and what would happen when he was told Zoe Kohler had 'lost or misplaced' her dispenser, she didn't wish to imagine. It was all so depressing she could not even wonder how they had traced the tear gas to her.
That evening, when she returned to her apartment, she did something completely irrational. She searched her apartment for the tear gas container, knowing she had disposed of it. The worst thing was that she knew she was acting irrationally but could not stop herself.
Of course she did not find the dispenser. But she found something else. Or rather, several things…
When she had placed Ernest Mittle's engagement ring far in the back of the dresser drawer, she had paused a moment to open the box and take a final look at the pretty stone. Then she had shoved the box away, but remembered very well that it opened to the front.
When she found it, the box was turned around in its hiding place. Now the hinge was to the front, the box opened from the rear.
When she had put away her nylon wigs, wrapped in tissue, the blond wig was on top, the black beneath. Now they were reversed.
The stacks of her pantyhose and lingerie had been disturbed. She always left them with their front edges neatly aligned. Now the piles showed they had been handled. They were not messy; they were neat. But not the way she had left them.
Perhaps someone less precise and finicky than Zoe Kohler would never have noticed. But she noticed, and was immediately convinced that someone had been in her apartment and had, searched through her possessions.
She went at once to her front window. Drawing the drape cautiously aside, she peeked out. She did not see the white-shirted watcher in the shadows of the apartment across the street. She did not see him, but was certain he was there.
She made no connection between the voyeur and the search of her personal belongings. She knew only that her privacy was once again being cruelly violated; people wanted to know her secrets. They would keep trying, and there was no way she could stop them.
When Ernest Mittle called, she made a determined effort to sound cheerful and loving. They chatted for a long time, and she kept asking questions about his job, his computer classes, his vacation plans-anything to keep him talking and hold the darkness back.
'Zoe,' he said finally, 'I don't, uh, want to pressure you or anything, but have you been thinking about it?'
It took her a moment to realize what he meant.
'Of course, I've been thinking about it, darling,' she said. 'Every minute.'
'Well, I meant every word I said to you. And now I'm surer than ever in my own mind. This is what I want to do. I just don't want to live without you, Zoe.'
'Ernie, you're the sweetest and most considerate man I've ever met. You're so considerate.'
'Yes… well… uh… when do you think you'll decide? Soon?'
'Oh yes. Soon. Very soon.'
'Listen,' he said eagerly, 'I have classes Friday night. I get out about eight-thirty or so. How's about my picking up a bottle of white wine and dropping by? I mean, it'll be Friday night and all, and we can talk and get squared away on our vacation. Okay?'
She didn't have the strength to object. Everyone was pushing her-even Ernie.
'Of course,' she said dully. 'Friday night?'
'About nine,' he said happily. 'See you then. Take care of yourself, dear.'
'Yes,' she said. 'You, too.'
He hung up and she sat there staring at the phone in her hand. Without questioning why, she called Dr. Oscar Stark. She got his answering service, of course. The operator asked if she'd care to leave a message.
'No,' Zoe Kohler said, 'no message.'
She wandered into the kitchen. She opened the cabinet door. She stared at the rows and rows of pills, capsules, ampules, powders, medicines. They all seemed so foolish. Toys.
She closed the door without taking anything. Not even her cortisol. Not even a salt tablet. Nothing would make her a new woman. She was condemned to be her.
She thought vaguely that she should eat something, but just the idea of food roiled her stomach. She poured a glass of chilled vodka and took it into the living room.
She slouched on the couch, staring into the darkness. She tried to concentrate and feel the workings of her body. She felt only deep pain, a malaise that sapped her spirit and dulled her senses.
Was this the onset of death-this total surrender to the agony of living? Peace, peace. Something warm and comfortable. Something familiar and close. It seemed precious to her, this going over. The hurt ended…
She was conscious that she was weeping, surprised that her dried flesh could squeeze out that moisture. The warm, thin tears slid down her cheeks, and she did not wipe them away. She found a glory in this evidence of her miserableness.
'Poor Zoe Kohler,' she said aloud, and the spoken word affected her so strongly that she gasped and sobbed.
What she could not understand, would never understand, was what she had done to deserve this wretchedness.
She had always dressed neatly and kept herself clean. She had never used dirty words. She had been polite and kind to everyone. Whom had she hurt? She had tried, always, to conduct herself like a lady.
There may have been a few times, very few, when she had forgotten herself, denied her nature, and acted in a crude and vulgar manner. But most of her life had been above reproach, spotless, obeying all the rules her mother had taught her.
She had moved through her days refined and gentle, low-voiced, and thoughtful of the feelings of others. She had worked hard to succeed as dutiful daughter and loving wife.
And it had all, all, come to this: sitting in the darkness and weeping. Smelling her body's rot. Hounded by unfeeling men who would not stop prying into things of no concern of theirs.
Poor Zoe Kohler. All hope gone, all passion spent. Only pain remained.
July 23-24; Wednesday and Thursday…
Delaney had to see her; he could not help himself.
'You can learn a lot about people by observing them,' he explained to Monica. 'How they walk, how they gesture. Do they rub their eyes or pick their nose? How they light a cigarette. Do they wait for a traffic light or run through traffic? Any nervous habits? How they dress. The colors and style. Do they constantly blink? Lick their lips? And so forth.'
His wife listened to this recital in silence, head bowed, eyes on the mending in her lap.
'Well?' he demanded.
'Well what?'
'I just thought you might have a comment.'
'No, I have no comment.'
'Maybe it'll help me understand her better. Why she did what she did. Clues to her personality.'
'Whatever you say, dear,' she said.
He looked at her suspiciously. He didn't trust her complaisant moods.
He told Abner Boone what he wanted to do, and the sergeant had no objections.
'Better let Bentley know, Chief,' he suggested. 'He can tell his spooks you'll be tailing her too. In case they spot you and call out the troops.'
'They won't spot me,' Delaney said, offended.
But he spotted them: the unmarked cars parked near the Hotel Granger and Zoe Kohler's apartment house, the plainclothes policewomen who followed the suspect on foot. Some of the shadows were good, some clumsy. But Zoe seemed oblivious to them all.
He picked her up on 39th Street and Lexington Avenue at 8:43 on Wednesday morning and followed her to the Granger. He hung around for a while, then wandered into the hotel and inspected the lobby, dining room, cocktail bar.
He was back at noon, and when she came out for lunch, he tailed her to a fast-food joint on Third Avenue, then back to the Granger. At five o'clock he returned to follow her home. He never took his eyes off her.
'What's she like?' Monica asked that night.
