“Darling—” She said, “Tiger—” She said, searching for his mouth with her open lips, her eyes closing.
“Don’t ever talk about her,” he murmured, kissing her, “Will you—”
They kissed a long time, she sighed, she murmured and moaned, softly, she caressed his neck, his face, she held close to him.
She felt his arms about her, now one of his hands was straying under her sweater, her blouse, and upward. She felt his hand on her breasts, her brief bra pulled away from them. He fondled them, marvelously, stroking their firm tips. . . .
She came up for air, finally. “Let me help you,” she murmured to him, “Will you let me” she told him. . . .
He murmured, “I want you to—”
20
At home in his little den, Captain Surcher was having a very interesting, though so far unfruitful, time with the late head Cheerleader’s ample package of letters. She certainly was an avid correspondent, if the letters she had received were anything to go by. They came from points far and wide, including Morocco, no less. There was actually a letter from some individual in Morocco, yes. And how had she ever met him? A pen pal? Purely? Out of her early girlhood? Surcher felt a fond surge, thinking of his own twelve-year-old, who had pen pals, gleaned out of
some kid’s magazine or other, all over the globe. This
particular letter was in French, actually, and in an almost indecipherable hand, to boot, and so of course meant
absolutely nothing to him. Or next to. He looked at the
“Psychopath, Miss Smith. That would be the correct appellation.”
“Well, whatever. I’m glad those State Policemen are all around the building anyway. I never thought I’d be one to be grateful for their presence! Let me tell you."
“There you are—” Tiger said, “A place for everyone, in life—Didn’t Plato say that?”
“Sounds more like the Founding Fathers—” Betty Smith said, with her soft laugh.
“Any particular one?” Tiger asked.
“I wonder—”
“Those Founding Fathers—” Tiger murmured, chuckling also.
Betty Smith crossed her legs. Tiger noticed. She pulled again on her cigarette. Tiger noted. The sweater was a pale, pale blue. Gorgeous. Without a doubt, a gorgeous one. He couldn’t help admiring it. He dragged on his cigarette, inhaling almost.
“How are you?” Tiger asked, in his friendly way.
“Very, very upset about this whole thing,” she confided.
Tiger nodded, “And so am I. Believe me. It’s a hell of a thing. What a thing.” He was gazing at her. “A real piperoo of a thing, a hell of a screwy thing, if ever there was one,” he added, quietly. “How was she in Lit?” He asked her.
“Well—” Miss Smith replied, “I couldn’t honestly say she was outstanding—however, she certainly took an interest in it—”
Tiger nodded, “She was very good in Languages, and Social Studies, that I know,” He told her, still looking at her, “I’m going to miss that kid. No kidding.”
“Her poor parents!”
“What a thing.”
“I’m impressed with this State Police Captain—what’s his name?”
“Surcher—”
“I’m certainly glad he’s handling it. I was afraid our— esteemed Chief of Police—”
Tiger nodded, grinning.
Miss Smith continued, “It’s an awful feeling, Tiger, in front of a class now—wondering if this—psychopath—is sitting there, in front of you, laughing at you, inside himself. It's not going to be the same around here for a long while—certainly, not until they’ve found the creature—”
and I’m sold on you. How about it? Coming through soon? When? You peachy honey. You’re the top of the charts! All the charts! You know it. What’s up? Hup? You don’t like my color? See you in class, lass. So long for now—honey. . . .
—Kid
Surcher was riveted. His head was spinning. His eyes came to life again, he could see perfectly. Could it be true? He poured over the letter again, ecstatically, almost Was it really true? It was one of those rare, rare occasions which set his heart pounding, his temperature rising. Pure Gold. Discovery.
“Ding dong!” he said out loud, clapping the desk with his hand. “Diggidy dong!” He also said, slightly rephrasing it
So long . . . Honey . . .
His eyes nearly burned a hole through it. He didn’t know quite what to do with it. He had of course been very careful handling all the letters, tfot wishing of course to smudge up or otherwise mess up any and all possible fingerprints. In fact he wore gloves. A thin, white pair, specially made for the job. Now he handled the letter as if it were the world’s most fragile, priceless piece of glassware. He hardly dared breathe on it.
“Son of a pup,” he murmured, two or three times aloud, from a high, billowing cloud.
Now, the next move. What a move. Who best to get hold of? Who, up there at that school, would help him most? Who had the best, the most intimate knowledge of all the kids in the school? It might be a good idea to get hold of the three young maids he had interrogated, so to speak, earlier today, they might well be able to illuminate things, right away, or—McDrewJ That sharp fellow would probably be his best bet. On the other hand, Surcher’s mind clicked, why not just interrogate the twelve or thirteen Negro kids in the school? And tell nobody a thing! That might just be the way. Certainly, Kid was among them— unless he came from another school. And if he was among them—
That was the course the Captain decided on. It was, in his studied view, far and away the best. Now he had two choices before him on how to go about this. (1) Have all the Negro kids picked up tonight and start working on them, or, (2) Hold everything until tomorrow morning, when he arrived bright and early at the school. His first impulse leaned toward alternative (1), but on reflection, in spite of the risks, the circumstances, he considered (2) would be the best way to tackle the problem. Certainly it would mean he would be getting very little sleep tonight, itching as he was for action, and worried about the culprit taking off or even pulling a carbon copy. For he was capable of it. Surcher was quite convinced the criminal, however young he might be, was certainly capable of it. Nevertheless, he decided on that course, he would just have to risk it. And he hoped to God he wouldn’t regret it—later.
He still held the letter, very carefully, one might say exquisitely, in his gloved fingers. He read it over and over again, six times at least, and finally put it down all on its own, on his desk, so very carefully. He would carry out tests for prints himself—later.
Meantime, there were still some half dozen letters to investigate, and though he didn’t have much heart for them, Surcher knew he had a duty to them, and he got to them, however reluctantly. He knew, or was almost sure, it would be all anticlimax now.
The first one was from a girl friend, obviously. He noted the feminine paper and handwriting, the slight trace of fragrance, perfume, powder, or similar item. It came from New Jersey.
—Jill Honey—
Surcher halted, jogged by it! Then he smiled. He had after all run across this sort of opening on a few other letters, mostly from girl friends or female relations, far and near. All perfectly innocent, innocuous, to a fault, in fact. He kept on smiling, and read on:
—And how’s everything with you, lovely? Still cheering on that fab, that mad, Sawyersville club? Are they a club! Listen, hon, next time you come over to see me, next summer will it be, I want you to tell me all about them. I mean: How do they do it? (Oh, I know you’ll be graduated by then!) Is it Tiger? (Don’t tell, but I go for that throbber!) (Oh Harbor!) Seriously, though, what fun is it to be Captain of the Cheer Leaders at a school like mine? Oh Gee! Do you know how many times, no, how many games (pardon me) we’ve won in the past two years? I won’t tell you! Listen, nobody goes to the games anymore. Know that? It’s heartbreaking! I tell you! What’s the news? Any news? How’s the love life? (You’ll make a fine wife!) I’m a poet! Listen, Jilly, who was your favorite, really, at Asbury? I mean, every time I saw you on the beach I wondered who it would be—today, that is. That day, I mean. See what I mean? (English was never my strong point!) Did I tell you I just about made the grade? I prayed. Old man Bane. Oh what a pain! Ha Ha! Am 1 funny? Be a bunny: I’m on the hop —blame me? And which was your favorite group? I mean the dances on the jetty, the dance hall there, that is! I mean that one. Well, I liked The Giggles. Oh, they were great! Great! I thought honestly I would find them all kid stuff, but I was in the mood, and the rhythm is just terrific anyway—isn’t it? And . . .