And it seemed, simultaneously, as if a sudden breeze sprang up from the North and washed the blistering face of the city. The ominous rolling in the sky grew closer, and now there were lightning flashes, erratic, jagged streaks that knifed the sky.
The people of the city turned their faces upward and waited.
It seemed the rain would never come. The lightning was wild in its fury, lashing the tall buildings, arcing over the horizon. The thunder answered the spitting angers of the lightning, booming its own furious epithets.
And then, suddenly, the sky split open and the rain poured down. Huge drops, and they pelted the sidewalks and the gutters and the streets; and the asphalt and concrete sizzled when the first drops fell; and the citizens of the city smiled and watched the rain, watched the huge drops— God, how big the drops were!—splattering against the ground. And the smiles broadened, and people slapped each other on the back, and it looked as if everything was going to be all right again.
Until the rain stopped.
It stopped as suddenly as it had begun. It had burst from the sky like water that had broken through a dam. It rained for four minutes and thirty-six seconds. And then, as though someone had suddenly plugged the broken wall of the dam, it stopped.
The lightning still flashed across the sky, and the thunder Still growled in response, but there was no rain.
The cool relief the rain had brought lasted no more than ten minutes. At the end of that time, the streets were baking again, and the citizens were swearing and mumbling and sweating.
Nobody likes practical jokes.
Even when God is playing them.
She stood by the window when the rain stopped.
She swore mentally, and she reminded herself that she would have to teach Steve sign language, so that he'd know when she was swearing. He had promised to come tonight, and the promise filled her now, and she wondered what she should wear for him.
"Nothing" was probably the best answer. She was pleased with her joke. She must remember it. To tell to him when he came.
The street was suddenly very sad. The rain had brought gaiety, but now the rain was gone, and there was only the solemn grey of the street, as solemn as death.
Death.
Two dead, two men he worked with and knew well, why couldn't he have been a streetcleaner or a flagpole sitter or something, why a policeman, why a cop?
She turned to look at the clock, wondering what time it was, wondering how long it would be before he came, how long it would be before she spotted the slow, back-and-forth twisting of the knob, before she rushed to the door to open it for him. The clock was no comfort. It would be hours yet. If he came, of course. If nothing else happened, something to keep him at the station house, another killing, another ...
No, I mustn't think of that.
It's not fair to Steve to think that.
If I think of harm coming to him...
Nothing will happen to him ... no. Steve is strong, Steve is a good cop, Steve can take care of himself. But Reardon was a good cop, and Foster, and they're dead now, how good can a cop be when he's shot in the back with a .45? How good is any cop against a killer in ambush?
No, don't think these things.
The murders are over now. There will be no more. Foster was the end. It's done. Done.
Steve, hurry.
She sat facing the door, knowing it would be hours yet, but waiting for the knob to turn, waiting for the knob to tell her he was there.
The man rose.
He was in his undershorts. They were gaily patterned, and they fitted him snugly, and he walked from the bed to the dresser with a curiously ducklike motion. He was a tall man, excellently built. He examined his profile in the mirror over the dresser, looked at the clock, sighed heavily, and then went back to the bed.
There was time yet.
He lay and looked at the ceiling, and then he suddenly desired a cigarette. He rose and walked to the dresser again, walking with the strange ducklike waddle which was uncomplimentary to a man of his physique. He lighted the cigarette and then went back to the bed, where he lay puffing and thinking.
He was thinking about the cop he would kill later that night.
Lieutenant Byrnes stopped in to chat with Captain Frick, commanding officer of the precinct, before he checked out that night.
"How's it going?" Frick asked.
Byrnes shrugged. "Looks like we've got the only cool thing in this city."
"Huh?"
"This case."
"Oh. Yeah," Frick said. Frick was tired. He wasn't as young as he used to be, and all this hullabaloo made him tired. If cops got knocked off, those were the breaks. Here today, gone tomorrow. You can't live forever, and you can't take it with you. Find the perpetrator, sure, but don't push a man too hard. You can't push a man too hard in this heat, especially when he's not as young as he used to be, and tired.
To tell the truth, Frick was a tired man even when he was twenty, and Byrnes knew it He didn't particularly care for the captain, but he was a conscientious cop, and a conscientious cop checked with the precinct commander every now and then, even if he felt the commander was an egghead.
"You're really working the boys, aren't you?" Frick asked.
"Yes," Byrnes said, thinking that should have been obvious even to an egghead.
"I figure this for some screwball," Frick said. "Got himself a peeve, figured he'd go out and shoot somebody."
"Why cops?" Byrnes asked.
"Why not? How can you figure what a screwball will do? Probably knocked off Reardon by accident, not even knowing he was a cop. Then saw all the publicity the thing got in the papers, figured it was a good idea, and purposely gunned for another cop."
"How'd he know Foster was a cop? Foster was in street clothes, same as Reardon."
"Maybe he's a screwball who's had run-ins with the law before, how do I know? One thing's for sure, though. He's a screwball."
"Or a mighty shrewd guy," Byrnes said.
"How do you figure that? What brains does it take to pull a trigger?"
"It doesn't take any brains," Byrnes said. "Unless you get away with it."
"He won't," Frick answered. He sighed expansively. He was tired. He was getting old. Even his hair was white. Old men shouldn't have to solve mysteries in hot weather. "Hot, ain't it?" Frick said. "Yes indeed," Byrnes replied.
"You heading for home now?"
"Yes."
"Good for you. I'll be taking off in a little while, too. Some of the boys are out on an attempted suicide, though. Want to find out how it turns out. Some dame on the roof, supposed to be ready to jump." Frick shook his head. "Screwballs, huh?"
"Yeah," Byrnes said.
"Sent my wife and kids away to the mountains," Frick said. "Damn glad I did. This heat ain't fit for man nor beast."
"No, it's not," Byrnes agreed.
The phone on Prick's desk rang. Frick picked it up.
"Captain Frick," he said. "What? Oh. Okay, fine. Right." He replaced the receiver. "Not a suicide at all," he said to Byrnes. "The dame was just drying her hair, had it sort of hanging over the edge of the roof. Screwball, huh?"
"Yes. Well, I'm taking off."
"Better keep your gun handy. Might get you next"
"Who?" Byrnes asked, heading for the door.
"Him."
"Huh?"
"The screwball."
Roger Havilland was a bull.
Even the other bulls called him a bull. A real bull. He was a "bull" as differentiated from a "bull" which was a detective. Havilland was built like a bull, and he ate like a bull, and he screwed like a bull, and he even snorted like a bull. There were no two ways about it. He was a real bull.
He was also not a very nice guy.
There was a time when Havilland was a nice guy, but everyone had forgotten that time, including Havilland. There was a time when Havilland could talk to a prisoner for hours on end without once having to use his hands. There was a time when Havilland did not bellow every other syllable to leave his mouth. Havilland had once been a gentle cop.