In the next fifteen minutes a lot of people walked in and out, many passing her table, but nobody stopped, looked interested, or looked remotely like a lunatic.
Miss Turner began to feel terribly nervous. Suppose he didn’t show up, suppose the chief was right and he was really suspicious — that moment was peering through the window getting an idea, even with the veil, of what she looked like, and followed her home and in some dark, terrible place, out of a bush, say, would come leaping like a wild animal? Inside the veiling, Miss Turner’s face became a running hotness, and in that moment it happened: unmistakably a man was approaching. He was coming straight down the aisle from the front entrance, heading toward her table. Maybe he’d go by, maybe he wouldn’t. Miss Turner fell into a panic. He was short and squat, in a rough tweed overcoat, with a battered brown hat over his face and looked like anybody else middle-aged; you wouldn’t look at him twice in a shooting gallery.
Miss Turner’s heart pounded; she couldn't help edging backward in her chair. But she noticed with relief out of one corner of her eye that while the four detectives were still draped over their tables as before, their legs had come out from under the chairs and tables, ready to go.
Maybe, after all, the man would go on past.
“Oh, God,” Miss Turner said audibly inside her veil. He wasn’t going to pass. He came up to the table and lifted his hat. His face was pasty, and jowly, he had twinkly egg-blue eyes, and the head was balder than Chief Harrington’s — with a fringe of dirty-brown grey hair. “You Phoebe?” The voice was unmistakable — the same coarse, laughing, illiterate quality — only now it was, to her surprise, quite embarrassed, even breathless.
Miss Turner’s voice was at least five notes higher than usual. She didn’t recognize it. “Yes. How do you do? Won’t you sit down?”
“Pleasure.” The man pulled out a chair and sat down. He was smiling politely, trying to penetrate the veil. After a moment, his assurance returned. “Whenever you want, you can take off the coverin’, baby. I’d like to see what you look like.”
Miss Turner thought it was the highlight of the whole affair. She was able to titter. “Sure. Why not? Be right back from the lady’s room.” And off she hopped. In that moment, without hurry or excitement, the four detectives simultaneously were up and around the man.
“What’s this?” the man said, grinning. He didn’t offer the least resistance. But there was no answer. The detectives hustled him over to the plain black police car outside, and most of the diners didn’t notice a thing, didn’t even know an arrest was taking place. There was nothing to show for it, just a group of ordinary looking men walking out, peculiarly huddled, almost in step.
This was the man, all right. It was a splendid, even brilliant catch. But he was a complete fraud. An hour later that evening Chief Harrington phoned Miss Turner to tell her the news. He was a man named Pete Jones, a night watchman at a downtown office building — hence the night calls, except Saturday, his night off. He was a churchman, married, with three kids, had never been in trouble before, and was perfectly willing, in fact quite eager, to admit he was the one who’d been calling her. The only thing, Chief Harrington said, Jones claimed the whole thing had been a joke.
“A joke?” Miss Turner said, stunned.
“Yes. He says he was doing somebody a favor.”
“A favor?”
“That’s right.”
Miss Turner felt sudden panic. “You mean there’s still another lunatic at large who was in on it?”
The Chief smiled. “Don’t get flustered, Miss Turner. Not quite. He claims somebody asked him to do it as a joke on you. Says it was one of your friends or associates. Says they gave him your telephone number, told him you were hot stuff, and said he should go ahead and give you the works, pull no punches over the telephone.”
Miss Turner was incredulous. “But why?”
“So they could tease you about it afterward. All they told him was to ask for Phoebe. Says he doesn’t have the slightest idea who he’s been talking to.”
“Who’s this 'friend or associate’?” Miss Turner didn’t try to hide her skepticism.
“He won't say.”
“He won’t?”
“No.”
“Well, why not make him?”
“I tried,” the Chief said. “He won’t talk. On that score says nobody can make him talk. He doesn’t want to get anybody in dutch.”
Miss Turner thought it over and laughed. “Well, that’s the best I’ve heard yet. I don’t believe a word of it. It’s ridiculous. He wasn’t just spoofing. Not the way he talked over the phone. What about the way he demanded a date? What about the date he fixed for tonight?”
The Chief laughed helplessly. “Well,” he said, “since this particular party told him you were so gorgeous, and terrific, a raving beauty, and willing, it would appear, he thought while he was about it he’d just go ahead on his own and see how far he could get. That was his own idea. He admits it. It wasn’t part of the agreement.”
“Well, so far as I’m concerned,” Miss Turner said bitterly, “that’s enough for prosecution. But I suppose the way all of you are taking it, as a joke, that ends the case right there.”
The Chief became businesslike again. “No,” he said. Miss Turner could tell he was swiveling the cigar around in his mouth. “We’ve decided, even if his story is true, we’re going to teach him a lesson he won’t forget. We’re going to ask for a stiff thirty day sentence plus a fine. You come down here quick as you can for the hearing.”
“Me?”
“In view of his claiming it was a joke, we’ll need you, after all, to swear out the warrant and identify him, to put the thing on ice.”
“I thought my helping to trap him in the cafeteria was enough.”
“Well, I’ve told you; it isn’t.” The Chief sounded as though he were getting a little tired, or anxious to get this silly business over with so he could go home. The hour was late.
“Oh, I wish you didn’t need me,” Miss Turner said.
“Why not?”
“I feel terribly flustery; I’m scared to death.”
“Why?”
“When that awful man gets to know what I look like he’ll come back after his thirty days and try to do me or my mother some harm.”
She sounded just like someone looking under the bed, and this time the chief really laughed. “Take my word for it, Miss Turner. I can appreciate your concern, but this man is just a dope, perfectly harmless. He’s sitting in there blubbering like a baby right now. He’s so ashamed he wants to go find a hole and get lost. He’ll eat right out of your hand.”
“Oh, please, don’t ask me,” Miss Turner persisted.
“Now, look,” the Chief said. He was getting really annoyed. There was no mistaking the authority.
“Well, all right,” Miss Turner said. “I still can’t believe it, not the way he talked, but I’ll be right down. If I must I must. How long will it take? Will I be able to just pop in and out?”
“Of course,” the Chief said. “Not more than a minute or two. All you have to do is say he’s the man. You won’t even have to take off your hat and coat.”
Thirty minutes later Miss Turner got off the bus and went inside the stone building and the sergeant directed her to the entrance where the police magistrate for that month was presiding over night court.
The magistrate was up on the bench looking over the police report. Off to one side, in the press box, the Chief was chewing on his cigar and watching a cluster of night-duty boys matching pennies. The man, Pete Jones, was seated directly in front of the desk, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe it. He was red-eyed, and so completely crushed that Miss Turner had to look twice. She remembered with amazement the self-possessed calmness of his voice on the telephone.