But there were some things that didn't change; Pierre au Tunnel was just as he remembered it. The entrance was down a flight of stairs from the sidewalk. There was a long, narrow front room, bar on the right, a row of small tables on the left. In the rear was the main dining room, low-ceilinged, walls painted to simulate those of a tunnel or grotto.
It was a relaxed, reasonably priced restaurant, with good bread and a palatable house wine. Most of the patrons were habitues. It was the kind of neighborhood bistro where old customers kissed old waitresses.
The luncheon crowd had thinned out; Delaney was able to get his favorite table in the corner of the front room. He ordered the bouillabaisse and a small bottle of chilled muscadet. He tucked the corner of his napkin into his collar and spread the cloth across his chest.
He ate his stew slowly, dipping chunks of crusty French bread into the sauce. It was as good as he remembered it, as flavorful,; and the hard, flinty wine was a perfect complement. He ordered espresso and a lemon ice for dessert and then, a little later, a pony of Armagnac.
Ordinarily, lunching alone at this restaurant, he would have amused himself by observing his fellow diners and the activity at the bar. But today, with the hotel trade magazine tucked carefully at his side, he had other matters to occupy him.
His original intention had been to take a more active role in the investigation. He had hoped that he alone might handle the search for persons with access to a list of current conventions in New York.
He saw now that such an inquiry was beyond his capabilities, or those of any other single detective. It would take a squad of ten, twenty, perhaps thirty men to track down all the sources, to make a list of all New Yorkers who might have access to a schedule of conventions.
It was a dull, routine, interminable task. And in the end, it might lead to nothing. But, he reflected grimly, it had to be done. Sipping his Armagnac, he began to plan how the men selected for the job should be organized and assigned.
He arrived at Midtown Precinct North a little after 3:30 p.m. Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen was already present, and Delaney met with him and Abner Boone in the sergeant's office. Thorsen told them of the results of his meeting with the police brass.
'You got everything you wanted, Edward,' he said. 'I'll hold a press conference tomorrow. The official line will be that new leads are enlarging the investigation-which is true-and we are now looking for either a female or male perpetrator. Nothing will be released about the killer switching to a strawberry blond wig.'
'Good,' Boone said. 'They picked up more blond hairs when they vacuumed Bergdorfer's suite at the Cameron Arms. What about the knife blade tip? And the Mace?'
'We'll keep those under wraps for the time being,' Thorsen said. 'We can't shoot our wad all at once. If the screams for action become too loud, we'll give them the investigation into the knife, and later into the tear gas. The PR guys were insistent on that. It looks like a long job of work, and we've got to hold something back to prove we're making progress.'
Delaney and Boone both sighed, the Machiavellian manipulations of public relations beyond their ken.
'Edward,' Thorsen went on, 'we're keeping a lid on your involvement in the case for the time being.'
'Keep it on forever as far as I'm concerned.'
'Sergeant, all inquiries from the media will be referred to me. I will be the sole, repeat, sole spokesman for the Department on this case. Is that understood?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Make certain your men understand it, too. I don't want any unauthorized statements to the press, and if I catch anyone leaking inside information, he'll find himself guarding vacant lots in the South Bronx so fast he won't know what hit him. Now… I don't suppose you have any great revelations to report, do you?'
'No, sir,' Boone said, 'nothing new. We're just getting organized on the knife and tear gas jobs. Lieutenant Crane's research hasn't turned up anything.'
'I have something,' Delaney said, and they looked at him.
He told them of his belief that the killer had prior knowledge of the location and dates of conventions held in midtown Manhattan. He listed the sources of such information and showed them the hotel trade magazine he had been given by Eddie Holzer.
'It's got to be someone connected with the hotel or convention business in some way,' he argued. 'We'll have to compile a list of everyone in the city who has access to the convention schedule.'
Thorsen was aghast.
'My God, Edward!' he burst out. 'That could be thousands of people!'
'Hundreds, certainly,' Delaney said stonily. 'But it's got to be done. Sergeant?'
'I guess so,' Boone said glumly. 'You want men and women listed?'
'Yes,' Delaney said, nodding. 'Just to cover ourselves. No use in doing the job twice. What do you figure- twenty or thirty more detectives?'
'At least,' the sergeant said.
Thorsen groaned. 'All right,' he said finally, 'you'll get them. Who's going to handle it?'
'I'll get it organized and rolling,' Sergeant Boone said. 'We better call in Slavin on the scheduling.'
Delaney left them discussing the exact number of men needed and the office space that would be required. He walked uptown from the precinct house until he found a telephone booth in working order.
He called Thomas Handry.
He told the reporter there would be a press conference held at police headquarters the following day. An expanded investigation would be announced and it would be stated that the killer could be either a man or a woman. Delaney said nothing about the blond wig, the knife blade tip, or the Chemical Mace.
'So?' Handry said. 'What's so new and exciting? An expanded investigation-big deal.'
'What's new and exciting,' Delaney explained patiently, 'is that actually the investigation is zeroing in on a female killer.'
A moment of silence…
'So that research convinced you?' Handry said. 'And you convinced them?'
'Half-convinced,' Delaney said. 'Some of them still think I'm blowing smoke.'
He then went over the evidence that had persuaded him the Hotel Ripper was female. He ended by telling Handry that the; timing of the homicides matched a woman's menstrual periods.
'Crazy,' the reporter said. 'You're sure about all this?'
'Sure I'm sure. I'm giving you this stuff in advance of the press conference for background, not for publication. I owe you one. Also, I thought you might want to prepare by digging out old stories on women killers.'
'I already have,' Handry said. 'It wasn't hard to figure how; your mind was working. I started looking into the history of mass murders. A series of homicides in which the killer is a stranger to the victims. One criminologist calls them 'multicides.''
'Multicides,' Delaney repeated. 'That's a new one on me. Good name. What did you find?'
'Since 1900, there have been about twenty-five cases in the United States, with the number of victims ranging from seven to more than thirty. The scary thing is that more than half of those twenty-five cases have occurred since 1960. In other words, the incidence of multicides is increasing. More and more mass killings by strangers.'
'Yes,' Delaney said, 'I was aware of that.'
'And I've got bad news for you, Chief.'
'What's that?'
'Of those twenty-five cases of multicide since 1900, only one was committed by a woman.'
'Oh?' Delaney said. 'Did they catch her?'
'No,' Handry said.
Monica came out of the bathroom, hair in curlers, face cold-creamed, a strap of her nightgown held up with a safety pin.
'The Creature from Outer Space,' she announced cheerfully.
He looked at her with a vacant smile. He had started to undress. Doffed his dark cheviot jacket and vest, after first removing watch and chain from waistcoat pockets. The clumpy gold chain had been his grandfather's. At one end was a hunter that had belonged to his father and had stopped fifty years ago. Twenty minutes to noon. Or midnight.
