At 4.15 p.m. a squad car was called back to the precinct. Copies of the picture were dumped into the car, and then distributed to every motorized and foot patrolman in the precinct. Copies were delivered to the neighbouring 88th and 89th precincts, too. The immediate area adjacent to the precinct, starting with Grover Avenue and going into Grover Park, was flooded with detectives from the 88th and the 89th (which precincts handled the actual park territory), in the event the suspect might return in search of his binoculars. It was a big city, and a big, teeming precinct—but the precinct was fortunately smaller than the city.
Hawes, stopping at every store, stopping at every tenement, talking to shop owners and superintendents, talking to the kids in the streets, who were sometimes the shrewdest observers around, did not connect until he reached Twelfth Street.
It was late afternoon by this time, but the streets had not cooled down at all. Hawes was still hot, and he was beginning to feel the first disgruntled disappointment of defeat. How the hell would they ever stop this guy? How the hell would they ever find him? Dispiritedly he began working his way up the street, showing the picture. No, they did not know the man. No, they did not recognize him. Was he from the neighbourhood?
At the fifth tenement from the corner, he showed the picture to a landlady in a flowered cotton house dress.
'No,' she said instantly. 'I never—' And then she stopped. She took the picture from Hawes's hands. 'Yeah, that's him,' she said. 'That's the way he looked this morning. I saw him when he was coming down. That's the way he looked.'
'Who?' Hawes said. He could feel the sudden surge of energy within him as he waited for her answer.
'Smith,' she said. 'John Smith. A weird duck. He had this—'
'What apartment?' Hawes said.
'Twenty-two. That's on the second floor. He moved in about two weeks ago. Had this—'
But Hawes was already moving into the building, his gun drawn. He did not know that his conversation with the landlady had been viewed from a second-floor window. He did not know that his red hair had instantly identified him to his observer. He did not know until he was almost on the second-floor landing, and then he knew instantly.
The explosion thundered in the small, narrow corridor. Hawes fell to the floor at once, almost losing his footing on the top step, almost hurtling backward down the stairwell. He fired a shot into the dimness, not seeing anything, but wanting John Smith to know he was armed.
'Get out of here, cop!' the voice shouted.
'Throw your gun down here,' Hawes said. 'There are four cops with me downstairs. You haven't got a chance.'
'You're a liar,' the man shouted. 'I saw you when you got here. You came alone. I saw you from the window.'
Another shot exploded into the hallway. Hawes ducked below the top step. The bullet ripped plaster from the already chipped plaster on the wall. He squinted his eyes, trying to see into the dimness, cursing his position. Wherever Smith was, he could see Hawes without in turn being seen. Hawes could not move from his uncomfortable position on the steps. But perhaps Smith couldn't move, either. Perhaps if he left wherever he was, he would be seen. Hawes waited.
The hall went utterly still.
'Smith?' he called.
A fusillade of shots answered him, angry shots that whined across the hallway and ripped at the plaster. Chalk cascaded onto Hawes's head. He clung to the steps, cursing tenement hallways and would-be killers. From the street below, he could hear excited yells and screams, and then the repeated, shouted word 'Police! Police! Police! Police!'
'Do you hear that, Smith?' he shouted. 'They're calling the cops. The whole damn precinct'll be here in three minutes. Throw your gun down.'
Smith fired again. The shot was lower. It ripped a splinter of wood from the landing near the top step. Hawes reared back and then instantly ducked. He heard a clicking at the other end of the hallway. Smith was reloading. He was about to sprint down the corridor when he heard a clip being slammed into the butt of an automatic. Quickly he ducked down behind the top step again.
The hallway was silent again.
'Smith?'
There was no answer.
'Smith?'
From the street below, Hawes heard the high whine of a police siren.
'You hear that, Smith? They're here. They'll be—'
Three shots exploded into the hallway. Hawes ducked and then heard a man scuffling to his feet, caught a glimpse of a trouser leg as Smith started up the stairway. Hawes bounded into the hallway, triggering a shot at the retreating figure. Smith turned and fired, and Hawes dropped to the floor again. The footsteps were clattering up the steps now, noisily, excitedly, hurriedly. Hawes got to his feet, ran for the steps, charged up them two at a time. Another shot spun into the hallway. He did not duck this time. He kept charging up the steps, wanting to reach Smith before he got to the roof. He heard the roof door being tried, heard Smith pounding on it, and then heard a shot and the spanging reverberation of metal exploding. The roof door creaked open and then slammed shut. Smith was already on the roof.
Hawes rushed up the remaining steps. A skylight threw bright sunshine on the landing inside the roof door. He opened the door, and then closed it again rapidly when a bullet ripped into the jamb, splashing wood splinters onto his face.
Goddamn you! he thought. You goddamn son of a bitch, goddamn you!
He threw open the door, fired a blind fusillade of shots across the roof, and then followed his own cover out on to the melting tar. He saw a figure dart behind one of the chimney pots and then rush for the parapet at the roof's edge. He fired. His shot was high. He was not shooting to warn or to wound now. He was shooting to kill. Smith rose for an instant, poised on the edge of the roof. Hawes fired, and Smith leaped the airshaft between the buildings, landing behind the parapet on the adjoining roof. Hawes started after him, his shoes sticking in the tar. He reached the edge of the roof. He hesitated just an instant, and then leaped the airshaft, landing on his hands and knees in the sticky tar.
Smith had already crossed the roof. He looked back, fired at Hawes, and then rushed for the ledge. Hawes levelled his revolver. Smith climbed onto the ledge, silhouetted against the painful blue of the sky, and Hawes steadied the revolver on his left arm, taking careful aim. He knew that if Smith got on to that next roof, if Smith maintained the lead he now had, he would get away. And so he took careful aim, knowing that this shot had to count, watching Smith as he raised his arms in preparation for his jump across the airshaft. He aimed for the section of trunk that presented the widest target. He did not want to miss.
Smith stood undecided on the ledge for a moment. His body filled the fixed sight on Hawes's gun.
Hawes squeezed the trigger.
There was a mild click, a click that sounded shockingly loud, a click that thundered in Hawes's surprised ears like a cannon explosion.
Smith leaped the airshaft.
Hawes got to his feet, cursing his empty pistol, reloading as he ran across the roof to the airshaft. He looked across it to the next roof. Smith was nowhere in sight. Smith was gone.
Swearing all the way, he headed back for Smith's apartment. There had been no tune to reload until it was too late, and once it's too late, there's nothing to be done about it. Walking with his head down, he crossed the sticky tar.
Two shots rang out into the stillness of the summer rooftops, and Hawes hit the tar again. He looked up. A uniformed cop was standing on the edge of the opposite roof ahead, taking careful aim.
'Hold your fire, you dumb bastard!' Hawes yelled. 'I'm on your side.'
'Throw your gun away,' the cop yelled back.