She looked up, directly at him. 'Did Handry research current crime statistics?'
'Yes, he did.'
'And?'
'The arrest rate is up for women. Much higher than that for men.'
'What about murder?' she asked.
He had to be honest. 'No, there's no evidence that murder by women is increasing. But their arrests for robbery, breaking-and-entering, and auto theft are increasing at a higher rate than for men. And much higher for larceny-theft, embezzlement, and fraud. Generally, women's crimes against property are increasing faster than men's, but not in the category of violent crimes such as murder and manslaughter.'
'Or rape,' she added bitterly.
He said nothing.
'Well?' she questioned. 'If you think your research is justification for the Hotel Ripper being a woman, wouldn't there be some evidence of murder by women being on the increase?'
'I would have thought so,' he admitted.
'You hoped so, didn't you?' she said, looking at him narrowly.
'Come on, Monica,' he protested. 'It's not giving me any great satisfaction to know the Hotel Ripper is a woman.'
She sniffed and rose, gathering up her knitting things.
'You don't know any such thing,' she said. 'You're just guessing. And I think you're totally wrong.'
'I may be,' he acknowledged.
'Are you going to tell Boone about your wild idea?'
'No. Not yet. But I'm going to call him and warn him about May seventh to May ninth. If I'm right, then there will be another killing or attempted killing around then.'
She swept grandly from the room.
'You're making a damned fool of yourself!' she flung over her shoulder.
After the door slammed behind her, he kicked fretfully at the pages of research discarded on the carpet.
'Won't be the first time,' he grumbled.
On the morning of May 9th, a little before 9:00 a.m., Monica and Edward X. Delaney were seated at the kitchen table, having a quiet breakfast. They were sharing a pan of eggs scrambled with lox and onions.
Since their heated debate on the significance of Thomas Handry's research, their relation had been one of careful politesse:
'Would you care for more coffee?'
'Thank you. Another piece of toast?'
'No more, thank you. Would it bother you if I turned on the radio?'
'Not at all. Would you like a section of the newspaper?'
It had been going on like that for more than a week, neither willing to yield. But on that morning, the Chief decided it had continued long enough.
He threw down his newspaper, slammed his hand on the table with a crack that made Monica jump.
'Jesus Christ!' he said explosively. 'What are we-a couple of kids? What kind of bullshit is this? Can't we disagree without treating each other like strangers?'
'You're so damned bullheaded,' she said. 'You can never admit you're wrong.'
'I admit I might be wrong,' he said. 'On this thing. But I haven't been proved wrong-yet. You think I'm wrong? All right, how about a bet? Put your money where your mouth is. How much? Five, ten, a hundred? Whatever you say.'
'It's too serious a matter to bet money on,' she said loftily.
'All right, let's make a serious bet. The windows are filthy. If I'm proved wrong, I'll wash every goddamned window in the house. If I'm proved right, you wash them.'
She considered that a moment.
'Every window,' she insisted. 'Including basement and attic. Inside and out.'
'I agree,' he said and held out his big paw. They shook hands.
'Turn the radio on,' she ordered.
'Pour me some more coffee,' he commanded.
Things were back to normal. But they both froze when they heard the first news item.
'The body of a murdered man was discovered in a suite at the Cameron Arms Hotel on Central Park South last night around midnight. The victim has been identified as Leonard T. Bergdorfer, an airline broker from Atlanta, Georgia. A police spokesman has definitely linked the slaying with the series of Hotel Ripper murders. The death of Bergdorfer is the fourth. No further details are available at this hour.'
Monica and Edward stared at each other.
'The Windex is in the cupboard under the sink,' he said slowly.
She began to cry, silently, tears welling down her cheeks. He rose to put a heavy arm about her shoulders, pull her close.
'It's so awful,' she said, her voice muffled. 'So awful. We were joking and making bets, and all the time…'
'I know,' he said, 'I know.'
'You better tell Abner,' she said. 'About what you think.'
'Yes,' he said, 'I guess I better.'
He went into the study, sat down heavily behind the desk. He had his hand on the phone, but then paused, pondering.
He could not understand why he had not been informed. The newscaster had said the body was discovered around midnight.
Delaney would have expected Sergeant Boone to call him as soon as it had been verified as a Ripper killing.
Perhaps Boone had been commanded by Lieutenant Slavin to stop discussing the case with Delaney. Or perhaps enough evidence had been found to wrap up the investigation with no more help from a retired cop. Or maybe the sergeant was just too busy to report. Anything was possible.
He called Boone at home, at Midtown North, and at the Cameron Arms Hotel. No success anywhere. He left messages at all three places, asking the sergeant to call him back as soon as possible.
He started a new dossier: a sheet of paper headed: 'Leonard T. Bergdorfer, midnight May 8, from Atlanta, Georgia. Fourth victim. Body found at Cameron Arms Hotel.' Then he went back into the kitchen to listen to the ten o'clock news. Monica was gathering a pail of water, clean rags, Windex, a roll of paper towels.
'You don't have to do the windows,' he told her, smiling. 'It was just a stupid joke. We'll have someone come in and do them. Besides, it looks like rain.'
'No, no,' she said. 'I lost the bet. Also, I think I'd like to keep busy with physical work today. Therapy. Maybe it'll keep me from thinking.'
'Well… just do the insides,' he said. 'Stop when you get tired.'
The news broadcast added a few more facts. The victim had come to New York to attend a convention at the Cameron Arms Hotel. His body was discovered by friends who stopped by his suite for a drink and found the door unlocked.
There were indignant statements from a Deputy Mayor, from travel agents, from the president of the hotel association. All called for quick apprehension of the Hotel Ripper before tourist trade in New York dwindled to nothing.
Edward X. Delaney waited all morning in his study, but Sergeant Abner Boone never called back. The Chief concluded that his aid was no longer being sought. For whatever reason, he was being ignored.
He pulled on his raincoat, homburg, took an umbrella from the hall closet. He yelled upstairs to Monica that he was going out and would be back shortly. He waited for her shouted reply before he left, double-locking the front door behind him.
It wasn't a hard rain. More of a thick, soaking mist that fell steadily from a steely sky. And it was unpleasantly warm. There were puddles on the sidewalks. The gutters ran with filth. The day suited Delaney's mood perfectly.
