Ed McBain - Lady Killer

'That's pretty good,' one of them said, never having seen the suspect in question.

The floor was covered with sheets of rumpled tracing paper now. Still Hawes and Frankie fired their impressions of the man they had seen, and Angelo faithfully tried to capture those impressions on paper. And suddenly, after they had lost count of the number of drawings, Hawes said, 'Hold it! That's it.'

'That's him,' the kid said. 'That's the guy!'

'Don't change a line,' Hawes said. 'You've got him! That's the man.' The kid grinned from ear to ear and then shook hands with Hawes.

Angelo sighed a heavy sigh of relief.

This was the picture they felt resembled the man they had both seen:

Angelo began packing his case.

'That's very neat,' the kid said.

'That's my signature,' Angelo replied. 'Neat. Forget this Angelo stuff. My real name is Neat, with a capital N.' He grinned. He seemed very happy it was all over.

'How soon can we get copies?' Hawes asked.

'How soon do you need them?'

Hawes looked at his watch. 'It's 3.15,' he said. 'This guy is going to kill a woman at eight tonight.'

Angelo nodded seriously, the cop in him momentarily replacing the artist. 'Send a man with me,' he said. 'I'll run them off the minute I get back.'

At 4.05 p.m., armed with pictures the ink on which was still wet, Carella and Hawes left the precinct simultaneously. Carella headed for a bar on North Thirteenth, a bar named The Pub, the bar to which Samalson had taken his girl on the preceding Sunday. Carella went there solely to show the picture to the bartender in the hope he might identify the suspect.

Hawes went directly around the corner from the precinct, to Seventh Street, where Frankie Annuci had said he had met the man who'd given him the letter. It was Hawes's plan to start with Seventh and work his way east, heading uptown, going as far as Thirty-third if he had to. He would then double back, working north and south. If the man lived anywhere in the neighbourhood, Hawes meant to find him. In the meantime, a copy of the picture had been sent to the l.B. in the hope of getting a make from the photos in the files in case none of the investigating cops struck paydirt.

At 4.10 p.m. Meyer and Willis left the squad-room with their copies of the picture. Starting with Sixth Street, their plan was to work westward from the precinct, going down past First and into the named streets below First until they hit Lady Astor's street.

At 4.15 p.m. a squad car was called back to the precinct. Copies of the picture were dumped into the car, and then distributed to every motorized and foot patrolman in the precinct. Copies were delivered to the neighbouring 88th and 89th precincts, too. The immediate area adjacent to the precinct, starting with Grover Avenue and going into Grover Park, was flooded with detectives from the 88th and the 89th (which precincts handled the actual park territory), in the event the suspect might return in search of his binoculars. It was a big city, and a big, teeming precinct—but the precinct was fortunately smaller than the city.

Hawes, stopping at every store, stopping at every tenement, talking to shop owners and superintendents, talking to the kids in the streets, who were sometimes the shrewdest observers around, did not connect until he reached Twelfth Street.

It was late afternoon by this time, but the streets had not cooled down at all. Hawes was still hot, and he was beginning to feel the first disgruntled disappointment of defeat. How the hell would they ever stop this guy? How the hell would they ever find him? Dispiritedly he began working his way up the street, showing the picture. No, they did not know the man. No, they did not recognize him. Was he from the neighbourhood?

At the fifth tenement from the corner, he showed the picture to a landlady in a flowered cotton house dress.

'No,' she said instantly. 'I never—' And then she stopped. She took the picture from Hawes's hands. 'Yeah, that's him,' she said. 'That's the way he looked this morning. I saw him when he was coming down. That's the way he looked.'

'Who?' Hawes said. He could feel the sudden surge of energy within him as he waited for her answer.

'Smith,' she said. 'John Smith. A weird duck. He had this—'

'What apartment?' Hawes said.

'Twenty-two. That's on the second floor. He moved in about two weeks ago. Had this—'

But Hawes was already moving into the building, his gun drawn. He did not know that his conversation with the landlady had been viewed from a second-floor window. He did not know that his red hair had instantly identified him to his observer. He did not know until he was almost on the second-floor landing, and then he knew instantly.

The explosion thundered in the small, narrow corridor. Hawes fell to the floor at once, almost losing his footing on the top step, almost hurtling backward down the stairwell. He fired a shot into the dimness, not seeing anything, but wanting John Smith to know he was armed.

'Get out of here, cop!' the voice shouted.

'Throw your gun down here,' Hawes said. 'There are four cops with me downstairs. You haven't got a chance.'

'You're a liar,' the man shouted. 'I saw you when you got here. You came alone. I saw you from the window.'

Another shot exploded into the hallway. Hawes ducked below the top step. The bullet ripped plaster from the already chipped plaster on the wall. He squinted his eyes, trying to see into the dimness, cursing his position. Wherever Smith was, he could see Hawes without in turn being seen. Hawes could not move from his uncomfortable position on the steps. But perhaps Smith couldn't move, either. Perhaps if he left wherever he was, he would be seen. Hawes waited.

The hall went utterly still.

'Smith?' he called.

A fusillade of shots answered him, angry shots that whined across the hallway and ripped at the plaster. Chalk cascaded onto Hawes's head. He clung to the steps, cursing tenement hallways and would-be killers. From the street below, he could hear excited yells and screams, and then the repeated, shouted word 'Police! Police! Police! Police!'

'Do you hear that, Smith?' he shouted. 'They're calling the cops. The whole damn precinct'll be here in three minutes. Throw your gun down.'

Smith fired again. The shot was lower. It ripped a splinter of wood from the landing near the top step. Hawes reared back and then instantly ducked. He heard a clicking at the other end of the hallway. Smith was reloading. He was about to sprint down the corridor when he heard a clip being slammed into the butt of an automatic. Quickly he ducked down behind the top step again.

The hallway was silent again.

'Smith?'

There was no answer.

'Smith?'

From the street below, Hawes heard the high whine of a police siren.

'You hear that, Smith? They're here. They'll be—'

Three shots exploded into the hallway. Hawes ducked and then heard a man scuffling to his feet, caught a glimpse of a trouser leg as Smith started up the stairway. Hawes bounded into the hallway, triggering a shot at the retreating figure. Smith turned and fired, and Hawes dropped to the floor again. The footsteps were clattering up the steps now, noisily, excitedly, hurriedly. Hawes got to his feet, ran for the steps, charged up them two at a time. Another shot spun into the hallway. He did not duck this time. He kept charging up the steps, wanting to reach Smith before he got to the roof. He heard the roof door being tried, heard Smith pounding on it, and then heard a shot and the spanging reverberation of metal exploding. The roof door creaked open and then slammed shut. Smith was already on the roof.