She quickened her steps. It quickened in turn. Then, though her impulse was to run, she forced herself to slacken, to come almost to a halt. The tempo of steps behind her slowed up. It did whatever she did. It was stalking her. She was its quarry.
She could have escaped. Not on foot, perhaps. But there was the subway into which it would probably not follow her. There were taxis. But she didn’t want to escape. She wasn’t trying to save her own skin. If she had wanted to, she wouldn’t have been out alone on the streets.
She purposely tried to maneuver it into revealing itself, this anonymous tread that had no body. The dim-out regulations, even now that the lights were on again, didn’t give her many opportunities. But she tried to use the few that existed. Store windows, which would have suited her purpose best of all, were all rigidly dark now that it was late. There remained only the street lights and an occasional building entrance. It skirted both types alike with satanic dexterity — sidled around the dark outside of the lights whenever she hoped to see it pass directly under them. The most she could ever see was an anonymous black outline gliding by just beyond the range of the light.
He — if it were he — was smart. While she was still alive, she wouldn’t see him. Only when she was about to die would she see him. Then it would be too late. Terry had said, “Only the dead see him, and they can’t tell about it afterward.”
She had the courage to keep moving slowly ahead of him, but not enough courage to stand still, waiting for him to come up to her. She had to keep on walking — hoping that he would try soon.
He might be uncertain yet that she was the fever-image he took her to be. That might be the reason for the long delay in striking. She tried to egg him on, to convince him. When she came to a place where there was slightly better light, she stopped and held herself under it, almost posing, turning this way and that as if uncertain of her direction. Even from a distance her height, her black hair and all the other details must have stood out conspicuously.
The death-tread had stopped when she did, waiting for her to go on. He was watching. Her skin crept, remembering those others. She glanced up at the street sign for a touch of security. Then she went on again. Certainly he would strike now that he had seen her under the light and had noticed how much she looked like that first one.
She saw that she’d been right. Almost at once the tread was faster. It was closing in now. Closing in for the kill. Her heart started to pound. It was hard to make her feet maintain their former pace, to keep from running. She pressed her fingers through the soft leather of her handbag to feel the reassuring shape of the small gun. That had a steadying effect.
He was trying to catch up quietly now. His feet were a whisper on the pavement. He was coming closer every minute.
She’d better get the gun out, or at least have it ready.
About twenty yards now. Maybe even less. There was a dark stretch immediately behind her that she’d just passed through. If she turned now, close as he was, she still wouldn’t be able to recognize him. There was another light coming, up ahead. If he only waited until she could reach that.
Without any warning there was a slurring sound directly beside her and the white top of a police patrol car swam up to the curb.
One of the men in it called out, “Are you in trouble, miss? You seem to be walking kind of funny.”
There was no sound of retreat from back there. The footsteps had simply melted away into nothingness, vanishing from the face of the earth as if they had never existed. He was gone already beyond recall. It was no good telling them, they’d never get him. And even if they got someone, they could only hold him as a suspicious character. They could never prove what he’d been about to do. You can’t convict on intention alone.
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” she flared. “If I wanted police protection, I would have called for it!”
There was a shocked pause. Then the car glided on without another word from its occupants.
After a while she turned and started back along the way she had just come.
She wasn’t in any danger now, she knew. She wouldn’t meet him again even if she walked the rest of the night looking for him. He was too smart.
She came back to the preceding light — the one before which it had so nearly happened. She stopped short. There was something under her foot. She moved back a step and looked down. A white flower lay where it had been dropped a moment before.
This time it was she who had the doleful face when she walked into the Greek’s. She slumped down beside him without saying hello. She held her head pillowed against her hand as she handed him the newspaper she’d been carrying tucked under her arm. It was folded carefully.
“What’s the matter? More about the Rose Killer?” he asked.
“Not this time. Read the gossip column.”
The third item down said: “What daughter of a socially prominent family is that way about a detective and waits for him outside the station house in her limousine every might, private chauffeur and all? Mama says no, not until he gets his man.”
She laughed bitterly. “When did I ever wait for you outside the station house with a limousine or without it?”
“This is just around the corner. I suppose that’s what he means.” He smiled bleakly.
“They held a big family war-council over me just now. Feathered headdresses and everything. I was asked to give my word I wouldn’t see you any more. I refused, of course. So I’m to be exiled. Our summer place out on Long Island, all by myself, with just an old-lady caretaker who lives out there.”
“Maybe they’re right. Why don’t you listen to them?” he suggested.
“Are you on their side too?” she asked scornfully.
“No, I’m on ours,” he said quietly. “When are you leaving?”
“Right away. Edwards is driving me out in the car. I just slipped out to let you know.” She handed him a slip of paper. “This is where I’ll be, in. case you want to reach me. Here’s the address and the phone number. Don’t lose it. But I’ll be in again. They can’t stop me. There are trains and buses. I’ll meet you here in the Greek’s every time it’s your night off, just as we’ve been doing right along. Look for me.”
“That’s a date,” he said. “I’ll be waiting.”
“I’ve got to get back now, before they miss me and get my scalp.” The last thing she said was, “We’ll get the Rose Killer, Terry, and you’ll have your promotion. Then I’m marrying you whether they like it or not, and they can whistle.”
He thought that “we” was just a slip of the tongue. She’d meant to say “you,” of course.
He sat there looking after her. She was a great girl, he thought.
She kept watching him through the glass while she dialed the numbers with one finger. Sitting at the little table, his back was to her. He couldn’t watch her phoning.
This time she was sure of it. This time there would be no mistake as in the first time, and no slip-up as in the second. While the slots of the dial whirred around, she recapitulated the results of a whole evening of research.
He was English, and freely admitted it. That was nothing in itself. But he’d incautiously given her the date of his arrival, and that was something. May fifteenth last. The first of the white rose killings had taken place on the seventh of June. She had the exact date from Terry. In other words, those killings had begun exactly three weeks after the time of his arrival. But there was something even more incriminating than that. From Tom she’d obtained a calendar of past blackouts, giving the dates on which they’d occurred throughout the year. The one on the seventh of June, which was the one coinciding with the first murder, was also the first one to have occurred following his arrival. His arrival and the murders and the blackouts were all in perfect synchronization.