Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 6, June, 1953

“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?

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.