“All right, so?”
“They’ve described him, right?”
“That’s right. And their descriptions tally pretty well, but they’d fit ten million people.”
“That’s because no one can describe a face. There’s a guy on the Courier, Don Little, who draws cartoons and stuff. He’s the staff artist. Suppose you get the girl and the two men together with him and he can draw what the man looks like with them correcting him.”
Fellows rubbed his chin. He said, “Well,—” And then he turned bland eyes on the reporter. “Did you say the girl?”
“Sure. She saw him too, didn’t she?”
Fellows shook his head sadly. “Now listen, Hilders, I’m not quite dumb enough to fall into that trap. I told you I’m keeping the girl’s identity secret.”
Hilders grinned. “You can’t blame a guy for trying. All right, you’ve still got two men who’ve seen him. I wasn’t trying to pitch you a curve. The idea’s still valid, isn’t it? You get the two men in here to describe him, and I’ll get the artist.”
Fellows said he’d think about it and then he thanked Hilders and went out with Wilks to their cars. On the way home, he did think about it. At first it was in annoyance because drawing pictures was, to him, in the category with collecting dust. It was grabbing for straws and he wasn’t that desperate yet. However, as he ruefully meditated, if reports continued to be as barren as this day’s had been, he might get that desperate.
CHAPTER XIII
Sunday, March 1
On Sunday morning at the First Congregational Church, Dr. Morse, the minister, mentioned the dead girl in his prayers. Perhaps it was because Fred Fellows was a member, for she was not referred to in any other church. The case did not appear in any newspapers except in the Bridgeport Courier, which devoted itself to vice, venery, and victims. Her body lay in a cheap box in the basement of the hospital, waiting final disposition, and the only people who hadn’t forgotten her were the policemen of Stockford and the neighboring communities.
Fellows didn’t go to church that Sunday. He was uneven in attendance at best, but this time he had the excuse that he could serve God and his fellow man better by putting in the time at headquarters. Sunday was a bad time to get much done since places of business were closed, but he did manage to reach the personnel director of the Graystone Greeting Card Company. The call resulted in the disappointing news that, of the sixty women employees in the place, none with the initials J.S. had left their employ in the two months of the new year. The director promised to check earlier records on Monday to refresh his memory on other ex-employees, but he was sure the information would be negative, for the turnover at the plant was negligible.
“Of course, she could work somewhere else in or around that town,” Fellows said to Wilks, but his voice wasn’t ringing with conviction this morning.
The detective sergeant sighed. “I’ve heard of murder cases where you don’t know the killer, but this is the first one where you don’t even know the victim.”
“Or,” said Fellows, “if it even was a murder.”
“Come on. You don’t think it was anything else, do you?”
“I’d stake ten years of my life that it’s murder, Sid, but if you don’t know how the victim died, how do you prove it in court?”
“You find the guy and hammer at him until he contradicts himself and confesses.”
At a little after eleven, Fellows got a call from New York and took it in his office. At quarter past, John Hilders came into headquarters with a copy of the Sunday Courier under his arm. He spread it on the counter for Wilks and Unger to see. “I’m owed all the favors I want,” he said. “See? I didn’t mention any girl in the story.”
“You got a particular place you want me to kiss you?” Wilks asked, scanning the paper.
“Where’s Fellows?”
“In his office on the telephone.”
“Who’s he calling?”
“New York’s calling him.”
Fellows opened the door and came out then. He didn’t look happy. “Two people named John Campbell checked in at New York hotels Friday, neither of them Friday night or early Saturday morning. Neither of them is the man we want. They’ve been cleared.”
Wilks said, “Don’t look so sad. You said yourself he probably wouldn’t use that name.”
“I said maybe he wouldn’t. And another thing. I called Hartford. Watly and Andy were up there all afternoon yesterday going through their rogue’s gallery. They couldn’t identify a single face.”
“The guy doesn’t have a record?”
“If he does, it’s not in this state.” The chief shook his head.
“We’re looking, but we’re always looking in the wrong places. It’s like he’s outsmarting us everywhere we turn.”
“He’s not trying to outsmart us. He’s probably running scared.”
“It’s even worse if he’s outsmarting us without even trying.” Fellows picked up the Courier and glanced at the front-page article. Hilders said, “See? Didn’t I treat you right, Fred? You owe me the works.”
At the unpermitted familiarity, Fellows’s manner turned cool. He said, “You’ll get your breaks, Hilders.”
“How about letting me look over the murder house?”
“I told you I’ve got nothing to say about it.”
“A phone call to Restlin would let me in. He’d do it for you.” Fellows turned to look at him. “What do you want to see it for?”
“Firsthand report. I want the layout and I want pictures. They should have been in today’s paper. You see the rag I write for. My editor plays up the seamy side of everything.” He smiled a little. “Besides, well, I’m only an amateur, of course, but covering murders and stuff is my beat and you get some experience. I might be able to come up with a fresh approach.”
Fellows said, “Sid, he’s after your job.”
Hilders said, “Well, I’m not a dummy, you know.”
“All right, we’ll see. By the
