not so restrained. The Post headline was: another son of sam? The News bannered their page 4 report with: cops call 'daughter of sam' a possibility.
Both papers suggested the police were afraid that the Puller and Wolheim murders might be just the first of a series of psychopathic, motiveless slayings. Both papers repeated Lieutenant Slavin's statement: 'We are exploring several promising leads, and an arrest is expected shortly.'
After a brief initial shock, Zoe Kohler decided she had nothing to fear from Slavin's optimistic prediction; it was intended to reassure New Yorkers that everything that could be done was being done, and this menace to the public safety would soon be eliminated.
More worrisome was the Daily News' reference to 'Daughter of Sam.' But a careful reading of the story indicated that the police were merely investigating the possibility that a prostitute had been responsible for both murders. Midtown whores and their pimps were being rousted and questioned in record numbers.
So, Zoe Kohler felt, nothing had been discovered that really threatened her. It was, she admitted, becoming increasingly exciting. All those policemen running around. Millions of newspaper readers titillated and frightened. She was becoming someone.
Her exhilaration was dampened two days later when Everett Pinckney came into her office with a notice that had been hand-delivered by the police to the chiefs of security in every hotel in midtown Manhattan.
It was, in effect, a wanted poster, asking the security officers to aid in apprehending the killer of George T. Puller and Frederick Wolheim. It was believed the murderer made contact with the victims in the bars, cocktail lounges, or dining rooms of hotels, especially those hosting conventions, sales meetings, or large gatherings of any type.
The description of the person 'wanted for questioning' was sparse. It said only that the suspect could be male or female, approximately 5' 5' to 5' 7' tall, wearing a wig of black nylon.
'Not much to go on,' Pinckney said. 'If we grabbed every man and woman wearing a black nylon wig, we'd really be in the soup. Can you imagine the lawsuits for false arrest?'
'Yes,' Zoe said.
'Well,' Mr. Pinckney said, studying the notice, 'the two murders happened around midnight. I'll make sure Joe Levine sees this when he comes on at five tonight. Then I'll leave it on my desk. If I miss Barney McMillan in the morning, will you make sure he sees it?'
'Yes, sir,' she said.
When he was gone, she sat upright at her desk, spine rigid, her back not touching her chair. She clasped her hands on the desktop. Knuckles whitened.
The black nylon wig didn't bother her. That was a detail that could be remedied. But how had they come up with the correct height?
She went over and over her actions during her two adventures. She could recall nothing that would give the police an accurate estimation of her height. She had a shivery feeling that there was an intelligence at work of which she knew nothing. Something or someone secret who knew.
She wondered if it might be a medium or someone versed in ESP, called in by the police to assist in their investigation. 'I see a man or woman with-yes, it's black hair. No, not hair-it's a wig, a black nylon wig. And this person is of average height. Yes, I see that clearly. About five-five to five-seven. Around there.'
That might have been how it was done. Zoe Kohler nodded, convinced; that was how.
On Thursday night, she went down to Wigarama on 34th Street. She tried on a nylon, strawberry blond wig, styled just like her black one. She looked in the mirror, pulling, tugging, poking it with her fingers.
'It'll make you a new woman, dearie,' the salesclerk said.
'I'm sure it will,' Zoe Kohler said, and bought it.
Madeline Kurnitz called and insisted they meet for lunch. Zoe was wary; a lunch with Maddie could last more than two hours.
'I really shouldn't,' she said. 'I'm a working woman, you know. I usually eat at my desk.'
'Come on, kiddo,' Maddie said impatiently. 'You're not chained to the goddamned desk, are you? Live a little!'
'How about right here?' Zoe suggested. 'In the hotel dining room?'
'How tacky can you get?' Maddie said disgustedly.
When she showed up, twenty minutes late, she was wearing her ranch mink, so black it was almost blue, over a tight sheath of brocaded satin. The dress had a stain in front; a side seam gapped. She couldn't have cared less.
She led the way grandly into the Hotel Granger dining room.
A wan maitre d' approached, gave them a sad smile.
'Two, ladies?' he said in sepulchral tones. 'This way, please.'
He escorted them to a tiny table neatly tucked behind an enormous plaster pillar.
Maddie Kurnitz opened her coat and put a soft hand on his arm.
'You sweet man,' she said, 'couldn't we have a table just a wee bit more comfortable?'
His eyes flicked to her unholstered breasts. He came alive.
'But of course!' he said.
He conducted them to a table for four in the center of the dining room.
'Marvelous,' Maddie caroled. She gave the maitre d' a warm smile. 'You're a perfect dear,' she said.
'My pleasure!' he said, glowing. 'Enjoy your luncheon, ladies.'
He helped Maddie remove her mink coat, touching her tenderly. Then he moved away regretfully.
'I made his day,' Maddie said.
'How do you do it?' Zoe said. She shook her head. 'I'd never have the nerve.'
'Balls, luv,' Maddie advised. 'All it takes is balls.'
As usual, her hair seemed a snarl, her makeup a blotch of primary colors. Her feral teeth shone. Diamonds glittered. She dug into an enormous snakeskin shoulder bag and came out with a crumpled pack of brown cigarillos. She offered it to Zoe.
'No, thank you, Maddie. I'll have one of my own.'
'Suit yourself.'
Maddie twirled a cigarillo between her lips. Instantly, a handsome young waiter was hovering over her, snapping his lighter. She grasped his hand to steady the flame.
'Thank you, you beautiful man,' she said, smiling up at him. 'May we have a drink now?'
'But of course, madam. What is your pleasure?'
'I'd tell you,' she said, 'but it would make you blush. For a drink, I'll have a very dry Tanqueray martini, straight up, with two olives. Zoe?'
'A glass of white wine, please.'
The waiter scurried off with their order. Maddie looked around the crowded room.
'Never in my life have I seen so many women with blue hair,' she said. 'What's the attraction here-free Geritol?'
'The food is very good,' Zoe said defensively.
'Let me be the judge of that, kiddo.' She regarded Zoe critically. 'You don't look so bad. Not so good, but not so bad. Feeling okay?'
'Of course. I'm fine.'
'Uh-huh. Have a good time at our bash the other night?'
'Oh yes. I meant to thank you before I left, but I couldn't find you. Or Harry.'
'Never did meet David something, did you? The guy I told you about?'
'No,' Zoe said, 'I never met him.'
'You're lucky,' Maddie said, laughing. 'He was picked up later that night with a stash of coke on him. The moron! But you didn't leave alone, did you?'
Zoe Kohler hung her head.
The waiter came bustling up with their drinks and left menus alongside their plates.
'Whenever you're ready, ladies,' he said.
'I'm always ready,' Maddie said, 'but we'll order in a few minutes.'
They waited until he moved away.
