Francis Nevins - Night and Fear

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.

Terry might call all this circumstantial, but there was more to it than that. She’d been followed the other night by the actual Rose Killer. She was positive of that.

She’d tested him just now on their way to this place. It hadn’t been easy to manage, but she’d accomplished it. She’d pretended to stop and look into a shop window. Then she had sent him down to the corner ahead of her, on the excuse of looking to see whether a bus was coming or not. Then she beckoned him to come back, as if she wanted to point out something in the window to him. He’d rejoined her at an easy strolling gait, about the same as the other night. She’d strained her ears.

Just as no two people have the same fingerprints, no two people have exactly the same footfall. She had a good ear for music and she knew her ears weren’t playing her false. The pace, the weight of the body, the bulk of shoe, were all the same.

It was incredible that she should have met him a second time like this. She’d had a stroke of luck. She’d met him at a flower show, an annual exhibit. Seen him hovering around the white roses there. Others just admired them and passed on. But even when he’d finally moved along to other displays, he still kept looking over at them.

She’d questioned the supervisor in charge of that particular display. That same man had been in every day since the show had first opened. These white roses seemed to exert an irresistible attraction to him. They innocently supposed he was some amateur fancier who specialized in them. She didn’t.

Now he was with her — waiting at the table for her. There wasn’t any blackout scheduled for tonight, or Tom would have let her know. But this time she wouldn’t wait for him to make the first move. Terry could break him down. They had ways. If it took weeks or months, they’d keep at it once they got their hands on him. And that was her job right now, to put him into those hands.