"Did you see where they went? To the elevators?"
"I din see. I went to the bar with the money and checks. When I come back, they was gone. My tips was on the table. Also, they took their glasses with them."
"Wasn't that unusual?"
"Nah. People staying here at the hotel, they don't finish a drink, they take it down to their rooms with them. The maids find the glasses and return them up here. No one loses."
"So they left around midnight?"
"Right to the minute."
Sergeant Boone looked at Delaney. "Chief?" he asked.
"Tony," Delaney said, "this woman-can you tell us more about her?"
"Like what?"
"Can you guess what she weighed?"
"Skinny. Couldn't have been more than one-twenty. Probably less."
"What about her voice?"
"Nothing special. Low. Polite."
"Her posture?"
"I din notice. Sorry."
"You're doing fine. You didn't happen to notice if she was wearing a gold bracelet, did you?"
"I don't remember seeing no gold bracelet."
"You said she was plain looking?"
"Yeah. A kind of a long face."
"If you had to guess what kind of work she does, what would you guess?"
"A secretary maybe. Like that."
"Did she touch the young guy?"
"Touch him?"
"His cheek. Stroke his hair. Put her hand on his arm. Anything like that?"
"You mean was she coming on? Nah, nothing like that."
"Did you ever see either of them before?"
"Never."
"Together or separately? Never been here before?"
"I never saw them."
"Did they act like they knew each other? Like old friends meeting by accident?"
"Nah. It was a pickup, pure and simple."
"When they left at midnight, would you say they were drunk?"
"No way. I could look up the bill, but I'd say he had three-four beers and she had three-four wines. But they wasn't drunk."
"Feeling no pain?"
"Not even that. Just relaxed and friendly. No trouble. When I told them we was closing, they din make no fuss."
"Do you remember the color of the woman's eyes?"
"I din see."
"Guess."
"Brown."
"Did you think they were guests here at the hotel?"
"Who knows? They come and go. Also, we get a lot of outsiders stop by for a drink. Off the street, y'unnerstan."
"Was the woman wearing perfume?"
"Don't remember any if she was."
"Anything at all you recall about her? Anything we haven't asked?"
"No, not really. She was nothing special, y'unnerstan. Just another woman."
"Uh-huh. Thank you, Tony. That's all I've got. Sergeant?"
"Thanks for your help, Tony," Boone said. "Detective Johnson will take you over to the station house and get a signed statement. Don't worry about getting docked; we'll make it right with your boss."
"Sure, I don't mind. You think this woman put him under?"
"Could be."
"She the Hotel Ripper?"
"Johnson," Boone said, gesturing, and the detective led Anthony Pizzi away.
"Good witness," Delaney said. "Those hooded eyes fooled me. He doesn't miss much. Hit him again in a day or so, sergeant. He'll be thinking about it, and maybe he'll remember more things."
"I suppose you blame me, Edward," Ivar Thorsen said.
"Blame you? For what?"
"She did what you said she'd do-left off the wig and bracelet, dressed plainly. After she read the newspaper stories."
Delaney shrugged. "Under the bridge and over the dam. Even if she had dressed up like a tart, I think she would have murdered LaBranche and walked away. Maybe it worked out for the best; now we got a firmer description of what she really looks like. Sergeant, don't forget to have Bentley take Anthony Pizzi to the police artist. Maybe they can refine that sketch."
"Do it today," Boone promised. "Anything else, Chief?"
"Nooo, not really."
"Something bothering you, Edward?"
"Up to now she's been so goddamned clever. Made sure she picked up her victims in a big, crowded place so no one would remember her. Made sure she wiped her prints clean. Now, all of a sudden, she meets the guy in a small place. Lets him pick her up in a way that people will recall. Stays late until they're the only two left. The waiter was sure to remember. Then carries her wineglass down to his room and leaves it there with prints all over it. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I can't understand it. It's just not like her."
"Maybe," Ivar Thorsen said slowly, "maybe she wants to be caught."
Delaney looked at him. "You think so? It's possible, but that's a fancy-schmancy explanation. Maybe the reason is simpler than that. Maybe she's just tired."
"Tired?"
"Weary. Fatigued. Can you imagine what the stress must be like? Picking up these strangers, any one of whom could be a sadistic killer himself. Then going up against them with a pocket knife. Killing them and destroying any evidence that would point to her. My God, the strain of doing all that, month after month."
"You think she's falling apart?" Boone asked.
"It makes sense, doesn't it? Especially when she reads the papers and realizes that little by little we're getting closer. I think the tension is beginning to get to her. She's not thinking straight anymore. She's forgetting things. The pressure is building up. Yes, sergeant, I think she's cracking."
"Is there anything more we could be doing?" Thorsen asked anxiously.
"Finish that sketch," Delaney said, "and get it out to all the newspapers and TV stations. Better put extra men on to handle the calls. Start immediately on individual interviews with every woman between the ages of, say, twenty-five and fifty, on the convention schedule access list. Get Johnson's men started on the physical examination of every tear gas container sold in New York."
"Right," Sergeant Boone said. "We'll put on the heat."
"You better," Delaney said drily. "We've only got another twenty-six days."
"I'm not sure I'll be around then," Deputy Commissioner Thorsen said.
They looked at him and realized he wasn't joking.
Delaney left the motor inn, pushed through the crowd on the street, and caught a cab going uptown on Tenth Avenue. He sat crossways on the back seat, stretching out his legs.
He thought of Thorsen's last comment. He reckoned the Admiral might weather this latest unsolved killing, but if there was another late in July, Thorsen would be tossed to the wolves and a new commander brought in.
It would be a hard, cruel thing to do, and would put an effective end to the Deputy's career in the NYPD. But Ivar knew the risk when he accepted the job of stopping the Hotel Ripper. Delaney could imagine the man's fury with this "plain looking, nothing special" woman whose fate was linked with his.
Monica met him in the hallway and put a hand on his arm. She had evidently heard the news on the radio, for she looked at him with shocked eyes.
"Another one?" she said.
He nodded.
"Edward," she said, almost angrily, "when is this going to stop?"
"Soon," he said. "I hope. We're getting there, but it's slow work. Ivar won't-"
"Edward," she interrupted, "Dr. Ho is waiting for you in the living room. I told him I didn't know when you'd be back, but he said he had to see you."
"All right," Delaney said, sighing. "I'll see what he wants now."
He hung his skimmer away in the hall closet, then opened the door to the living room.
The moment he appeared, Dr. Patrick Ho bounced to his feet. His eyes were burning with triumph. He waved a sheaf of yellow telegrams wildly.
"Addison's disease!" he shouted. "Addison's disease!"