'How do you know the convention is at the Hilton?' he asked slowly.
'I got a notice in the mail. With an application blank.'
'But there was no notice in the papers?'
'I didn't see any. Today is the first day. There may be stories tomorrow.'
He took his bite of kipper, chewed it thoughtfully.
'But there was nothing in the papers about it?' he asked again. 'No advance notice?'
'Edward, what is this?'
Instead of answering, he said, 'What other conventions are being held at the Hilton today?'
'How on earth would I know that?'
'What conventions are being held at the Americana right now?'
'Edward, will you please tell me what this is all about?'
'In a minute,' he said. 'Let me finish this banquet first. It really is delicious.'
'Hmph,' she said, with scorn for this blatant effort to placate her. But she had to wait until he had cleaned his plate and poured each of them a second cup of black coffee.
'You don't know what conventions are at the Hilton,' he said, 'except for the one you're attending. I didn't know there were any conventions at the Hilton today. Neither of us know what conventions are being held right now at the Americana or any other New York hotel. Why should we know? We're not interested.'
'So?'
'So for weeks now I've been looking for a link between the Hotel Ripper homicides. Something that ties them all together. Something we've overlooked.'
She stared at him, puzzling it out.
'You mean there were conventions being held at all the hotels where the murders were committed?'
He stood, moved heavily around to her side of the table. He leaned down to kiss her cheek.
'My little detective,' he said. 'Thank you for a great breakfast and thank you for the lead. You're exactly right; the killings were at hotels where conventions were being held. And this was as early as the middle of February. Not precisely the height of the convention season in New York. But the killer picked hotels with conventions, sales meetings, big gatherings. Why not? She wants lots of people around, lots of single, unattached men. She wants crowds in the lobbies and dining rooms and cocktail lounges. She wants victims ready for a good time, maybe already lubricated with booze. So she selects hotels with conventions. Does that make sense?'
'It makes sense,' Monica said. 'In an awful way. But how does she know which hotels are having conventions?'
'Ah,' he said, 'good question. I've never seen a list in the daily papers. Have you?'
'No.'
'But it must exist somewhere. The city's convention bureau or tourist bureau or some municipal office must keep track of these things. I know they make an effort to bring conventions to the city. Maybe they publish a daily or weekly or monthly list. And maybe the hotel association does, too. Anyway, the killer knows where the conventions are and heads for them.'
'It doesn't sound like much of a clue to me,' Monica said doubtfully.
'You never can tell,' he said cheerfully. 'You just never know. But if you do nothing, you have no chance to get lucky.'
He helped Monica clean up and waited until she had departed for her first meeting at the New York Hilton. By that time he had figured out exactly how he was going to handle it.
He locked the front door, went into the study, and phoned Midtown Precinct South. He asked for Detective Second Grade Daniel Bentley, the expert on Manhattan hotels.
'Hello?'
'Bentley?'
'Yeah. Who's this?'
'Edward X. Delaney here.'
'Oh, hiya, Chief. Don't tell me we got her?'
'No,' Delaney said, laughing. 'Not yet. How's it going?'
'Okay. I can't cover every bar and cocktail lounge, but I'm putting at least one man in every big hotel between Thirty-fourth and Fifty-ninth, river to river, between eight and two every night. You know we had a guy at the Cameron Arms when Bergdorfer was offed?'
'Yes, I heard that.'
'So much for decoys,' Bentley said mournfully. 'But maybe next time we'll luck out.'
Delaney paused, reflecting how everyone took it for granted that there would be a next time.
'About that Jerome Ashley kill at the Coolidge,' Detective Bentley went on. 'We checked with the bartenders and waitresses in the cocktail lounges. No one remembers a guy with scarred hands. But two of the waitresses on duty that night don't work there anymore. We're tracking them down. Nothing comes easy.'
'It surely doesn't. Bentley, I wonder if you can help me.'
'Anything you say, Chief.'
'I'd like to talk to a hotel security officer. Preferably an ex-cop. Are there any working in hotels now?'
'Oh hell yes. I know of at least three. Guys who took early retirement. The pay's not bad and the work isn't all that hard, except maybe in the big hotels. Why do you ask? Anything cooking?'
'Not really. I just wanted to find out how hotel security works. Maybe we can convince them to beef up their patrols or put on extra guards to help us out.'
'Good idea. Here are the guys I know…'
He gave Delaney the names of three men, one of which the Chief recognized.
'Holzer?' he asked. 'Eddie Holzer? Was he in Narcotics for a while?'
'Sure, that's the one. You know, him?'
'Yes. I worked with him on a couple of things.'
'He's at the Hotel Osborne. It's not a fleabag, but it's not the Ritz either.'
'I'll give him a call. Many thanks, Bentley.'
'Anytime, Chief.'
He hung up, wondering why he had lied-well, maybe not lied, but misled Detective Bentley as to the reason why he wanted to talk to a hotel security officer. He told himself that he just didn't want to bother a busy investigating officer with a slim lead and probably a dead-end search.
But he knew it wasn't that.
He looked up the number of the Hotel Osborne and called. He was told that Mr. Holzer wouldn't be at his desk until noon.
He had no sooner hung up than the phone rang. It was Ivar Thorsen. He said he was heading for a meeting and wanted to get Delaney's thinking on two subjects…
'This is with the brass and their public relations men from the offices of the Mayor, the Commissioner, and the Chief of Operations,' he said. 'About what we give to the media. First of all, do we release the business about the Hotel Ripper switching to a strawberry blond wig? Second, do we say we are definitely looking for a female killer? What do you think, Edward?'
Delaney pondered a moment. Then…
'Take the second one first… There's no way we can keep it quiet that we're looking for a woman. But fuzz the issue. Say the killer can be a man or a woman; we're looking for both.'
'You still think it's a woman?'
'Of course. But I could be wrong; I admit it. The brass will want an out-just in case. Cover yourself on this one.'
'All right, Edward; that makes sense. What about the wig?'
'Ivar, you've got to be definite on that. If the reporters print it was a blond wig, the killer will just switch to another color. That's what happened when Slavin fucked up.'
'But if we don't warn tourists about a killer wearing a strawberry blond wig, aren't we endangering them?'
'Probably,' Delaney said grimly. 'But the decoys have got to have something to look for. We can't have her switching colors on us again.'
