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  My right hand began to tremble and I eyed it with horror. I couldn't tell if it was the liquor or Kate Davis, who had a very nice talent for saying the wrong things. “I'll bet you're a vegetarian, too,” I said with spite.

  “As a matter of fact,” she said equably, “I eat just about anything. Within reason. The only vanity I deny myself is liquor.”

  “It figures.”

  “Oh, it's not as though I'm morally opposed to it. Hell, I'd go out every night and get as stewed as a Detroit assembly-line worker, if it weren't for the job.”

  “Well, it's nice to have ideals,” I said, suddenly feeling very drunk and very old.

  “I have to have them,” she said. “Especially on a job like this one. You see, most people feel as you do—that the security business is not ‘woman's work.’”

  “It was swell of you to call like this,” I said. “I mean I don't get to talk to a lot of young people. But it's getting way past my bedtime, so if you wouldn't mind getting to the point...?”

  “Listen,” she said. “What I wanted to say can wait till tomorrow.”

  “Noooo. Let's not wait until tomorrow. I may not be alive tomorrow.”

  “Are you O.K.?” she said with concern. “You're not sick, are you?”

  “Just what do you want!” I almost shouted.

  There was a pause, then she said, “To work together?” in a very small voice.

  I didn't say anything.

  “Jessie told me about the meeting you had with Ringold,” she said sheepishly. “And some friends of mine told me that...well, that you know what you're doing.”

  I started to ask her how Jessie Moselle had known about that conversation, but let it slide.

  She took a deep breath and said, “Could be I was wrong about you.”

  “You mean I'm not as venal and sexist as you thought?”

  “Could be,” she said.

  “And how would our little partnership work?” I said with morbid fascination. “What would we do—split shifts on that stool of yours?”

  “It doesn't have to be that way,” she said defensively. “I'm open to suggestions. We could pool our information.”

  “All right,” I said. “Then let me do some pooling right now. About two years ago a twenty-four-year-old girl named Twyla Belton was brutally murdered in Eden Park. She was cut up like one of those art books of yours. And the guy who did it was never found.”

  “What makes you think her death has anything to do with the library?”

  “It doesn't have to have anything to do with the library. She was from Hyde Park, but that doesn't necessarily mean a thing. The point I'm trying to make is that, whether or not our Ripper killed Twyla Belton, he could be capable of killing. And sitting on that chair of yours and practically inviting him home, just doesn't make good sense.”

  “You think I should be scared,” she said stiffly.

  And I realized that I had scared her and that I'd wanted to scare her. It made me feel like a bully playing a cruel game, but it was somehow comforting to know that behind that sexual armor she was capable of a healthy fright. Most people with a point to prove give up their feelings because they think that having feelings makes them weak. Some of them give up feeling for the rest of their lives. It was nice to know that Kate Davis wasn't one of that clan.

  “Not scared,” I said. “But wary.”

  I tried to sound conciliatory, but I'd knicked her pride the way she'd knicked mine earlier in the day. And she didn't want me to know it.

  “This girl, Twyla Belton,” she said in a businesslike voice. “Did she belong to the library?”

  It was a smart question, one I'd wondered about myself. “We'll check it out,” I said.

  “It would be interesting,” she said. “If she were on Ringold's list.”

  “She probably won't be on the list. The Belton girl was killed over two years ago and I don't think Ringold went back that far. We'll just have to do some digging.”

  “All right,” she said. “Then I'll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes. See you tomorrow.”

  “Bright and early?”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  She laughed. “Try a raw egg in a glass of tomato juice with a dash of Tabasco.” And she hung up, leaving me wondering vaguely just who had been playing games with whom.

  4

  I WOKE up feeling as if someone had tied sandbags to my hair.

  Just lie still, I told myself. Lie still and it will all go away. The Globemaster was playing a raucous Von Suppé overture, and one little ray of sunlight had found its way through the thick folds of the bedroom curtains and was creeping slowly up the blanket toward my face. I couldn't have been more delighted if it were a tarantula, moving on eight woolly legs.

  I threw off the covers and sat up. Very quickly. Something inside my head shifted like water in a fifty-gallon cooler and kept lapping against my skull—back and forth, back and forth—until I made myself stand up and it turned into a lump of red-hot stone.

  I managed to shower. Water is soft. But I didn't trust myself around fire or earth until I'd towelled dry and started to dress. It was exactly nine o'clock when I put the coffee on the stove and nine-ten when I found the nerve to shave. It was almost nine-thirty when I found that other Gold Toe sock, nestling like a kitten under the couch. I slipped it on my foot, stepped into my shoes, pulled a gray wool sports coat from the hall rack, and hobbled out the door.

  It was four flights to the lobby—some sixty steps—where the glass door was lit up like a motion picture screen before the projector is loaded with film. Just one white-hot square of light. The fourth element and the cruelest. Out I went, into what was possibly a beautiful Tuesday morning, as clean as new shoes. Sneaked quickly past the dogwoods in the front yard but still caught their scent, like smelling toothpaste on somebody's breath. Walked around the south side of the building to the lot. Went down four concrete steps, got into the Pinto, flipped on the ignition—said, “Good, Harry. Good.”—and pulled out.

  My head and stomach felt a little better by the time I got to Hyde Park, where the towering oaks hid the sun and Erie Avenue was as cool, green, and peaceful as the bed of a forest. I would have felt better still if I hadn't known exactly what was waiting for me at the library. And I wasn't thinking of Ringold, either. It was the girl. Oh, God, I thought miserably, I know how it's going to be. After all, I was young once—for a few hours the day before I'd been no more than eight—and full of enthusiasms, eager to test myself against the old hands, to prove my mettle, to earn my wings. Red badge of courage. Croix de guerre. Oh, God, I thought.

  And, of course, I was right.

  She greeted me at the door like a bellhop—“Bag, mister?” All blonde and pink and tipped with carmine red. She smelled of toothpaste. And talc. And something sweeter than lilacs. And she looked healthier than a Vic Tanney bathing beauty and just as pretty as the fall day in her burnt-orange suit. When she started waving a sheaf of papers at me, I said, “No! Enough!”

  Her face fell. “I thought we had an agreement,” she said.

  And I said, “We do. Only not now.”

  She smiled. “You want some aspirin?”

  “Please.”

  She started off for the front desk, turned back and said, “Ringold's looking for you.”

  “He can reach me at that chair,” I said, pointing to a spot beneath one of the picture windows.

  I walked over to the chair and sat down. Kate Davis brought me an aspirin. Miss Moselle brought me some water in a Dixie cup. And they both stood over me while I took my medicine.

  “It's not the alcohol alone,” Miss Moselle said judiciously, “that causes a hangover. No, indeed. It is impurities in the grain that produce many of the symptoms. Of course, alcohol does dehydrate the system, disturbing the electrolyte balance. And it is, as well, a mild toxin. Thus the feverish feeling. The body aches. Sweating. And chills.”

  “Wonderful,” I said.

  “I myself,” sa
id Miss Moselle, “prefer Bushnell's Irish whiskey, because of its peaty flavor.”

  Kate Davis said, “Better not mention whiskey again, Jess.”

  Miss Moselle put a hand to her mouth and said, “Oh.” She had a lace handkerchief tucked in the sleeve of her sweater, which made me think of my own grandmother and her handkerchiefs and sachets. “I have a small bottle of spirits of ammonia in my purse,” she said thoughtfully. “If you would care for a mild stimulant?”

  “No, I'm fine,” I said, smiling at both of them. “I'm feeling much better.”

  Miss Moselle gave me a tender look and glanced at the girl. “I have work to do,” she said and walked away.

  “I think she's leaving us to ourselves,” Kate Davis said with high seriousness.

  “Very courteous.”

  “More than that. She expects us to fall in love.”

  “You're kidding?” I said.

  “Nope,” she said. “She's got her heart set on it.”

  “Why?”

  Kate looked up at the ceiling. “The stars,” she said mysteriously. “Jess does my horoscope daily. It's another one of her hobbies. And she assures me that Venus is in the ascendant. Forgive me for asking you this, but I promised Jess.” She screwed her face up daffily and said, “What sign are you?”

  “Scorpio. But I'm on the cusp.”

  “I'll relay the news. Meanwhile...” She pulled that sheaf of papers out again. “I have some news for you. I have been very busy this morning.”

  “I figured.”

  “Why do you say that so balefully?” she said. “Youth must have its day.”

  The June and December thing was beginning to rankle me. And I think she knew it. “Just how the hell old are you anyway?” I asked her.

  “Twenty-five. And you?”

  “Old,” I said.

  “You're thirty-seven,” Kate Davis said triumphantly. “Jess looked at your green card.”

  “My green card?”

  “It's Ringold's system. Green is for part-time employees. I'm a blue card. That is, until Ringold can figure out a way to get rid of me.”

  “So what is that stack of papers?” I said.

  “Research. You'll be pleased to learn that Twyla Belton was, indeed, a customer here. And her specialty was history books.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “By digging,” she said. “They reshelved most of the history books two years ago and a lot of the older ones are downstairs in storage. I just went through the withdrawal cards in the back of a few of the stored books and found her name.”

  “That's damn good,” I said. “I don't know what it proves. But it's damn good.”

  “It proves our friend the Ripper could have seen Twyla here,” she said a bit defensively. “Two years ago, the history books were shelved near the art section. He could have seen her here as he worked.”

  “It's a possibility.”

  Someone called my name from the front desk.

  I looked up. Ringold was gesturing impatiently from the door of his office.

  “Duty calls,” I said to Kate.

  She looked me over carefully. “I hope I'm not making a mistake with you.”

  “Youth must be taught,” I said and walked up to the desk.

  ******

  Ringold was on the phone when I entered his office. He was holding the receiver to his nose and talking into it with a brisk, affected good humor. He waved to me and I sat down. Leon Ringold was one of those people who make the same gestures over the phone that they make in face-to-face conversation. He rolled his eyes, pleaded with his hands, and puckered his lips as if he were reciting the French vowels. When he caught me staring at him, he turned in his chair. By the end of the call, he'd covered his face with one hand at the brow.

  He put the phone in the cradle and continued to cover his face, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to look like you had a splitting headache.

  “You know, Stoner,” he said in a peevish voice, “when I said you should talk with Ms. Davis, I had not intended that you make a habit of it.”

  “I'll keep it in mind,” I said.

  “Well, have you anything to report?” he said and began to lower his hand. The whole routine was beginning to remind me of the contortions people go through when they don't want to look foolish after tripping.

  “Not yet. I gave your list of names to a friend at the D.A.’s office. He's going to see if any of them are known sexual offenders. There is also a very remote possibility that your vandal may have been involved in a more violent crime.”

  “Good heavens!” he said and dropped his hand to the desk. “What kind of crime?”

  “I'd rather tell you when I'm sure he's the same man. Right now I'd just be making a wild guess.”

  “Look here,” he said. “I'm paying you. I have the right to know these things.”

  I guessed he thought that Kate Davis was piping all her secrets to his rival, Joffrey, and he didn't want to be left behind in the race. So I told him about Twyla Belton, and his face turned white.

  “That's disgusting,” Ringold said. “I don't want to hear any more of that sort of speculation.”

  “You asked,” I reminded him.

  He stared at me coldly and raised his voice a notch. “You are working for me, Stoner. Don't forget it. And as far as I'm concerned, we're hunting for a vandal. If you want to go searching for sex murderers—if that tickles your detective's ego—well, you just do it on your own time.”

  “Is that it?” I said, getting up from the chair.

  “Not quite.” He picked up a piece of notepaper and handed it to me. “This man called earlier this morning. When you were... indisposed.”

  I glanced at the note. George DeVries had called at ten-thirty. He'd left his extension and asked me to return the call.

  “All right.” I folded up the note. “Can I use the phone?”

  “I suppose.” Ringold got up from his desk.

  “Remember what I told you about Ms. Davis,” he said as he walked from the room.

  5

  I DIALED the number written on the note paper and got transferred to a second extension—some inner, inner sanctum of the old Court House—and after holding for a minute or so, finally got through to George DeVries.

  “What's up?” I asked him.

  “I think I have a hot one for you, Harry boy,” he said cheerfully. “Right off the top of that list of yours. A guy named Leo Sachs. Turns out he was hauled into Station Six about three years ago for indecent exposure.”

  “Was he charged?” I said.

  “Uh-uh,” DeVries said. “His neighbor got cold feet and refused to prosecute.”

  “You have any details?”

  “Just the arresting officer's report.”

  I picked up a pencil from a canister on Ringold's desk and said, “Give.”

  “A patrol car was summoned to the neighbor's residence at 11:30 P.M., May 17, 1978. The neighbor, a guy named Segal, claimed that Sachs had exposed himself earlier that evening. A friend of Segal's, a woman named Nellie Silas, corroborated his testimony. Sachs was pinched and taken to the Hyde Park station, booked, and released when Segal refused to press charges.”

  “You got an address on Sachs?”

  “2603 Delta Avenue. But I don't know if that's current.”

  “O.K. What about a description?”

  DeVries made an apologetic noise, like a cough at a concert. “That's the bad news. This guy Sachs is in his early seventies.”

  “For chrissake!” I said.

  “All right,” DeVries said. “So he's not a bat-wielder. But he sure as hell could be the guy you're looking for.”

  Of course, he was right. And I was a little ashamed of myself for having felt disappointed. Ringold may not be far wrong about you, I thought. That ego of yours may not be satisfied with a simple vandal. Which was a moderately chilling discovery.

  I thanked DeVries for the help and told him I'd check Sachs out.
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  “Glad to lend a hand,” he said. “I sure hope he's the one you want, because the other folks on that list are as normal as white bread.”

  I hung up the phone and walked out to the service area behind the check-out desk, where Miss Moselle was standing in front of a wooden file, sorting through catalogue cards. I didn't see Kate Davis around.

  “Miss Moselle?” I said. “Do you know a man named Leo Sachs?”

  She stopped sorting the cards and said, “Oh my, yes. He's that big, ruddy gentleman with gray hair and a very loud voice. Is he a suspect?”

  “What do you think?”

  She deliberated for a second. “Well, we did have some trouble with him two summers ago. He'd come into our periodical room and read Die Freiheit out loud. It was most disconcerting to the other patrons. Eventually, Mr Ringold had to ask him to leave. Yes, I suppose he could be a suspect,” she admitted.

  “But you wouldn't put him at the top of your list?”

  She bit her lip and blinked solemnly. “I rather think not. He's really a sweet man, despite his bluster. Or so he appears to me. But then I'm far from an expert on sexual deviants. The ‘S's’, you know.”

  “Maybe we could use an expert,” I said. “A clinical psychologist, perhaps.”

  She shrugged. “I have no faith in modern psychology. I believe in the theory of the four humors. And, of course, in the stars.”

  “So you'd recommend an astrologer?”

  “I know several very good ones,” she said earnestly. “In fact, if I were you, I'd keep my eye peeled for a choleric fellow with a saturnine disposition.”

  It sounded like me.

  “Maybe I'd better pay Sachs a visit, just in case.”

  “I'll tell Kate where you're going, then,” she said pleasantly.

  ******

  Leo Sachs lived in an apartment complex on Delta Avenue about two blocks north of Mt. Lookout square. It was one of those new developments that look something like piles of derailed boxcars—squat brown buildings angled about a central court and the whole shebang stuck on a grassy slope and called “The Nest” or “The Chalet” or whatever fashionable name the developer decides to slap on its back. This one was known as “Le Village,” and it looked expensive.