“Saying those things right out?”
“Yes. Seems to get an awful sadistic pleasure out of it.”
The chief got down to business. He shook his head. “I don’t know what makes them tick. Nuts. We get them in spells, like clockwork.” He said there was only one way to go about it. If she could manage to wangle a date out of him and have him call for her at a certain spot, lonely or otherwise, his men could be waiting in plainclothes to pick up the nut. He leaned forward. “Do you think you could arrange it?”
“Well, he’s been asking for a date every time he’s called,” Miss Turner said.
“Think he really means it?”
“Of course he really means it.” Miss Turner appeared a trifle piqued.
The chief sat back. “Well, fine.” He put his palms together and thought a moment. “When he calls tonight make believe you’re falling for his stuff. Act a little flirtatious. When he asks for a date, tell him you’ve been thinking it over and maybe he’s not as bad as he sounds. You’ll meet him, let’s see, tomorrow night or any other night — let him set the night — and make it somewhere innocent where it won’t arouse his suspicion: Say at the last table in the Main Street Cafeteria. Our boys will be sitting around.” The chief was efficient and considerate: it was a fetish with him. “Don’t worry, Miss Turner. Our boys will see that nothing happens to you.” He grinned with conscious charm. “It’ll be as safe as a jaunt to Sunday School.”
Miss Turner got up and put on her gloves. She was sparkling. “Worry, Chief Harrington? Why, I’ve never felt better. This is an adventure.” She was flushing with pleasure, actually flirtatious. “What makes you think I go to Sunday School?”
The chief escorted her past the sergeant’s desk and when she went on alone she could distinctly hear behind her in the hollow city-hall corridor the murmur of their voices, climaxed by the sergeant’s surprised: “Her, chief?” It was genuine. Miss Turner was quite flattered. The tone was one of respect, even admiration.
The next few nights, Miss Turner put on, she thought, the act of her life. During her conversations with the man, her indignation transitioned subtly to charm and girlishness, and the man’s sly suggestive sexualities were answered more and more in measure. “Well, well,” the man said. “So I busted you down.” His voice was almost affectionate. “You won’t be sorry, baby. What night would you like to be lucky?”
Miss Turner thought the following evening would be a good time but the man said No, he wanted to rest up a few nights to be sure this would be the date of her life, something sometime she’d want to write a book about. “How about next Saturday night?”
“Where?” Miss Turner asked.
“How about in front of the bus station?”
“No,” Miss Turner said. That wouldn’t suit her. Too conspicuous. Somebody might spot her — one of her many boy friends.
“Well, where then?”
“How about inside the Main Street Cafeteria — my usual place, the last table from the entrance?” She’d be wearing a new pink hat with a veil — and a pink carnation over her heart.
“Heart?” He said the other word, a shorter one, and then gave her the wind-off laugh. Miss Turner, hanging up, clapped her hands. Everything had gone off just as the police chief had wished.
The following day she called on him at headquarters and told what had happened, and the chief wanted to know had the man seemed suspicious and Miss Turner said the man certainly hadn’t acted suspicious. Within the next few days came corroboration. The phone calls abruptly ceased. Apparently no need to call any more, mission accomplished. Chief Harrington pointed out, however, that it might also indicate the man had got wind of something and had decided to ditch the whole thing. But in that event, nothing lost. Miss Turner would be free of the nuisance which was, after all, the main idea.
“Most certainly is,” Miss Turner agreed heartily. Miss Turner didn’t know why; every time she spoke with the chief she felt like a woman of the world, calm and sophisticated. It was like coming out of her cocoon.
The chief made all the arrangements. Miss Turner would merely have to show up in the cafeteria at the proper time Saturday night. He would assign four detectives to the four adjacent tables and, to make doubly sure, he’d station men at both the front and rear exits.
The only question was, would the man show up?
“If he does,” the chief instructed her, “the crackpot will probably not make himself known until he’s convinced himself from a distance, probably through the front window or at another table as an innocent diner, that everything is okay. That means he’ll probably be later than you’ve arranged. If and when he does finally get up enough courage to come over to your table, you just greet him cordially, let him sit down — and that’s all we’ll heed. We’ll close in fast. It’ll be over in a minute.”
“What’ll I do then?” Miss Turner inquired, timidly. Miss Turner was wearing her brand-new hat, the pink job, and was so excited she could hardly sit still. For the past two weeks she’d been living at the outside limits of her endurance.
“Do? Why, get up and walk away. Fast. Go straight out the door and on home.”
“That’s all you’ll need me?”
“That’s all we’ll need you. The man’ll convict himself.” The chief grinned amiably. “You’re our finger girl, Miss Turner. In that new hat, you look real nice.”
How Miss Turner got through the next few days to Saturday she didn’t know. She couldn’t concentrate on her actuarial tables at the office, and at home she had sieges of dropping cups and breaking out into hot and cold perspiration.
Her mother was annoyed. “What are you going around like an idiot for?”
Miss Turner said, “I don’t know, mama.”
“You don’t know? Well, what bothers you?”
Miss Turner said she knew it was stupid — a really old maid idea — but she decided to tell it anyway. “Suppose Saturday night this maniac gets a good look at me, remembers what I look like, and later on recognizes me?”
“Recognizes you?”
“Yes. And after he’s served his sentence, suppose he comes back for revenge?”
“Huh,” Mrs. Turner said. “What a fool you are. You’re not only unattractive, Marie, but you also have as little sense as a rabbit. In the first place, he wouldn’t dare, what with the police on to him, and in the second place, we’ll see that he doesn't recognize you.”
“How?” Miss Turner wanted to know.
“We’ll just make that hat veil of yours so thick he can’t see through.”
That was what she herself had had in the back of her head for days now, Miss Turner confessed, but she had been afraid it might make her look too got-up. Saturday evening after a final briefing over the phone by the chief, she groomed herself carefully and went downtown so heavily veiled several people turned around to look. A few of her acquaintances passed and didn’t recognize her. In the veil, new hat and pink carnation pinned to her breast Miss Turner felt fairly safe.
She entered the cafeteria, got herself a cup of coffee on a tray and proceeded to the last table, which usually was empty because so many people passed by. The place was well filled. If she hadn’t known, she would never have recognized the four occupants of the adjoining tables as detectives. They were eating supper off a tray and didn’t glance at her once; and, after a while, she realized she’d been staring and decided she’d better stop it. Instead she played with the spoon and coffee. It was just 6:30, the hour set for the date. She stopped stirring.
Miss Turner shivered. If the man came in, how would he act? Would he be violent, would he put up a fight? Would they have to hit him, or handcuff him?