“As far as we can tell.”
“They had no common friends, acquaintances, relatives?”
“So far we haven’t hit any.”
“Religious affiliation?” asked Ellery suddenly.
“Abernethy was a communicant of the Episcopal Church — in fact, at one time, before his father died, he was studying for the ministry. But he gave that up to take care of his mother on a regular basis. Certainly there’s no record that he ever went after his mother died.
“Violette Smith’s family are Lutherans. As far as we know, she herself went to no church. Her family threw her out years ago.
“Monica McKell — all the McKells — Presbyterian. Mr. and Mrs. McKell are very active in church affairs and Monica — it sort of surprised me — was quite religious.
“Rian O’Reilly was a devout Roman Catholic.
“Simone Phillips came of French Protestants on both sides, but she herself was interested in Christian Science.”
“Likes, dislikes, habits, hobbies...”
The Inspector turned from the window. “What?”
“I’m fishing for a common denominator. The victims form a highly conglomerate group. Yet there must be some quality, some experience, some function they shared...”
“There’s not a single indication that the poor mutts were tied up any way at all.”
“As far as you know.”
The Inspector laughed. “Ellery, I’ve been on this merry-go-round since the first ride and I tell you there’s as much sense in these killings as there was in a Nazi crematorium.
“The murders haven’t followed any time pattern or recognizable sequence. The intervals between the various crimes have been nineteen days, twenty-six. twenty-two, ten. It’s true that they all occurred at night, but that’s when cats walk, isn’t it?
“The victims came from all over the City. East 19th near Gramercy Park. West 44th between Broadway and Sixth. West 20th near Ninth. Park and 53rd, in this case the victim actually getting it under Sheridan Square in Greenwich Village. And East 102nd.
“Economically? Upper crust, middle class, the poor. Socially? You find a pattern that includes an Abernethy, a Violette Smith, a Rian O’Reilly, a Monica McKell, and a Simone Phillips.
“Motive? Not gain. Not jealousy. Not anything personal.
“There’s nothing to indicate that these have been sex crimes, or that a sex drive is even behind it.
“Ellery, this is killing for the sake of killing. The Cat’s enemies are the human race. Anybody on two legs, will do. If you ask me, that’s what’s really cooking in New York. And unless we clamp the lid on this — this homicide, it’s going to boil over.”
“And yet,” said Ellery, “for an undiscriminating, unselective, blood-lusting and mankind-hating brute, I must say the Cat shows a nice appreciation of certain values.”
“Values?”
“Well, take time. The Cat uses time the way Thoreau did, as a stream, to go fishing in. To catch Abernethy in his bachelor apartment he’d have to run the risk of being seen or heard entering or leaving, because Abernethy was an early-to-bed man. What’s more, Abernethy rarely had a visitor, so that going to his door at a normal hour might have aroused a neighbor’s curiosity. So what does the Cat do? He contrives to get Abernethy to agree to an appointment at an hour when the building’s settled down for the night. To accomplish this called for the considerable feat of making an ossified bachelor change a habit of years’ standing. In other words, the Cat weighed the difficulties against the time and he chose in favor of the time.
“In Violette Smith’s case, whether it was done by appointment or as a result of careful study of her business practices, you can’t deny that the Cat did pick a time when a very busy lady was in her flat alone.
“O’Reilly? Most vulnerable when he came home from his Brooklyn night job. And there was the Cat lying in wait in the downstairs hall. Nicely timed, wouldn’t you say?”
The Inspector listened without comment.
“Monica McKell? A woman obviously running away from herself. And that kind of woman — from that kind of background — loses herself in crowds. She was always surrounded by people. It’s no accident that she adored the subway. Monica must have presented a problem. Still — the Cat caught her alone, in a place and at a time which were most favorable for his project. How many nights did he trail her, I wonder; watching for just the right moment?
“And Simone, the paralytic. Easy pickings once he got to her. But how to get to her without being seen? Crowded tenement, the summer — daytime was out of the question, even when Celeste was away at work. But at night her sister is always with her. Always? Well, not exactly. On Friday nights the annoying Celeste goes to the movies. And Simone is strangled when? On a Friday night.”
“You finished?”
“Yes.”
Inspector Queen was remote. “Very plausible,” he said. “Very convincing. But you’re arguing from the premise that the Cat picks people in advance. Suppose I argue from the premise that he does nothing of the sort? — a premise, incidentally, that’s borne out by the total lack of connection among the victims.
“Then the Cat happened to be prowling on West 44th Street one night, picked a likely-looking building at random, chose the top floor apartment because it was closer to a roof getaway, pretended to be a salesman for nylons or French perfume — anything to get in — and that was the end of somebody whose name happened to be Violette Smith, call girl.
“On the night of July 18 he was feeling the urge again and chance took him to the Chelsea-district. It was around midnight, his favorite hunting hour. He follows a tired-looking little guy into a hall and that’s the end of a hard-working Irishman named O’Reilly. It might just as well have turned out to be William Miller, a shipping clerk who came home from a date with a Bronx girl around 2 A.M. and walked up the stairs under which O’Reilly’s body was lying, still warm.
“In the early morning hours of August 9 the Cat was on the loose in the Village. He spotted an unescorted woman, walking. He followed her to the Sheridan Square subway and that was the end of Well-Known New York Socialite, who should have stuck to her twelve-cylinder job.
“And on the night of August 19 he was up around 102nd Street hankering after another neck, and he got into a nice dark court and pussyfooted around till he saw through a ground floor window a fat young woman lying in a bed, alone. And that was the end of Simone Phillips.
“Now tell me something — anything — that says it didn’t happen that way.”
“Abernethy?”
“You left Abernethy out,” said Ellery. “Abernethy the Vague. Admittedly not a hard thing to do. But he is dead, he was strangled with one of those silk cords, and didn’t you yourself say it was by appointment?”
“I said the whole setup smacked of an appointment. But we don’t know it. Something could have made him sit up past his usual bedtime that night, maybe a radio program, or he fell asleep in the easychair. The Cat could have been in the building on the loose and seen the light under Abernethy’s door and knocked—”
“At which Abernethy let him in?”
“All he’d have to have done was unlock the door.”
“An Abernethy? At midnight?”
“Or maybe he’d forgotten to check his spring latch and the Cat just walked in, releasing it on his way out.”
“Then why didn’t Archibald use his lungs? Or run? How is it he permitted the Cat to get behind him while he sat in his chair?”
“He might have been — like Simone Phillips — scared stiff.”
“Yes,” said Ellery, “I suppose that’s possible.”