectively covering her. There was the same malevolent, mischievous, inviting gleam in her eyes as had been in the newspaper photo. The album was titled Astor’s Pet Horse.

  “It’s a collection of cowboy songs,” Jay explained, “with the lyrics jazzed up a bit. Would you like to hear a little of it?”

  “Well, I—”

  “It won’t take a minute,” Jay said, moving to the hi-fi and putting the record on the turntable. “You’ll be getting a sneak preview. What other detective in the city can make that statement?”

  “I wanted to—”

  “Sit,” Jay said, and the record began.

  It began with the customary corny cowboy guitar, and then Lady Aster’s insinuatingly chic voice came smoothly over the speaker.

  “Home, home in the slums,” she sang.

  “Full of pushers, and junkies, and bums.

  “Where seldom is heard

  “Mating call of the bird,

  “And the zip guns play music like drums…”

  The record went on and on. Hawes thought it only mildly funny. He was too close to the reality to find the parody amusing. At the end of “Home on the Range,” a parody of “Deep in the Heart of Texas” began.

  “This one is a little rough,” Jay said, “full of innuendo. A lot of people won’t like it, but I don’t give a damn. Morality is a funny thing, do you know?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I came to the conclusion a long time ago that morality is strictly personal. The hardest thing any artist can attempt is to reconcile his own moral standards with those of the great unwashed. It can’t be done. Morality is morality, and mine’s mine, and yours is yours. There are things I accept matter-of-factly, and these same things shock the hell out of the Kansas City housewife. That’s a trap the artist can fall into.”

  “What trap?”

  “Most artists—in show business, anyway—live in the big cities. That’s where the business is, you know, so that’s where you have to be. Well, urban morality is pretty different from morality in the sticks. The stuff that goes with the city slickers just won’t go with the guy mowing a field of wheat—or whatever the hell you do with wheat. But if you try to please everybody, you go buggo. So I try to please myself. If I use my own good taste, I figure the morals will take care of themselves.”

  “And do they?”

  “Sometimes, yes; sometimes, no. Like I said, things I consider absolutely pure and simple don’t seem quite so pure or quite so simple to the farmhand.”

  “Things like what?” Hawes asked innocently.

  “Things like—would you like to go to bed with me?”

  “Yes, I would,” he answered automatically.

  “Then let’s,” she said, putting down her drink.

  “Right now?” he asked.

  “Why not? It’s as good a time as any.”

  He felt ridiculous answering what he had to answer, but he plunged ahead, anyway. “I haven’t the time right now,” he said.

  “Your letter-sender?”

  “My letter-sender.”

  “You may have lost your golden opportunity,” she said.

  “Those are the breaks,” Hawes said, shrugging.

  “Morality is a question of the means and the opportunity,” Jay said.

  “Like murder,” Hawes answered.

  “If you want to get morbid, okay. All I’m trying to say is that I would like you to make love to me now. Tomorrow I may not feel the same way. I may not even feel the same way ten minutes from now.”

  “Now you’ve spoiled it,” Hawes said.

  Jay raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

  “I thought it was me. Instead, it’s just your whim of the moment.”

  “What do you want me to do? Undress you and burp you?”

  “No,” Hawes said, rising. “Give me a rain check.”

  “It hasn’t rained for weeks,” Jay said.

  “Maybe it will.”

  “And to quote an old sawhorse, ‘Lightning never strikes twice in the same place.’”

  “I’ll tell you,” Hawes said, “I’m just liable to go out and shoot myself.”

  Jay smiled. “You’re pretty damned sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Am I?” he asked.

  For a moment they faced each other. There was none of the photographic sensuality on her face now. Neither was there the fury of a woman scorned. There was only the somewhat pathetic loneliness of a little girl living in a vast top-floor apartment with an air-conditioner in the living room.

  Lady Astor shrugged.

  “What the hell,” she said, “Give me a call sometime. The whim may return.”

  “Expect that cop,” Hawes said.

  “I will,” she answered. “He may beat your time.”

  Hawes shrugged philosophically. “Some guys have all the luck,” he said, and he left the apartment.

  Some guys, too, have all the misfortune.

  Meyer Meyer and Steve Carella had their share that blistering day. By 1:40 P.M. the sidewalks were baking, the buildings were ready to turn cherry red with contained heat, the people were wilting, automobile tires were melting, and it was obvious even to the neophyte science fiction fan that the earth had somehow wandered too close to the sun. It would surely be consumed by fire. This was the last day, and Richard Matheson had called the tune, and the world would end in molten fire.

  Undramatically speaking, it was damn hot.

  Meyer Meyer was a sweater. He sweated even in the wintertime. He didn’t know why he sweated. He supposed it was a nervous reaction. But he was always covered with perspiration. Today he was drowning in it. As the two detectives wandered from hockshop to hockshop on sleazy Crichton Avenue, wandered from open door to open door, passed rapidly from one trio of gold balls to the next, Meyer thought he would die in a way unbefitting a heroic cop. He would die of heat prostration, and the obits would simply say, COP FLOPS. Or perhaps, if the news was headlined in Variety, SOPPY COP DROPS.

  “How do you like this Variety headline announcing my death by heat prostration?” he said to Carella as they entered another hockshop, “Soppy Cop Drops.”

  “That’s pretty good,” Carella said. “How about mine?”

  “In Variety?”

  “Sure.

  “Let me hear it.”

  “Soppy Wop Cop Drops.”