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 worry.
He put the phone down. He thought something had happened all right. Not like Art Hackett, not to call her if he was held up this late somewhere.
Ten minutes to one.
Accident.
The first thing to think about. He called down to Traffic. 'Just check it out, will you? Put an Urgent on it…
He'd have had identification on him, but just in case-better take it down-yes. Arthur John Hackett, thirty-six, six three and a half, two hundred and thirty, medium-brown hair, eyes blue. He'd be driving a dark blue four-door Ford sedan, 1957 model… '
His voice was expressionless, relaying that also to the Georgia Street Emergency Hospital and the General. All they needed, he thought, Hackett out of action. If Hackett- Well, don't expect the worst. He looked up the license-plate number and relayed that to Traffic. In that first ten minutes, Traffic hadn't any record to tell him about. Farrell came back and went a little white, hearing about this.
'Does anybody know where he was going tonight?'
Which was a question that would be asked again.
'It's a heavenly beach,' said Alison, groping in the closet for her beach sandals. 'And morning's the best time really. Aren't you going to get up today at all?'
Mendoza was sitting up in bed smoking moodily.
'What the British call coffee is no inducement. And I thought one point about taking a vacation is that you can sleep late. It's only seven-thirty.' As a matter of fact he hadn't slept much. He'd lain awake worrying, coming a dozen times to the conclusion that he really couldn't ask Alison to cut the vacation short. And, damn it, they'd planned to stop off in Illinois and see the Lockharts on the way home
… 'Furthermore,' he added, 'what's the point in my going to the beach with you? I can't swim. Am I supposed to enjoy myself watching every other male present ogling you? And if I wasn't the nice indulgent husband I am, I'd absolutely forbid you to wear that outrageous bathing suit.'
'It's not a bikini, I wouldn't dare-it's a perfectly decent bathing suit,' said Alison. 'Well, at least get up and get dressed while I'm gone. Don't just sit there brooding.'
She came up to the bed. 'Luis, amado, it's senseless. I know you feel you ought to be there, hunting down the murderer. You're not the only competent officer on the force.'
'I know, I know!' said Mendoza. 'Don't fuss, amante. Run along for your swim.'
'We can have a nice leisurely breakfast afterward,' said Alison, picking up her beach robe. And that was when the knock fell on the door; she pulled the robe around her and opened the door to a smartly uniformed boy who smiled at her.
'Mendoza? Cablegram f'r you-'
'Oh,' said Alison.
But Mendoza was out of bed, finding small change on the dresser top, ignoring the polite, ' 'Kyou, sir.' He had the yellow envelope ripped open before the door was shut.
'Luis-,' said Alison, watching him. 'What-'
He had gone white as death, and his mouth tightened to a grim line. He thrust the sheet at her, sat on the bed, and picked up the phone. 'Travel service… When's the next plane out? I don't care where, Washington or New York, wherever I can get the quickest flight to Los if Angeles… Well, look it up, for God's sake, and make it snappy!'
'Oh, my God,' said Alison. She read it twice before she took it in. Hackett attacked on critical list outlook bad hell of mess here can you fly soonest. It was signed by the captain of detectives. 'Angel,' said Alison. 'She'll be-'
She stopped, looking at his face as he spoke impatiently into the phone. She opened the closet door, got out suitcases, began hastily to pack. Thirty-five hundred miles, she thought distractedly. Whyever did I say Bermuda? Not Art, she thought. Not Art-and Angel- 'Can you get seats on it? All right. Two. Make sure of that right now, will you? Give me the desk again. Mendoza, room 284. We're checking out in an hour, I want the bill made up, please. Yes. N0. There'll be two tickets on the eight-forty plane to Washington, in my name, delivered at the desk. See they get into the right slot. I'll be down in twenty minutes.' He flung off pajamas, started to dress.
'Luis-it'll be all right,' she said, knowing how foolish that sounded. 'Not Art-it couldn't be-'
'?Y como no? ' said Mendoza hardly. 'It's not the safest job there is. You get on with that-we've got an hour or so to wait. God-ought to have some breakfast, I suppose. There's a plane to New York at noon, but this one being earlier, we might get better connections, get there sooner. We'll see.'
'I'll never say you aren't psychic again,' said Alison.
She found she was folding clothes blindly, through a haze of tears. Not Art, Art mustn't- And Angel hadn't anybody, they had to get back.
