“You again,” he snarled. “What is it thistime? I’ve given you a description of the killer. Why haven’t youcaught him?”
“You were at Madame LaFrance’s again thenight before last, the night Mr. Whitemarsh was murdered.”
“Damn shame that. You’re not accusing me ofkilling my own friend?”
“We believe the killer mistook him for awoman. It was dark and the mistake is quite understandable.”
“But I saw the man in woman’s clothing in thebrothel. I knew, didn’t I?”
Pugh was making a valid point.
“But you left Madame’s right after Idid.”
“And walked directly west, as I always do,not south — like Simon.”
“And Mr. Clough?”
“He turned east, as usual.”
“So you saw or heard nothing?”
“How many times must I repeat myself?”
“Thanks fer yer help, sir.”
Cobb found his own way out, avoidingSmithers.
At Gardiner Clough’s Cobb got the same frostyreception, and the same response. Nobody saw or heard anything.
***
“So,” Cyril Bagshaw said to Cobb, “you’ve finallyeliminated two of the town’s finest gentlemen?”
“Not really, sir. They had means andopportunity for all three killin’s. A knife is an easily concealedweapon.”
“But you have no motive, man. Where is yourbrain, in your truncheon?”
“Our killer is crazy in the head, sir. Lookat what we’ve got so far. Three victims, all blond young women ormistaken fer such. The killer has it in fer blondes. Perhaps ablond lover jilted him or he hated his blond mother. Somethingtriggers his madness for the murders are two or three nights apart.When the sickness comes on, I figure it comes real sudden and can’tbe helped. He goes huntin’ fer blond women, and as soon as he seesone, he cuts her throat and skedaddles. He’s dressed like agentleman, with a greatcoat, a fur hat, and proper boots, so nobodywill take a second look at him in Devil’s Acre, where gentlemen areforever comin’ and goin’. So far he’s lucky not to have been seen.He heads straight out of the place as soon as the murder’s done,back to his home — with nobody the wiser. You see, Pugh or Cloughcould look normal to you and me, and suddenly the urge to killtakes over and they go stark mad. Afterwards they go back to bein’themselves. And don’t forget, they did drop a glove and ascarf.”
“But you haven’t been able to trace those toMr. Pugh or Mr. Clough.”
“Not yet.”
“You’ve got a fanciful theory, Cobb, but noreal evidence and two unlikely suspects. I’d say you’ve come to adead end.”
“He’ll kill again. I know he will.”
Bagshaw gave Cobb a sardonic grin. “And we’llcatch him, won’t we. On patrol!”
***
The following night Cobb had been on patrol for onlyan hour or so, but he was already cold. With a fourth constable,Brown, on duty each man’s patrol was even more confined and moreboring. If they did come across another murder, there would be nobootprints to follow because every alley was trampled flat bypoliceman’s boots, and there was no fresh snow this evening. Still,what were the odds, with four constables in the area? Although thiswas, Cobb recalled, the third night following the murder of SimonWhitemarsh.
Then, when he was almost completely numbedand thinking about Madame LaFrance’s fire, a shadow flitted pastthe end of the alley he was in. A dark figure, moving quickly.Cobb’s heart skipped a beat as he strode forward. Just as hereached the corner, he heard someone cry out, a female cry. Heraced around the corner and there in the next alley lay a crumpledfigure. Cobb looked ahead of it, but could see nothing. Tornbetween stopping to check on the victim (who he felt was dead ordying) and pursuit, he chose the latter, hurrying to the end of thealley and looking both ways at the T-junction. Nothing. He lookedfor tracks but found only the maze of his previous bootprints, thesnow scuffed and hopelessly trampled. He blew on his whistle, andsped back towards the victim, filled with dread.
The girl was beginning to rise from theground. She was clutching her neck. She was pretty and veryblond.
“He tried to — kill me,” she gasped. “He hada knife.”
Cobb breathed a sigh of relief. He had comerunning just in time, not to catch the killer but to scare him off.Perhaps the fellow would run into one of the other constables. Cobbblew his whistle again.
“What were you doing in Devil’s Acre?” hesaid to the girl
Weeping, she said, “I was taking a shortcutto my cousin’s. I–I got lost.”
“Well, you’re all right now, miss. I’ll takeyou to your cousin’s.”
“I’d like to go home.”
“Where is that?”
“Birch Grove.”
“What’s yer name, miss?”
“Christine. Christine Pettigrew.”
EIGHT
Marc hired a one-horse cutter and drove out theHospital Road looking for Bernie’s dive. He went by it the firsttime, as it was a mere half-log hut tucked into a cedar grove somethirty yards off the main road. It was four o’clock in theafternoon, and Marc hoped to catch the proprietor alone to questionhim about the events of the night of the murder. It was not to be,however. When Marc stepped into the smoky interior, he found itcrowded with customers. Several men — farmers obviously — wereslouched over a makeshift plank bar, sipping cups of whiskey thathad been dipped out of a large barrel nearby. In one corner fourmen huddled over a stump table on which they tossed a pair of dice.In another three men were sitting on stools, cup in hand, andstaring through the smoke-haze with malevolent eyes. Behind thebar, in a filthy apron, stood the tall, angular man who must havebeen Bernie, the proprietor.
All talk ceased the moment Marc’s presencewas noted, and all eyes followed him as he went over to the bar andsaid to the barkeeper, “Are you Bernie?”
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Marc Edwards. I have been askedby the magistrate to look into the death of Earl Dunham, who wasbludgeoned to death last night out at the hospital.”
Marc was not exaggerating about his officialstatus: over the lunch hour Robert had gotten permission fromMagistrate Wilson for Marc to investigate the crime.
“We heard about the murder,” the barkeepersaid.
“And you are Bernie?”
“I am. And this is my establishment.”
“I need to ask you about what took place herelast night.” Marc felt the rest of the room listening, even thoughthe other customers had resumed their activities.
“Just the usual night in here.”
“Two workmen, Greg Mason and Marvin Leroywere in here last night, were they not?”
“They’re regulars. After work, every day.Stay till midnight or so.”
“Was it midnight when they left lastnight?”
“Well, I don’t keep track of time in here,but I guess that would be about right.”
“And they left together?”
Bernie looked surprised. “Why, no, as amatter of fact they didn’t.”
“They left separately?”
“That’s what I’m sayin’. Manson left first,I’m sure. Leroy was caught up in a dice game and didn’t want toleave while he was winnin’. Manson cursed him and left.”
So, Marc thought, both Manson and Leroy hadlied to him in saying they had left together. To cover for oneanother. Unless their landlords gave them an alibi, they were bothloose and apart with time to go back to the hospital building andclub Denham to death.
“A Frenchman, Jacques LeMieux was also inhere last night. Did you hear him making any threats?”
“I know the fella. But he was cursingsomebody in French. I paid no heed to it.”
“Thank you, Bernie. You’ve been a bighelp.”
“Would you like a drink?”
“Not today, thank you.”
“Too good fer us, eh?”
This latter remark came from a heavy-setfellow with a permanent scowl on his flushed face, exaggerated bytwo broken front teeth. He had left the dicers and come up besideMarc at the bar. The other bar-flies immediately pulled back intothe shadows.
“Now, Joe, take it easy,” Bernie saidevenly.