He looked at her nude beauty and then at the black lace panties and grinned. "Put 'em on," he ordered.
"Please, mister, don't kill me, I'll give you money."
He laughed as his hands switched from kneading to squeezing her breasts. She tried butting his chest with her elbows. He laughed louder and his hands moved up and circled her throat. He started squeezing. "You know me," he muttered, "you recognized me, I can tell, and we can't have that. Sorry, baby, but you have to die. You see, there are so many more women on my list I have to take care of...."
CHAPTER ONE
A lonely street at high noon in southern California is a landscape by Di Chirico. The blinding sun reveals the same eerie absence of human life on an endless ribbon of shimmering pavement. There is the same tomb-like silence.
On this particular day, a solitary girl entered the empty palm-lined street wheeling a shopping cart. She was pretty and dark-haired with long, slim legs and tiny ankles. Since it was very hot, she wore only light blue shorts and a thin white halter. As she reached the door of her house, she scanned the street on both sides. It was a precaution she took daily now when she went out alone.
As she shut the door behind her, the windows blazed with lightning flashes. The girl moved to a long green couch and sprawled there miserably for a few moments. The moist, stifling heat in the room was unbearable. She thought of opening the locked windows and then changed her mind.
What she needed most, Penny Bruce decided, was a cool shower. A long, delicious, cool spray followed by a cool salad and a cool nap in the darkened bedroom that would prepare her for the art class that evening. She rose and slowly removed her clothes.
Once she was free of them she felt better. A glimpse of her body in the glass over the mantelpiece made her smile. She was too big in the hips, maybe, but she could still model for the art class, she thought. Some of the models looked like Giacomotti figures, long, lank, almost fleshless creatures. The thought of how Cliff would react to her modeling made her shiver. Her husband indulged her in the art school only because she had made a scene.
After a few moments, the blanket of sweltering air in the room was insufferable and she moved toward the bathroom in the rear. As she passed the front window, she could see a tall man dressed in a business suit approach. She stared for a moment at the moving figure through the thin gauze curtain. Something about the man's gait or his looks seemed oddly familiar but she did not recognize him.
Suddenly, realizing that the man was only a few yards from the window now and facing her as he advanced, she moved back frighteningly. Instinctively she jumped away from the glass. He had seemed to be staring right at her. Her heart began to hammer as she moved back to the couch on the other side of the room. For a long moment, she held her breath, letting it escape slowly only when the door did not open.
A few seconds later she felt foolish. The newspaper headlines about the damned noontime prowler scare was reducing every woman on the block to the level of a terrified school girl. PROWLER AT NOON, PROWLER AT NOON, the papers kept shouting. It had come to the point where even walking in an empty street at noon frightened her. That was bad enough. But when her teeth rattled because a man walked toward her house in broad daylight, the situation had reached the point of absurdity. The next step was to sit in her kitchen with a rifle across her knees as she shelled peas.
Don't be a damned idiot, she told herself as she lit a cigarette to steady her nerves. Staying out of the line of vision from the street, she peered through the window again. There was no sign of anyone. He had obviously just walked past the house on the way to some place. She sat down on the couch and drew several slow puffs on the cigarette. The man had just been walking past the house, she repeated to herself to steady her nerves. He had not even looked into the window.
And what if he had? All he could see was a blob of dark. She laughed as she thought of how her husband would scream if he saw her sitting undressed by the window. Cliff was terrified that a prowler would attack her like the girl who'd been murdered earlier that week. He was convinced that Los Angeles was full of sex fiends who jumped women they saw in brassieres and panties.
The black headlines about the woman who had been raped three blocks away in broad daylight had exploded all his accumulated fears. He even fretted about her shopping costume-a flimsy halter and shorts.
"Nobody's made of wood," Cliff complained. "I watch the way these guys give you the eye in the market or that school. Like they've been starved for weeks. I don't want it happening to you. So stop going around half-naked."
Seeing the taut expression on her face, he laughed nervously and kissed her. She turned her face away, annoyed.
"I just don't want anything happening to you, hon," he said affectionately. "So wear a dress out, huh?"
Afterwards he had given her the usual jazz about moving from the Hollywood area into the San Fernando Valley where he worked as an engineer. In a little place like Granada Hills, about an hour from town, she could hop around in her sunsuit all day.
"What about my art class?" she said tartly.
His thin face had reddened dangerously. He was jealous by nature and the art class was a constant goad.
"I think you're nuts to keep going there," he retorted angrily. Cliff had never recovered from the shock of seeing grown men ogling a nude while they molded clay.
The nights he accompanied her to art class he felt he was at one of the stag smokers he occasionally attended with his poker club in Indiana. Blowouts where they had girls strip in a circle of beery smoke. Pucci's studio was like that. A lot of guys playing with clay, drinking out of beer cans and smoking while they stared at a naked model. He always expected the cops to come whistling down the stairs.
"Those bums worry me," he said. "Like that big gink always jumping around the undressed model doing close-ups with a camera. What the hell kind of artist is he?"
"Steiner," Penny laughed. "Ah, he's harmless. I don't think he's got it all upstairs. He stares at you like his mind was a million miles off. The only guy I don't like is Lynton Brendt."
"Who? Oh, that bald actor? He smells like a zoo."
"I know. I asked Pucci to kick him out. A lot of the girls did. He smells and drinks and he's always bothering you when you're trying to work. Why are you always worried about the big guys?" she asked teasingly. "You never worry about the shorties. Some of those little guys stare at me, too."
A second later she wanted to bite her tongue. Cliff's dark, protuberant eyes had suddenly gone angry. She seldom thought of Cliff as short anymore though he came barely to her eye level. But he was still sensitive about his height.
"You can take care of shorties," he said finally. "You sure took care of me when I tried to take you in that hayloft in South Bend years ago. But these big bimbos have the weight and reach on you. Don't ever let any of them see you home. I mean that. Every time I read about a prowler attacking a woman, I get knots inside. And this town's full of them. Seems every time I open a paper, some woman's laying up in the hills with her face purple."
Cliff's words came back now as she felt the icy needle shower attack her bare flesh and she shuddered. She was glad they had moved from the lonely place near Silver Creek Boulevard to the Hollywood area. Up in those hills she had always been afraid at night. The view was wonderful in the daytime. But at night, she felt as if she were living on the moon. The emptiness of the streets bothered her. Every crunch of tires near the house made her pringle. Dog barks exploding from a neighbor's house would make her tremble.
Here within minutes of the busy Hollywood shopping district, she felt more secure. No prowler would dare anything around here. It was true that after the men left in the mornings the streets became quiet and empty, but then that was true of many residential districts in this vast, sprawling city. At least there were closer neighbors if anyone did come. She laughed as she thought of the grim turn her thoughts were taking and turned up the water.
She screamed with delight as a hard stream of cool water hit her bare skin. Her neighbor, an elderly woman who suffered from arthritis, heard her, and forgot her pain for a moment.
CHAPTER TWO
The tall man in the light business suit who had glanced into Penny's window walked swiftly to the corner and then half a block away to where his car was parked. The streets were deserted except for a couple of children who played on the tiny fingernail lawns, and a woman who pushed a loaded shopping cart to the door of a house. He walked very casually to his car and got inside.
Every few minutes his eyes darted to the rear-view mirror to see if newcomers had entered the street. Occasionally he looked through the side windows. Once, when a pretty girl in skintight capri pants left her MG and sprinted to her door, he followed her avidly with his eyes.
After ten minutes, he glanced at his watch and drove the car two blocks-moving past Penny's house. No one was on the street. When he parked again, he massaged his jowls with a splash of cologne and left the car.
He walked briskly down the street-the briefcase in his hand-and marched up to Penny's house. After a lightning-quick glance in both directions, he rang the bell firmly. While he waited, he looked in a business-like manner at a notebook he took from the inside pocket of his jacket.
Penny did not answer the bell until it rang a second time. She came to the door in a pair of crimson shorts and a yellow halter she had put on quickly. She could tell it was not on right by the smile on the man's face. She was suddenly conscious of drops of cold water lingering on her neck and legs.
"Yes?" she asked politely.
"I'm from the Los Angeles County Tax Office," he said pleasantly as he showed her a card in plastic.
She frowned. "Are we behind or something? I know my husband sent you a check...."
"Oh, this has nothing to do with that, ma'am," the man said reassuringly. "I'm just making a survey of the incomes, furnishings, buying habits and personal tastes of families. We want to know what kind of things go with families in every income bracket-the sort of TV and hi-fi sets they buy, furniture. We want to know how often things are bought new. How many children families have, etc. See, the County would like to estimate future revenues and needs for public funds for schools, libraries, etc. It's easier for us if we know how much money will be coming in in the next few years."
She smiled. "Guess we could all use information like that."
He laughed heartily and shook his head.
"I hate this job, ma'am. Barging in on people at lunch hour. But we learned that it's hard making appointments in advance. You can't tell how long an interview will take. Five minutes or fifteen." He laughed sheepishly. "And you know how popular tax people are anyway. We tell them all we want is information and boom-they panic. Make sure they're not at home." He shook his head sadly. "It's enough to give a man an inferiority complex."
The girl smiled sympathetically. "Well, I was going to eat lunch. But I guess I could answer those questions now. Or maybe you'd rather come when my husband's here? He knows some of the answers. But he won't be back until four."
"No. It's fine this way. Won't take too long."
As he followed the girl into the cool, dark living room, the tall man sighed. "Boy, it's good to get out of the hot sun. I can tell you that."
"Can I get you something cold to drink?"
"You got any Coke?"
"I think so," she said. "Will you sit down please?"
He watched her small buttocks move gracefully toward the kitchen and a moment later fumbled with his briefcase.
When she returned he thanked her for the drink, and immediately asked in an official voice, "How much did you pay for your TV set, ma'am?"
"Let's see. I think $320. Or maybe $340."
His soft gray eyes were fixed on her halter as she spoke.
"And do you have a hi-fi set, too?"
"Just a medium-sized one. I think it cost us a hundred and fifty or seventy. It's in the bedroom," she said apologetically.
"That's okay. How old are you, Mrs. Bruce?"
"Twenty-four."
"You been married long?" he smiled and his Adam's apple moved as he waited for her answer.
"Two and a half years."
"Where did you meet your husband?"
"At a dance," she began. Her eyes narrowed. "I don't understand these questions."
"Well, we make a pretty full report. We've got to know about the makeup of our family groups. How old they are. How long they've been married."
She nodded, uncomfortably aware that the man was keeping his eyes on the cleft of her breasts as he talked.
"How long did you wait to get married?" he asked pleasantly. "I mean after meeting him."
"Maybe you'd better come back later," she said a little nervously. "When my husband is here."
"Only take a few minutes more," he protested. "I've got to finish this area today."
"Well, I knew Cliff six, seven months I guess. We went pretty steady and after his mother came west for a visit, he asked me."
"I see," the man said softly, eyeing the tanned, silk-smooth flesh of her thighs. "But he didn't need his mother's approval, did he? I mean, not after he'd been with you a few times. He must have known what a fine girl he had. I haven't seen many girls with legs as beautiful as yours, Mrs. Bruce."
She reddened, but decided to let it pass.
"Any children?" the man asked.
"No."
The man smiled. "Any particular reason for that? Did you want them and couldn't have any? Or," the man hesitated as if the question were too indelicate, "did you try and just not get pregnant?"
Penny's face colored a deep red. She stood up suddenly.
"Don't get mad, ma'am," the tall man said easily. "I should have explained. We're doing a great many projects and surveys at County headquarters. For Civil Defense, medical needs, schools, all that. So when we ask about property, we also ask about personal habits and family planning."
His easy-going tone and pleasant smile placated her somewhat, but she felt vaguely uncomfortable. She smiled sheepishly.
"I was just thinking, it sounds almost like a Kinsey report."
The man nodded, laughing. "Why, sure. That's what so many women tell me. Everywhere I go. Here, Beverly Hills or Santa Monica. Out here they're just not used to talking about sex matters to strangers. But in Sweden, why it's nothing at all. They're used to these surveys. Anyway, I assure you it's all useful and vital. We give these things a lot of thought. And hundreds of other women have already answered the same questions."
"Well," Penny began, "I guess I can answer those questions if all these other women have. We just never had anything like that back home. I guess I got a lot to learn about California ways."
"We all have," he said, smiling understandingly. He still didn't take his eyes from the cleft of her breasts.
Their eyes met as he lifted his for a moment and something in them made her spine tingle. When the laughter drained from his face, his eyes seemed icy and impenetrable.
""Shall we begin again?" he said gently.
She nodded, wishing she had put on a pair of slacks instead of the bright red shorts that hiked up on her thighs and buttocks, and that her bosom was not so big. He seemed to be conscious of nothing else in the room.
"How long did you wait before trying for kids?" he asked.
"Three or four months," she said nervously. Despite the man's casualness, his steady gaze on her bare thighs felt like a lighted match held close to her skin.
"Did you have frequent intercourse during that period?"
"Well, not frequent, no."
"What do you think interfered with pregnancy? Did he withdraw before completing the act? Or did he use some prophylactic?"
"Well." Penny wet her lips. "We tried both. First Cliff didn't finish. But it made us both kind of nervous, you know? Unhappy."
He nodded. "I can imagine. Especially your husband's feelings. Going to bed with a body as lovely as yours and then having to stop loving it. And it was bad for you. Like starting over Niagara Falls and turning away at the last minute, wasn't it?"
She nodded uneasily.
"What prophylaxis did you use?"
She colored. "I was fitted for a diaphragm by a doctor."
"Your husband doesn't like the-er-other methods?"
"No."
"Well, now. Let's get up to date. How often do you have sexual intercourse now?"
The visitor's question hit her right between the eyes. A deep flush spread over her pale, narrow cheeks. But his routine tone and his copying of her answers in a large notebook calmed her.
"You mean you've asked all these women in Beverly Hills and all these places, that?" she asked amazed.
"Certainly," he said matter-of-factly. "It's an important question on our survey. Made up by medical authorities."
"We-er-we have it about once or twice a month," she barely whispered. She had read the Kinsey Report on Sexual Behavior in the Female and she knew women had answered such questions. But she never dreamed anyone would ask her.
"Only once or twice a month?" the man said. He seemed very surprised. "How come?"
She hesitated, embarrassed and ashamed by the obvious disbelief in his voice.
He patted her hand lightly.
"No, don't worry, ma'am. This is completely confidential. I assure you. Just like the Kinsey Survey."
She did not meet his eyes as she replied.
"That's all my husband wants," she said, somewhat resentfully. "I don't try to tell him what to do."
She had been right in the first place. This was like the Kinsey Report. She had read the two books on the Sexual Behavior of the Human Male and the Human Female and about how the surveys had been made.
If I hadn't, she thought, this would scare me out of a year's growth. A stranger asking me this kind of thing.
"Why doesn't he want to make love more often?" he asked quietly.
"I don't know," she said, surprised at her own vehemence. "I can't force him."
"Would you do it more often? I mean, are you ready more often?" the man asked.
"Yes," she said firmly. She looked at her watch suddenly.
"I-I'm sorry but I'll have to stop now, mister ... I've...."
"Are you expecting someone?" he asked.
She reddened. "No. But I have things to do."
"I only asked because women get embarrassed sometimes. They're afraid of being caught answering these questions by other women who visit them. If that's it, I can come back later."
"No," she said. "But I got a lot of chores. Got to fix a roast for my husband, clean house. Lot of things. So if you can just end it soon, I'd appreciate it."
"Right," he said quickly. "Just a couple more."
He looked at a sheet in his briefcase for a moment.
"Do you like to make love in the woods? Or on the cool sand of the beach, say at night? Or early morning?"
Her eyes widened. "You really go around asking women questions like that? I can't believe the County wants to know things like that."
He put the sheet back quickly.
"Well, let's forget that. It's just a kind of-er-supplementary question." He sighed. "I just can't understand your husband going to bed with you once or twice a month."
His eyes crawled hungrily along the silk-smooth flesh of her legs and thighs, the roundness of her hips and the fullness of her breasts.
"Not with a body like yours," he finished, his voice almost hoarse. "Your man must be undersexed. But I'll bet my bottom dollar you're not."
Something in the man's unveering gaze paralyzed her vocal chords. The words she wanted to say remained inchoate in her throat. There was something terrifying about the way he stared at her and the evenness of his voice.
Now the man had stopped talking and was unabashedly staring at a drop of water that trickled down the inside of her plump thigh. She blushed and flecked it off with her finger.
"You didn't have to do that, Mrs. Bruce. There's nothing lovelier than water moving down a girl's thigh. I even knew a man who loved to hold his wife nude under a shower, just so he could watch the drops bubble up like little fish eyes on her breasts and thighs and belly." He changed his tone swiftly as he saw the fear mushroom on her face.
"Now to business," he said drily, standing up. "Can I see what furniture you have? I want to note down everything."
"Well, I can tell you what we got, Mr....er...."
"Mitchell. Don Mitchell. Sorry. Orders are to make an eyewitness report. No offense, madam. Just have to."
She led him nervously through the rooms. He jotted down the furniture in the living room and kitchen on a yellow pad he took from his briefcase, noting the prices she had paid.
Somewhat calmer, she led him into the guest bedroom. He made some notes.
"Any more?"
"Just our bedroom," she said. "It's furnished almost the same."
"May I see it, please?"
She nodded reluctantly and led the way to it. He glanced at the drapes, at the large, low bed, and smiled.
"That's a much bigger bed than the one in the guest room. Lots of room for you and your husband to roll around in."
He sat on the bed suddenly and opened his briefcase. He pulled out a magazine with a bikini-clad girl on the cover and showed it to her.
"Just a couple of questions, then I'll be off. Doesn't she look like you, Mrs. Bruce?"
Penny's eyes widened. "I think you'd better leave now, mister," she said quietly.
He grinned. "It's nice and cool in here. I think she looks a lot like you. Where you going?"
"Out, mister. And you'd better get out, too."
"What are you so trembly about? You're shivering like raspberry jello. Look at that halter go up and down," he said, grabbing her wrist.
"Let go of me," she said, pulling away from his grip.
"My goodness. Just look at that halter. What you got under there, Mrs. Bruce? Rabbits? They look alive."
She pulled with all her strength, but could not shake off his steel-like grip.
"Help," she screamed, then realized the windows were shut and the blinds down. He pulled her down to the bed beside him and covered her mouth.
"Let me see those rabbits, honey. Now lie still and I'll take my hand off your mouth. I just want to see those rabbits."
She kicked at him roughly and tried to get away. His face hardened as he shoved her down and squeezed her breast.
"Don't fool with me, baby, or I'll shut those eyes permanently. Now just lie still and don't yell. Nobody'll hear you anyhow. But if you let out another yell, I'll push these thumbs in hard-like this. And if that doesn't work, I'll finish the job like this."
"Please. I-I can't breathe," she said hoarsely, staring up at him as she lay pinned down by his body.
"All right. Now shut up."
He fumbled irritably with the catch of her bandanna and finally ripped it off. He whistled as he saw the firm, pear-shaped breasts with the heavy madder-brown aureola.
"My God," he said reverently. "You're really beautiful."
He touched them gently.
"They're beautiful," he said softly. "So beautiful. They're not rabbits. They're roses. Beautiful roses. They're so big for that small body. But they're beautiful."
"Please," she begged, her voice full of terror. "Please don't hurt me. Please."
"Don't talk, don't scream, and I won't hurt you. God, they're beautiful."
He lowered his lips and kissed her nipples gently. She shuddered and he laughed.
"My God, you're beautiful even when you're scared. I ought to keep you scared. I just love to watch them dance. I don't get much chance to see breasts like these. My girl's got small ones. She wears black lace underwear to improve them. But it only helps when I'm drunk. That's been my luck, all my life. I love girls with big breasts and all I end up with is girls with molehills."
"You're hurting me with your hand," she said pleadingly.
"Okay, now let's see the rest of you. Let's see if it all matches up."
He loosened the buckle of her belt, opened the zipper at the side and pulled off her shorts. Underneath she wore panties with a blue floral design. He marveled at it.
"What a wonderful idea. Flowers."
"Don't kill me, mister, please, please."
"Then shut up. Don't yell and don't fight me. I won't kill you. You can't do nothing to me. You got no proof I'm even here. Nobody saw me come in. And if they did, I'm just another salesman. But no yelling. I shut a girl up permanently a week ago for that. You believe me, baby?"
"Yes, yes. Don't do that," she said, gasping and coughing as he pressed his thumbs into her throat.
"All right. You're cool-looking in your birthday suit."
He ran his fingers gently down her belly and flanks. Then he turned her over with a sharp, sudden movement and slapped her buttocks.
"Baby, you're gorgeous all over. What's your name? I mean, what does hubby call you?"
"Penny."
"When you're making love, he calls you that? Nothing more private than Penny?"
"No."
"I'll bet you look twice as good in black lace underwear. You got some, don't you?"
"Yes," she said slowly. "Where?"
"In the third drawer."
"I'll get it, you look too wonderful to move. You just lie there, Penny. I'll get them and put them on."
As he moved to the chiffonier, Penny's eyes glanced quickly at the door of the bathroom which was slightly ajar. If she jumped and ran, she might just make it and lock herself in.
CHAPTER THREE
In the Hollywood precinct, a short, plump detective in his early forties, wearing a Panama, rose from a battered desk and studied an area map on the wall. The map of the Hollywood area had two red pins in it. Lieutenant Mike Bishop glanced impatiently at his watch. Almost one o'clock. Trask should be back any minute. If there was any new stuff on prowlers in the Hollywood area during the lunch hour, he'd have it. He glanced moodily out the window at the quiet, sunny street.
No matter how much he tried, he could never completely accept Los Angeles, and he wondered why for the thousandth time, since he had left Brooklyn. Was it because his wife, Helen, was so overboard about southern California? Or the sameness of the weather? Sometimes he felt that if he did not escape occasionally to the cool darkness of a bar just to get out of the damned sun, he'd go nuts. He was homesick for Brooklyn again. He could tell when he was really homesick. His consumption of chopped liver and hot pastrami at Cantor's Delicatessen soared. It was the only place in town that reminded him of the sawdust-filled pastrami palaces of his old neighborhood.
Maybe it was just that he was fed up with working on prowler hunts. Sometimes it seemed as if he had been chasing nothing but sex offenders since he quit the New York police. You could get type cast in a police job, too, he thought bitterly. Every time he tried to get one of the cushy bodyguard details-like squiring a VIP around town, a job where you floated from a plush suite at the Beverly-Hilton to the Sunset Strip-somebody in the Chief's office always nominated him for a prowler detail.
Bishop looked angrily at the area map.
And what the hell could he do? Right now some bastard off his rocker was in that tangle of streets, climbing into bed with some terrified woman or ripping at her flesh, and there was not a goddamned thing he could do. He had been working on the damned case for a week-night and day without a smell of a clue. He was helpless.
He heard the door open and close behind his back and the firm quick step of a newcomer who headed straight for the desk. Bishop closed his eyes. The only guy who entered a room like that was Larry Davis-the crime genius of the Los Angeles Chronicle. It was time for Davis' daily application of the needle and he readied himself.
"What's the poop, Lieutenant?" the voice behind him asked pleasantly. Bishop turned and saw the tall, lanky reporter shuffling through several glossy photographs.
"Put those down, Larry," Bishop said wearily. "They're not for publication."
"Who's this babe?" the reporter said.
He showed the detective a pretty girl in a pair of the scantiest black lace panties imaginable.
There were several other photographs on the desk. Girls-pretty girls with long legs, fleshy thighs and firm breasts-all wearing black lace panties.
"Wipe your lips and stop drooling," Bishop said, taking the pictures.
Davis grinned at him, a puckish twinkle in his blue eyes.
"My mother told me this was no job for a clean-living boy. You know, just about the time I went to journalism school in Chicago, she'd been frightened by several novels about reporters who got shot at by gangsters."
The phone rang shrilly.
"Lieutenant Bishop," the short detective said. A moment later he sighed into the phone.
"All right, Irish, come on in out of the beautiful California sunshine. Or better still, go on to Cantor's Delicatessen. We'll have lunch there and talk."
The detective's face suddenly flushed a deep red color as he listened.
"So, what the hell's wrong with chopped liver? Aren't you sick of eating that damned pizza all the time? Where the hell does an Irishman get this mad passion for pizza? It's un-Irish. You must have insanity in the family somewhere. You live on the damned stuff."
As he said it, the words burned him. In his pleasure at the rough exchange with his sidekick, Sergeant Trask, he occasionally forgot that insanity was a painful word with the Irishman. For years, Trask had mothered a nephew who had been discharged from the service as a psychoneurotic.
"All right, Al," he said in a milder voice, "come in here. I guess I ought to wait another half-hour anyhow. There may still be a report from a patrol car cruising the area."
"How many attacks does that make so far?" Davis asked gently, when the detective had hung up.
"Three," Bishop said wearily. "How many times do you want me to tell you? Three. All women in their twenties."
"I'm sorry, Mike," Davis said. "But this is a hot story and I'm trying to work it up into copy. This is my bread and butter."
"For Christ's sake, it's just another prowler story."
"No, it's not, Mike. You ever hear of prowlers operating at noon?"
The short detective scrutinized the lanky reporter with his brown eyes. "There's no law says that prowlers have to operate at any special hour."
"Maybe not," Davis said affably. "But it makes a hell of a good headline: PROWLER AT NOON."
"Oh, God," Bishop said, looking upwards.
"And what makes it more interesting is that they've taken the best prowler-catcher of them all off a rackets investigation," Davis said.
"My wife doesn't think that's interesting," the Lieutenant growled. "She's threatened to divorce me unless I tell them I'm not going on any more prowler hunts."
The reporter's eyes widened. "Can I use that?"
"You do and I'll bash your brains in."
"Okay, okay," Larry Davis said. "I gotta try all angles. Look, give me some kind of an angle, for Pete's sake. I've used the calm peaceful neighborhood slant twice now. Do you have any better description of this guy? I mean other than that he's tall and wears glasses. Hell, that could be a million guys. He even looks like me."
Bishop studied his features and frowned.
"That's right, he does. Maybe you're the prowler. Maybe you're going around doing this to scare up a story. How the hell do I know?"
Davis looked at him in a funny way.
"Are you serious?" he asked slowly.
"About you being the prowler?" Bishop scowled. "I wish you were, you goddamned scavanger. But I doubt it. You probably get all the sex you want from these dumb mid-western dolls who come out here to break into the movies. Look, do me a favor and run, huh, Larry? I got calls to make."
Davis did not move.
"You mean he really looks like me?" he asked again.
"He could. Why?"
"Nothing," Davis said, smiling brightly. "Nothing. I just got an idea for a story, that's all."
He turned to the phone. "Can I just call the desk, Mike?"
"No," Bishop roared. "Use the pay phone outside. That phone's paid with taxpayers' money."
"Just this once, Mike," Davis said, and began dialing as he always did when Bishop bellowed his refusal. He was on the phone for fifteen minutes.
"You'd better hurry, Mike," he said, when he had hung up. "Ten women called this morning to ask for action. All from the Hollywood area the rapes occurred in. They're getting panicky up there. Say the police aren't doing anything."
The door opened to admit a tall, young, rawboned plainclothesman with a round, pink face and brilliant red hair.
"Who isn't doing aything?" he asked in a booming voice. "I should have known it'd be you, Davis. What are you writing today-a bird's-eye view of how sex works in Hollywood?"
Davis reddened. "I got a better yarn, Trask," he said. "I'm going to do a take off on the newest method of scientific detection in Hollywood."
"What's that, pray tell?" the tall Irishman asked politely.
"It's brand new. A clear beat over Sherlock Holmes, James Bond, and Mike Hammer," Davis said impishly. "The team of Bishop and Trask solves its cases by sifting all the available clues in the spice-filled, pungent atmosphere of Cantor's Delicatessen."
"Get out of here, Larry," Bishop said, warningly.
"As the magnificent scent of hot pastrami wafts toward the sensitive nostrils of the two beagles," Larry intoned, "the clouded crystal ball becomes clear. Lieutenant Michael Bishop, prowler hunter supreme of the Hollywood precinct, says, 'Quick, Trask, the mustard,' and all goes well. Another case solved."
"Get out of here," Bishop said, with dead seriousness.
"Let him alone," Trask said, laughing. The Irish detective's heavy jowls shook with amusement. "He's only telling the truth."
"Go on, Larry," Bishop said, smiling. "If you ever get tired of newswork, you can can that humor and use it to sour milk. You'd be great in a yogurt factory."
CHAPTER FOUR
The tall man fumbled impatiently in the lingerie-filled drawers of Penny Bruce's bureau. Finally he turned and muttered angrily.
"I don't see any black panties here. Where are they? I know you have some, damn it."
Frightened and puzzled, the naked girl rose from the bed and moved to the drawer. The black lingerie was hidden under some percale bed sheets. She remembered now that she hid them because they infuriated her husband. She had bought them originally to excite him, but he had seen her in them once and told her they made her slutty.
As she bent over the drawer, she could measure the distance to the bathroom from the corner of her eye. A fast move, a sudden pivot and a leap might do it. It was less than twelve feet away. Once inside, she could scream for help. Her neighbor, Mrs. Manning, would certainly hear. But the man would have to turn his back first.
The man fingered the lingerie appreciatively. "I love these with flowers on them. You must love flowers? Or your husband does. Very stimulating. What size do you wear, Penny?"
"Twelve," she whispered, "dress size; five in panties."
He squeezed her arm sharply. "Speak up, dear. Speak up."
"Five," she repeated slowly, looking at his angry eyes. She had a premonition of having met him before. Where?
"I'll take these along," he said, slipping the flowered panties into his pocket. "Where are the black ones, Penny?"
As she bent over to rummage under the sheets, he ran the tip of his sharp nail along her hip. She shivered but made no sound.
"Where are they?" This time the nail dug into her flesh.
"Underneath some sheets," Penny said, shuddering as his insistent nail performed figure eights on her back.
He unzipped the case and put the panties inside. Then he pulled her back to the bed.
"God, you're lovely." He kissed her again. "You wait here. I ain't going to hurt you. No reason to. Nobody saw me come in, as I said. But supposing they did. Doesn't matter. My company sends a bunch of us up here. I'd just tell them-yes, I called, but then I left. Only thing is, I don't want to be caught in here. So you just be quiet and everything'll be fine.
"I just want to see you in black and then we'll play a little. Minute I saw you swishing down the block with your cute little fanny, I wanted to play. We'll just put those black ones on you, then we'll take them off and play on this nice great big bed."
He gestured toward the briefcase. "Thanks for the flower panties. I'll give 'em to my girl when I get downtown. She'll love them."
He patted her belly affectionately and returned to the chiffonier. A second later he was burrowing under a pile of lingerie.
Penny watched him like a hawk, studying and timing his every movement. Now, she thought. Now! Now! Now!
She got up and was about to spring past him when he turned with a pair of black lace panties and a black brassiere.
"Ecco!" he yelled triumphantly. "Put these on for me."
He threw them at her and seemed to notice for the first time that she was standing up.
"What's the matter?" he said in a funny voice.
"I thought I'd show you where they were," she said, unconvincingly.
He grinned. "Well, thanks. Put them on."
A glance at his eyes ended her hesitation. She stepped quickly into the black lace panties and nervously fitted the brassiere over her breasts.
"Ecco!" he whispered, staring at her across the room.
"I've got some money I can give you. I won't call the police, I promise you," she said pleadingly.
He shook his head.
"Please, I-I never did it with anyone but my husband. Please don't touch me."
"You're wasting your time," he said softly, "and mine."
He cut quickly across the carpet and took her in his arms. She jabbed at him with her small fists as he cupped her breasts and kneaded the flesh of her thighs. Then she butted his chest with her elbow. He laughed as he held her close to him. Then he put his fingers around her throat and squeezed.
"I'm going to continue until your tongue falls out," he said softly, "the next time you do that or raise your voice."
Without another word, he ripped the underwear from her body and pushed her back on the bed. Penny pushed at his face with her outstretched hands, but it was no use. The man's overpowering weight on her barely let her breathe.
"No, no, please!" she begged. "Let me go. I'll give you all the money I have. Please don't touch me. Please, mister."
She fought to throw him off and sit up. He pushed her down sharply and then swooped down to kiss the cleft of her bosom. For a horrible moment, she thought she would black out as she felt his slobbering lips, but it was worse when he kissed her. She felt his tongue rake her mouth, and his hot breath, reeking of peanuts and sweet candy, filled her nostrils. She turned her face away and began to sob. It disconcerted the man on top of her. He rolled away from her and held up her face.
"Don't cry," he said softly. "I won't hurt you."
It was a different voice from the one he had used before. A more humane, understanding voice. Something in it arrested her sobbing and she listened to it.
As he bobbed his head down to kiss her again, something about his face struck her once more. She was not sure what. Just something that seemed familiar. She stared at him.
He stopped caressing her body when the sobs ceased. Quietly he looked into her face.
"What's the matter?" he asked in a strange voice. "What do you see?"
Her terror increased as she realized that somehow she knew him. Without knowing how or when she had met him. She knew him.
She stared at him wordlessly, frozen in the rigidity of fear.
"You saw something," he said in the harsh voice he had used before. "What was it?"
She said nothing.
"You know who I am?"
She shook her head.
"You know, you little bitch. You know. Now I'll have to throttle you."
"No," she gasped hoarsely as he squeezed her throat.
"I'm sorry," he began in the softer voice he used when she cried. "I don't like to kill, but I can't have you...."
The shrill ringing of the telephone murdered the silence of the room as his hands tightened. He stopped and listened.
"Who is that?"
"My husband," she said hoarsely. "What does he want?"
"Nothing. He just calls me on his lunch hour. Every day."
"He knows you're here?" She nodded.
"All right, answer it. Tell him you're hot and want to take a shower. Cut it short, and it better be your husband."
He grabbed the phone as it rang for the fifth time and put it face down on the opposite side of the bed. Then he moved so she could get it.
Penny squirmed so that her feet moved to the opposite side, and picked up the phone. Her heart was racing wildly as she realized she was now on the side of the bathroom door. A quick jump and a sprint of less than ten feet and she could make it. But in the same instant she could feel the man's heavy, bony, long fingers playing arpeggios on the back of her thighs.
"Hello," she said hoarsely.
"Penny, baby. How are you? I thought you weren't home," Cliff said.
If there were only some way to warn Cliff. But he couldn't get there in time to save her. And even a hint that might make him suspicious and call a neighbor or the police would be too late and useless, and it would alert the attacker. In the split seconds that went by, her mind seized on the only possibility.
Talk to Cliff long enough to lull the attacker's suspicions, then jump up and run.
"Penny, are you okay?" Cliff asked.
"Yes, fine," she said. Oh, God, what could she say that would not alert the man on the bed who was running his hand lightly over her ankle now? Suddenly, it came to her. She put a palm over the phone and said, "He worries about me. If I hang up, he'll call the neighbors. I've got to talk to him for a few minutes."
"Two," the man on the bed said. "Control your voice. Don't try anything funny."
She turned to the phone, holding her breath for a moment before speaking.
"What the hell's going on?" Cliff was saying. "Can you hear me, baby?"
"Yes, darling, yes." She prayed that Cliff would not ask anything that could not be answered with a "yes" or a "no." .
"It's hot as hell down here," Cliff complained.
"Hot here, too. Very hot," Penny said, looking at the man.
"I thought something was wrong there for awhile. You know, you sounded damned funny."
"I'm sorry, dear. It's the heat."
How long would it take to jump up and run for the bathroom, she wondered. His fingers had stopped playing with her leg now. He scowled at her.
"That's okay, baby," Cliff said. "I wish I could take a shower. I wish we could take one together. Hey, wouldn't that be something? Like we used to in South Bend. Boy, I'd love that. Feel your cool, dripping-wet skin against me and my dripping-wet-hey, I'd better stop. This ain't going to cool either of us off. Besides, the foreman might be coming in to get a No. 2 screwdriver."
He laughed suddenly and said, "Hey, that line was spontaneous. You used to think my jokes were funny."
The man on the bed dug his fingernails into the firm flesh of Penny's upper thigh and she groaned. The man moved his palm viciously to the right-to signal, Cut him off, end it.
Penny closed her eyes. As soon as she put the phone down, the man would strangle her. He was only waiting because he did not want the neighbors warned. On the other hand, his patience might reach its limits. She had to work on his fear of being caught. It was the only way.
"Penny, you're fading out," Cliff complained.
The man on the bed signaled furiously with his hand. Penny stared at him. Suddenly he threw himself across the bedspread and clamped his hairy fist over the mouthpiece. His other hand flew to her throat.
"Knock it off, I said. Knock it off. And no funny stuff. If you say anything funny, I'll be waiting for him when he pulls in."
He released her and stood away from the bed, watching her carefully. Penny's mind raced over what she could say that would stall the man without alarming Cliff. She did not want him in danger. Her best bet was to make the bathroom and scream for help. Mrs. Manning would hear her. But she had no time to think.
"Penny, for God's sakes, are you all right?" Cliff asked, worried.
"Yes," she said. "I-I just got a cramp, Cliffie. My leg felt all knotted up."
"Well, look, sweetie. Lie down for a while and take it slow. Or if you can, rub it with some witch hazel or rubbing alcohol."
She started to say something when suddenly she felt her flesh seared. The man was holding his lighter a half-inch from her bare thigh.
When she did not put the phone down, he applied the flame to her flesh and she screamed.
"What's the matter, honey?" Cliff yelled.
There was no answer.
"Penny," Cliff shouted. "What's wrong? What was that scream for? Are you-"
"It's nothing, Cliff," she said, staring at the tall man. "I'll have to hang up now."
"Penny, for God's sake, what's the matter?" her husband said. "What did you scream like that for? Are you sick or what?"
"No," she said in a tight voice. "Goodby, Cliff."
"Listen, I'm coming right over. I'll talk to the foreman and I'll be over in less than an hour."
"No, Cliff, don't."
"Well, then, tell me what's wrong. You sound terrible. You hurt or something?"
"Nothing, Cliff. Please, I've got to hang up now."
"Penny," Cliff said. "Something is sure the hell wrong. Either tell me what it is or I'm coming over."
"No, no," she begged. "Don't come. I'm all right."
The tall man made a face and. threw the lighter viciously at her. She winced as it hit her shoulder and fell to the floor. Making no effort to pick it up, the man pulled a package of cigarettes from his coat pocket and opened them. Watching him from the corner of her eye, Penny realized he was very frightened by the telephone conversation.
"I'll be okay, Cliff, don't come. I can't explain now," she said, watching the tall man's eyes.
"You're sure you don't want me to come, honey?" Cliff said. "Yes."
The man was fumbling in his pocket now for a match. Then, realizing he had none, he ducked to the floor for the lighter. The minute his head went down, her stomach rolled over. It was now or never.
She dropped the phone, leaped from the bed and raced for the bathroom door. The man, hearing the bedsprings groan, shot up from his crouch like a jack-in-the-box. He made a flying tackle as she reached the bathroom and caught at her ankles. She kicked her foot free of his grasp, spun inside the door and slammed it shut on his hand. He screamed in pain. In another second, the door was locked.
Behind the door, Penny cringed, expecting him to break it down with his heavy pounding. She examined the small window frantically. It was tightly screened and too small to get out of without difficulty. Mrs. Manning, she thought, Mrs. Manning! She began to scream as loudly as she could.
"Let me in, you bitch," the man yelled. "I'll kill you."
In the house across the alley, Mrs. Manning, who had been watching a television soap opera, frowned at the screams. She turned the sound up.
Damn that woman, she thought. Doesn't she have anything else to do but take cold showers? As the screams grew louder, she stopped to listen and finally put the set off. There was no doubt of it-Penny was yelling for help. Mrs. Manning ran to the window.
"What is it, Penny?" she asked through the open window. "Are you all right?"
"Help! There's someone trying to kill me. Help! Call the police," Penny yelled.
The man, hearing the neighbor's voice, stopped trying to force the door.
"I'll kill you-you bitch. I'll kill you if it's the last thing I do."
He grabbed his case and fled.
CHAPTER FIVE
The phone screamed at them like a frustrated child as they entered the office. Ordinarily, Bishop would have let the sergeant take the call since he was on his lunch hour. But this was the direct line to the Chief of Detectives. .
"I've been phoning for nearly an hour," the Chief growled. "The son of a bitch broke loose in your area just a few minutes ago."
"Sorry, Chief. We were getting a bite."
"I got a call from Sanctimonious five minutes after the girl was attacked. You'd better check your office for undercover agents. All I need is Sanctimonious calling me to tell me what's happening in my own precincts."
Bishop grinned and winked at Trask. The Chief disliked the new district attorney whom he described as "a failed preacher who was kicked out of Yale divinity school and crossed the street to the law school." The DA was a puritan with a habit of wringing his hands publicly whenever sex offenders broke loose. He used every sex offense mentioned in the city's papers as platforms, to lecture the public on the startling decline of local morals. He also used the occasion to make snide cracks about the slowness of police action. All intended, the Chief said bitterly, to advance his own political career.
"He's already called the mayor to complain about the lack of protection we're giving housewives in your area," the Chief continued. "And the mayor's given him a green light on an independent investigation. Mike, you've got to wrap this damned thing up in a few days or I'll have to replace you."
"But we're doing all we can, Chief," Bishop protested. "I've got several men, including myself, working on the case. We've been tracking down tips for days. Every time a woman thinks she sees the guy, we follow it through."
"And, what the hell have you come up with?" the Chief said bitterly. "Nothing. Some kook, probably a psycho, is terrorizing housewives in broad daylight. In broad daylight, for Christ's sake! Mike, do you know what that makes us look like? We can't get a man who goes out and rapes and kills in the middle of town at noon."
"Chief, the guy could be knocking at the door of any one out of 2,000 buildings in my district. It would be impossible to watch every one of them. I'd need an army of men. All we can do is deploy radio cars up and down the area...."
"That's not enough, Mike. Sanctimonious told the mayor his office is flooded with calls from frightened housewives in the Hollywood area. He's not lying. We're getting them, too."
"So are we," Bishop said reluctantly. "They get all frothed up by these damned TV disk jockeys telling them women are afraid to shop or even walk out alone at noontime."
"Well, they are, goddamn it," the Chief said, furiously. "I've been getting beefs from the supermarket chains, too. Traffic in their Hollywood outlets is down over fifty percent since the prowler started moving there. Are you close to picking up any suspects?"
"No," Bishop said. "There just isn't anything pointing to anybody specific, Chief. All we know is that a tall man in a business suit, carrying an attache case has been seen walking around in the area. He could be a door-to-door salesman or he could be the prowler. He also could be ten thousand guys in this town. We can't go out and arrest every door-to-door pitchman in the area, can we?"
"I don't know. We may come to that," the Chief said. "Well, get on to this Bruce woman. Your sergeant has the report. I meant what I said about the replacement, Mike. This is too big for me to buck, I'm afraid. Hell, maybe you'd even prefer it that way? Aren't you always telling me you want another job?"
"Yeah, but I don't like being pulled out like some damned rookie. Give me a little more time, Chief."
"I'll give you three days," the Chief said. "And that's if nothing else happens. If he gets to any other woman, I may have to transfer you and your partner to the harbor patrol within twenty-four hours. Good luck, Mike."
He hung up.
Bishop made a face and turned to Trask. "I hope you like foghorns," he said sourly.
* * *
Lieutenant Mike Bishop sat down on the faded green chintz couch after he finished his check of Penny's bedroom. Penny sat in a love seat with her husband's arms around her while Sergeant Trask made notes. The small detective's spaniel-like brown eyes took in the girl's drawn face. She was wearing a negligee and mules.
"Just a few more questions," Bishop said, sympathetically.
"I've told you everything," Penny said nervously, her breasts shivering against the thin fabric of her wrap as she spoke. "I want a little rest now, please."
"Calm yourself a little and just tell me a few things," Bishop said gently.
The girl's tense face reminded him of his eighteen-year-old daughter, Laurie, the night she had come back from a high school party at 4 A.M. When he asked Laurie what had kept her out so late, Laurie had shuddered just like this girl. It was a terrible experience-having some stranger maul you that way and he knew how she felt. But he had to know more. One woman already had been killed and this one might be dead tomorrow if he did not catch the man.
"Would you like a little more tea?" Bishop asked softly. "Get her some more chamomile tea, Al," he said to the Irish detective.
"You know, my grandmother used to give it to us in Brooklyn when I was a kid," he said conversationally. "Anytime I was tensed up, like after my final exams at high school-or when I took the rookie tests at the police academy. The chamomile'll calm you a little, Mrs. Bruce."
"The only thing!! calm her is sleep," Cliff Bruce bellowed. The short, stocky husband's belligerence made his voice explode.
"If you'd been knocked around by a sex fiend who nearly strangled you, you think some goddamned tea would calm you?"
Bishop bridged his eyes wearily with one hand. Cliff's barely controlled anger was beginning to wear his nerves thin. He had sat there throughout the interview like a nervous terrier straining at the leash.
"I think you've asked her enough questions," Cliff said. "When I got here, I found her nearly hysterical. It was lucky she dropped the phone and ran. Now get up, honey, and come to bed. Take that sleeping pill the Doc gave you."
"In a minute," Bishop's slow, deep voice commanded.
"I don't think you got any right-" Cliff began.
"I've got every right," Bishop said, overriding him. "Don't you understand, damn it? This man's a killer. He's already killed one woman three blocks away and he may come back for your wife."
"Then put a guard on her," Cliff shot back. "I demand you give her twenty-four-hour protection."
"No," Penny yelled. "I don't want that."
"But, honey, you have to. This guy thinks you know him. He'll be back."
"He's right," Bishop said. He nodded his head at Trask, who was heading for Penny with the tea. "He thinks you know him. You may know him. Either case you're in danger."
"I didn't say I know him," she snapped. "I-I just stared at his face and he got that idea."
"Why don't you want a bodyguard?" Cliff insisted.
"I don't want to," Penny said petulantly. "I'm not going to have police around me all the time. When I'm shopping or sitting around or talking to the neighbors. I want to be let alone. Besides, you heard the lieutenant. He said he'd have the area patrolled."
"You can still ask for a guard," Cliff insisted.
"Maybe he's right," Bishop said. He frowned as he remembered how thin he was getting on personnel. He discouraged personal guards unless they were urgently indicated. And in this case the bastard might come back. He might skip through a patrol cruising the area. Anyway, if he did find himself minus personnel, he could ask the Inspector to take it up downtown. There was no reason why the sheriff and the district attorney should get all the men.
"No," Penny repeated quietly. "I don't want it. I'll be careful and the police will be nearby. But I don't want it. Now leave off, Cliff. Let him ask me what he wants."
She sipped some tea very slowly, staring at the window. Through the chink in the blinds she could see a knot of people standing behind the uniformed policeman.
"Now try to remember," Bishop said. "Did you ever see this man before?"
"I'm not sure," Penny said, as Cliff squeezed her hand. "There was just something familiar about him."
"Is there any reason why he'd want to come at that particular time? To see you, I mean," Trask put in.
"What kind of crack is that?" Cliff bellowed. "What the hell you trying to do, make my wife out to be a call girl?"
"Relax, Cliff," Bishop said. "What Sergeant Trask's getting at is, did anyone make a phone appointment to come and see you? Maybe someone did a few days back and you forgot?"
She thought for a moment and shook her head.
Bishop stared at her. "It's funny how he knew you'd be alone."
"He probably just saw her go into the house a few minutes earlier," Cliff said. "He may even have been waiting for her."
Bishop nodded. "I just wondered if he knew your movements, etc. You know."
Cliff snorted.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Bishop said irritably. Cliff's personality was as easy to swallow as ground glass in a bowl of chili.
"There are a dozen guys who know her movements," Cliff snapped.
"Cliff," Penny said, annoyed. "Cut it out."
"Like who for instance?" Trask interjected. The burly Irishman leaned over to hear Cliff's answer.
"My wife goes to art school, nights. The place's full of crackpots," he said.
What kind of crackpots?" Bishop asked slowly. He exchanged a meaningful glance with his partner. Penny's face stiffened.
"Any kind you can name, Lieutenant," Cliff said distastefully. "They all sit around eating up a naked girl on a stool and trying to make the women who are doing so-called sculpture and painting."
"Goddamn you, Cliff," Penny yelled. "That's a damned he! They're just nice men and women interested in art, Lieutenant. They're all fine people. None of them would do anything like this."
Cliff guffawed. "They wouldn't, huh? You ought to see those guys, Lieutenant. All they do is stand around licking their chops. Those girls do their stuff in the tightest shorts and capri pants you ever saw. Then afterwards they all shoot off to a beatnik coffeehouse and get real chummy. Some of these bastards even give the girls a lift home. I told my wife, if any of those bums asked to take her home, I'd knock his block off."
"Shut up, Cliff," Penny shouted. She glared at her husband.
"My husband's the most jealous man ever lived. If he had his way he'd have me in a chastity belt." She turned to Cliff, furiously. "Don't you go making any trouble for those poor people down there, damn you, or you'll wish you hadn't."
Cliff smiled noncommittally at his wife.
"You don't think it could have been someone at that class?" Trask asked carefully.
"Absolutely not," Penny said, unconvincingly.
"Did you know Donna Tyler-the woman who was killed a few days ago in this neighborhood?"
Penny shook her head.
"One more question," Bishop said. "Why did you go to the back door first when the bell rang?"
Penny thought for a moment. "I don't know. I guess it's kind of hard to tell where the ring comes from. If it's my neighbor, Mrs. Manning, she rings back there. I guess I thought it might be her."
Bishop got up wearily. "I guess that's all for now, Mrs. Bruce. We may want some more information later. We'll call you. Please be very careful. And if you see anything suspicious, call us at once."
The two detectives moved toward the street door. Suddenly, as he reached it, Bishop turned and asked casually, "What's the name of that school you go to, by the way?"
Penny's face reddened. "Why? You're not going to question all those people, are you?"
Bishop shrugged. "I don't know yet. But I'd like to know the name."
"The Acme Art Center," she said slowly, looking at Cliff with something akin to loathing. "You're not going to get them all excited down there?" she asked the detective, worriedly. "I won't be able to go back, if you do."
"I'll be careful," Bishop said, frowning.
"Pay no attention to what my husband says about them," she pleaded.
"That wasn't why I asked," the detective said.
"Then why does the school come into it?"
Bishop shrugged. "Donna Tyler was an art student, too. And she went to some school in this area."
Penny paled and said nothing. She saw Cliff's lips tighten. When the police were gone, he turned to her and said slowly, "You're sure you told them everything, Penny?"
"Of course," she said nervously. She did not like the look in his eyes. "I think I'd better lie down a while, Cliff. I'm tired."
He followed her into the bedroom and watched her undress, put on a diaphanous negligee. He watched her for a long time as she lay there. She closed her eyes fitfully, opening them each time to see her husband's eyes staring at her lightly-clad, voluptuous figure.
"What is it, Cliff?" she said impatiently. "Why do you keep looking like that?"
"Did you tell the cops everything?" he said slowly.
"Of course. Why shouldn't I?"
"You sure you didn't know the guy?"
"No."
"You sure you didn't invite one of those wolves from the art school?" he said ominously-
"Now why the hell would I do that?"
"I don't know," he said quietly. "Maybe he invited himself. Maybe he caught a look at that bosom of yours in that school, practically falling out of your halter. Or those shorts pulled up tight against your crotch like a jockstrap glued to your fanny. And, maybe you let him in and gave him a drink and let him get at you?"
"You're crazy, Cliff," she said worriedly. She could see Bishop's remark about the school had triggered his every-ready suspicions. "You know I never let a man come in here."
"If I ever find out you put out for any of those S.O.B.'s, I'll kill you," he said. "My brother once caught a telephone man giving it to his wife. He shot the bastard with a .45. Don't ever let me catch you loving up anybody!"
CHAPTER SIX
Outside the house two uniformed policemen shooed away noisy citizens with a brusque, "Awright, awright, get on your way. Nothing to see."
Occasionally the second of the policemen, obviously enjoying the growing number of spectators, said, "Read about it in the papers, will you? I'm not here to answer questions."
But if anyone pressed him, he allowed as how a lady had just been raped and supplied any details requested.
"They get the guy?" a tall man in a dark suit, asked politely. He leaned over the shoulders of two tired looking housewives in orange-colored shorts to catch the policeman's reply.
"Not yet," the policeman said. "We've only been here twenty minutes. All right there, move along, huh?"
"How did it happen exactly?" the tall man asked. His frame glasses gave him an owlish look.
"No one saw anyone enter?" the man with the spectacles said incredulously. "I can't believe it. Just anybody can walk into a house or an alley without being noticed? I can't believe it."
The housewives craned their necks to look at him curiously and one of the cops eyed him carefully.
"Who said he went into the alley?" the cop asked. "You know anything about this?"
"No," the man said, pulling in his horns suddenly. "I just asked."
"Okay, okay," the policeman said. "Just thought you might have been around when it happened, that's all."
"He was," a female voice in the rear of the crowd said quickly. "I saw him."
The tall man paled as a dozen faces turned on him. He laughed weakly.
"Must have been someone else, lady," he said, turning to look at her. "I just got here."
The owner of the voice snorted. "I saw you."
"You're crazy," the man said excitedly. "I've been miles away all day."
He gripped his briefcase tightly and used it to clear a path through the knot of people around him.
"Wait a minute," the cop said, uncertainly. He was a rookie on the force and not too sure of himself. He looked to the older policeman for reassurance.
"I think you'd better talk to the lieutenant, sir," the older cop said, politely.
"What on earth for?" the man in the spectacles said. He was aware of the cold stares from people around him. "I don't know anything about it."
"Just routine, sir. Lady-yes, you-the one who saw him. Will you please step in here? Look, wait here, huh? This'll just take a minute."
The man in the business suit waited obediently until a small, plump detective in a brown suit emerged from the house. He tried to avoid the stare of the woman beside him.
"I'm sorry, mister," the woman said. She was a short, dumpy woman in her forties and wore a mustard-colored summer dress with large green circles. "I definitely saw you on the block. That don't mean anything. You could have been passing, just like me. Anyway, it might have been long after it all happened. I'm not sure."
Lieutenant Bishop mopped his balding head slowly and asked the man and woman to step to one side. He listened carefully while the woman repeated her story. She insisted she had seen the man in a kind of running walk, moving toward the north corner of the block as she rounded the southern one. The police car arrived a few minutes later.
"How do you know it was him if you were that far away?" the detective said.
"Well, for one thing, the street was pretty empty," the woman said, breathlessly. "You don't hardly see anyone that hour. On foot, I mean."
A woman behind them laughed. Lieutenant Bishop glanced behind his shoulder.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing," the woman who had laughed said, cautious now.
"No, tell me, what's so funny?" the little detective persisted.
"Well, it ain't nothing," the woman said. "It's just that Kate's always there when anything happens."
"You keep your damned nose out of this," the stocky woman yelled. "Who asked for your two-cents?" She turned to the detective. "Don't listen to that lush, Lieutenant. She's half-drunk on beer all the time. All she ever does is hang around a crummy bar in the neighborhood."
"Don't call me no names, you goddamned publicity hound!" the other woman said.
Bishop noticed the red nose and the inflamed eyes of the woman who had laughed. As the woman came closer, he could smell her sudsy breath. It was as overwhelming as a blast of hot air coming from the kitchen of a restaurant.
"She's all the time seeing accidents or fights. Anything to get her name in the papers," the beer-drinker said scornfully. "Didn't I tell you Kate Hody would be around as soon as she saw the reporters and the TV news car?" she asked some people behind her.
"Yeah," a hoarse, offstage voice said.
"Look, Lieutenant," the tall man in the business suit said, "can I please go now? I'm going to miss an urgent business appointment."
"Just a minute," the detective said softly, "and you'll be on your way."
He turned to the woman who claimed she had seen him on Penny's block.
"You say you saw him here before the police car came?"
"Yes."
"Close enough to recognize him?" Bishop persisted.
"Well, he was wearing the same kind of suit and carrying the same case," the woman said, uncertainly. "There ain't many people wearing business suits that time of day in this part of town."
"You couldn't tell the difference between him and Gregory Peck-the distance you were at," the beer-drinker snorted. "You can hardly see the side of a barn fifty feet away."
Lieutenant Bishop ignored her and turned to the tall man.
"What's your name, please?" he asked softly.
"Look," the man said, flustered, "that woman's got me all wrong. I wasn't within miles of this place. I swear it."
"I didn't say you were. I just asked your name."
"Tom Swaller. Well, what's the questions for?"
"Look, mister," another voice behind him said. "This is just a friendly conversation, that's all. But remember, there's almost been a murder committed here and another woman was killed the same way a few blocks from here. That's why we're asking questions."
Swaller looked behind him into the robin-blue eyes of Sergeant Trask.
"Now, would you rather answer the questions here or wait till we go back to the station house?"
"No, no," Swaller said hastily. "All I meant was I don't know why she picked me? I wasn't near the place. Not within miles."
"We'll figure that out," Bishop said. "Let's see your wallet."
The man handed the detective a large wallet of brown calfskin and watched apprehensively as he examined the driver's license and other cards.
"You live in the neighborhood?" Bishop asked.
The man nodded quickly. "The next block."
"Can I see your briefcase, please?"
Tom Swaller reddened. "There's nothing in it. Just some reading matter."
"I'd still like to see it," Bishop said carefully.
Swaller handed him the case. The detective opened it and took out two magazines with undraped females on the covers. Slowly he flipped the pages and studied the pictures of nudes.
"I-I'm interested in art," Swaller said nervously.
"Yeah, I'll bet," Kate Hody said skeptically. She turned away from him disgustedly.
Swaller colored and, turning to her with his face a mask of rage, shouted, "Will you keep your goddamned opinions to yourself? You be damned careful what you say about me or I'll sue you for slander. And I have two police witnesses to support me."
"Take it easy, Mr. Swaller. You too, Miss Hody." Bishop turned to the uniformed men who were now busy policing a good-sized crowd. "All right, Reilly. Keep them all back."
He handed Swaller back his briefcase.
"What line are you in, Mr. Swaller?"
"I'm an advertising man," he said. "I supervise a number of accounts."
The plump detective's continued scrutiny disturbed him. Misreading it, he began to explain what an account executive was.
"You see, Lieutenant, in advertising, an account executive-"
Bishop waved his explanation aside. "Don't tell me, Mac. I grew up around the corner from Madison Avenue. You weren't around this area this afternoon, you say?"
"No. I was miles away-in Buena Park."
Bishop studied his face. "You ever been booked for anything? Arrested?"
"Absolutely not," Swaller protested.
"Well, we'll have to ask you to come with us for a minute."
"You mean I'm being arrested?"
"No," Bishop said. "We'd like the lady to look at you."
"But I told you-" the man began again, flustered.
"Look, mister, if you've done nothing, there's nothing to be afraid of. Is there? All we want is for her to look at you a minute."
"All right," Swaller said, unhappily.
He accompanied the detectives to Penny's house. Bishop rang the bell and waited. There was a moment's wait and then the door swung open and Penny stared at them.
"Oh, hello," she began and then saw Swaller. Her face reddened and her lip trembled.
"Can we come in a minute, please?" Bishop asked.
She nodded and moved away from the door. When he had closed it behind him, he said, "Is this the man?"
Penny stared at Swaller as if she were mesmerized.
"Is he or isn't he?" Bishop said patiently. "Mrs. Bruce!" Trask said louder. His voice seemed to awaken her. She shook her head. "No. He isn't."
"You're sure? You've never seen this man?"
"Oh, yes," she said. "I see him often. He's in my art class."
Bishop looked puzzled. "Art class? You mean the Acme school?"
She nodded. Her eyes avoided Swaller's.
"Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Swaller. You understand we have to be careful."
"Surely," he said politely. "Can I go now?"
"Of course." The detectives said goodby to Penny again and accompanied Swaller to the street. A puzzled expression remained on Bishop's face as they reached the sidewalk. He turned to Swaller.
"Have you been in that art class long," Bishop asked.
Swaller's Adam's apple jiggled nervously. "A while."
"You know the people there pretty well?"
The tall advertising man nodded. Bishop could see the man was genuinely frightened. The detective studied him carefully.
"We may call on you for some information, Mr. Swaller. Hope you don't mind?"
"No. Not at all. I go out of town sometimes but if you need me-"
"Well, we may want to ask you some things. Why don't you check with me if you have to leave town?"
"Of course," the tall man said. "I'll be glad to."
Bishop nodded. "Sorry we had to take you in there like that. Must have been pretty embarrassing."
"Well," Swaller said, reddening. "Since we are in the same class, it was." He gave Bishop one of his cards.
"Thank you, Mr. Swaller. We'll be calling you." Bishop watched the tall, smartly dressed figure move briskly toward the corner.
"I don't like that bird," Trask said. "He's a phony."
"Yeah," Bishop said thoughtfully. "Maybe he is, but she gave him a clean bill."
CHAPTER SEVEN
The two detectives drove to the gleaming, brilliantly-lighted delicatessen on Fairfax Avenue in the heart of the Hollywood area's Jewish residential area. Mike Bishop lived in the neighborhood and he loved everything about it; the elderly women who sat outside the pink stucco houses reading Yiddish papers, and the housewives who crowded around the bread, fruit, and fish trucks that cruised the area, delighted him. Like many Easterners, he was bored by the excessive silence of the manicured lawns and homes in Los Angeles.
Because the case bothered him and he wanted to talk it over, he went to the noisiest, liveliest place in town ... Cantor's Delicatessen, the biggest on the West Coast, was full of a Brooklyn type of clatter at six o'clock. It was a hubbub that made Bishop very homesick. Excited bass voices talked about the latest Dodger game. Soprano and alto voices of women begged their young to eat. Close your eyes, he thought, and you could be in Flatbush.
The moment they entered, a heavy fragrance of garlic, salami, kosher sour pickles, and marinated herring filled their nostrils.
Mike Bishop inhaled it reverently, smiling as he doffed his hat.
"I'm home, Irish," he said. "If I close my eyes, I think I'm back in a delicatessen in Brooklyn or the Carnegie Delicatessen near Carnegie Hall. That used to be my favorite Saturday night date, you know; gallery seats at Carnegie, then the delicatessen. Salami and Shostakovich. Nothing like it in the world, kid. Try it some time. Let's grab a booth."
Trask watched his chief with tolerant amusement. He knew Bishop's mind was racing with details of the rape case. The nostalgia of kosher salami and Carnegie Hall was only a front.
Bishop ordered hot pastramis on hot seeded onion rolls, ice cold Black Horse ale from Canada and side dishes of chopped liver.
Trask's eyes widened as the order was recited. Friday night was Helen Bishop's go-for-broke night-when she made a dinner that left her guests gasping. If Mike was passing that up and taking the risk of infuriating her, the case was really bothering him.
"Hey, you're not eating home tonight?" he asked.
"No," Bishop said. "You know even if I hate the bum, Larry Davis is right. I do my best thinking in delicatessens."
"I know. You told me a hundred times. It's your New York upbringing. What's on your mind for tonight, Mike?"
Bishop laughed. "You heard me ask her the question about the art school?"
"Naturally. We going down there?"
"I think we'd better," Bishop said. "I have a feeling that Penny recognized the prowler. The first time she told the story, she almost swore she had seen the guy before. Then she backed down. Why?"
"Maybe it was a mistake," Trask said.
"I don't think so. She backed down sharply after Cliff brought up the art class. There are a couple of other things in the story that bothered me."
"Like what?"
"Never mind for now. I want to mull it over. But did you notice how she over-reacted to the bit about the art class?"
Trask nodded. Bishop put a card on the table. It was a registration card for the Acme Art Center in the name of Donna Tyler and it was dated four months earlier. "You think that makes a little visit to the art school a good idea?"
Trask blushed and grinned. "Son of a gun. That's just like you goddamned New Yorkers. You're not open and above-board like the rest of us. You've been carrying that damned thing in your wallet for days without telling me. What's the idea?"
Bishop shook his head and laughed. "You Californians can't keep anything to yourselves. Besides," he sighed, as he reached for the bowl of chopped liver, "how the hell did I know what it meant? You know me. I put everything in my pockets and hope it adds up later."
He waved the card significantly. "Well, Irish, this just added up. Both these ladies were students at the same art school. The one that died was there a little earlier. And you heard Cliffie. The place is full of sex fiends."
"Oh, you don't believe that jerk," Trask protested. "He probably regards the Miss Universe contest as straight sex. That man's warped. And besides he's insanely jealous of his wife, couldn't you see that? He'd probably like to knife the guy in the supermarket or the bank, too. Anybody who looked at his wife."
Bishop nodded seriously. "I know that. That's why I'm going to do this quietly. I want you to check on the guys in the market and the bank. And guys she talks to. Get their backgrounds. Check to see if they have any records. The way I figure, if she did recognize the guy or he seemed familiar, it could be anyone she might run into occasionally while shopping or something. But even if I don't qualify as an art lover to you, Irish, I know this. Wherever there are stacked nudes to be looked at, you'll find at least one guy who isn't paying the fee just to sketch the models' anatomy. Maybe I'm all wet, but I think the prowler may just be down there. Anyway, we won't make any fuss. We'll just do a little looking ourselves. It's odd that the girls at that school have such a hard time recognizing people they see in class every night."
They were getting out of the booth, when the waiter signaled. "Telephone call for you, Lieutenant. By the cashier's counter."
"Hello," Bishop said into the receiver. "Lieutenant Bishop?" a hoarse voice said. "Sergeant Powell here. Some woman just reported a prowler in the same neighborhood as the Bruce woman. I thought it might be your man."
"Give me her name and number," Bishop said quickly. He waved excitedly at Trask.
A moment later he was speaking to the woman on the phone.
A little flustered by all the police attention, she admitted sheepishly that the prowler had not really bothered her, but another woman.
"I saw him looking into the window of a house across the alley from me," she said. "Miss Rosson lives there. Sally Rosson. The man was acting so strange I thought I should call the police."
Bishop thanked her. He dialed Sally Rosson's home and spoke to her for a moment.
"Maybe we've hit pay dirt," he said to his assistant when he had hung up. "This girl may really know the guy."
Their excitement wore off soon after they met the lady.
Sally Rosson was not sure, after all, if she knew the prowler. She had thought it over and she felt now she had made a mistake.
She was a tall, pleasant-faced blonde in shorts and halter. She met them with a disarming smile, and when she spoke, she was calm and self-confident.
"What happened, exactly," she said, crossing her long, shapely legs, "was that I was taking my usual sitz bath at about one o'clock. You see, I'm a physical therapy instructor at a chain of women's slenderizing salons and I have to keep in shape. Well, I do it by eating lots of health foods and taking these special sitz baths. You know what a sitz bath is, don't you, Lieutenant? You fill the tub just enough so your fann-I mean your-well, your bottom is covered and-"
"I know," Bishop said. "Look, Miss Rosson, get to the point, please. You were sitting on yourer-bottom in the tub when he came. Just what did happen?"
"Well, I was sitting there and then I leaned back, you know, when I saw this man's face in the window. Well, you know I'm not the screaming type, so I didn't scream. But I told him to git fast."
"Did he say anything, Miss Rosson?" Bishop asked. "Did you recognize his voice?"
The girl shook her head restlessly and walked about the room, moving ashtrays and couch pillows.
"No, he just laughed." She chuckled. "He didn't really frighten me, Lieutenant. I think he scared the living daylights out of my neighbor across the alley though."
"Well, what did he look like?" Trask asked respectfully. He had been admiring the girl's lithe blonde loveliness ever since he entered the room.
The girl turned her china-blue eyes toward him and smiled in a way that sent a tingle down his spine.
"Well, he was tall, I guess, Sergeant. Around thirty-five or so, maybe more. Dark hair, wore glasses and wore an ordinary suit."
"Well, why didn't you phone us?" Bishop asked irritably. "You knew a murder had been committed by a prowler in this area. And you knew another attack had been made this afternoon, a few blocks away."
Sally Rosson looked surprised. "No, I didn't know about that one. Was she killed, too?"
Bishop shook his head. "No. But this may have been the same guy. If you'd called us, we might have nabbed him."
The blonde laughed. "I guess I didn't think it was anything to call the police about. I hate women who are always running to people for help. Besides, I guess I thought if he did anything or tried anything, I could handle him."
She flexed a muscle. "Feel that, Lieutenant."
Bishop felt it. It was as hard as steel.
She let Trask feel it. The big Irishman flushed as he felt the taut strength in the girl's arm.
"Don't get too cocky, ma'am," Bishop said. "These guys sometimes carry guns or knives. They wouldn't give you much time to try handgrips. Not some of the boys I've known."
The New Yorker's eyes narrowed. "Now let's get back to the prowler in your alley. You sounded on the phone like you might know the man. Now you say you didn't. Are you positive he wasn't someone you've seen before? Think hard, Miss Rosson. This is very important."
The blonde athlete's lips tightened and her face colored slightly. She began forming words with her lips, then suddenly shook her head firmly. "I don't know him."
"I don't believe you," Bishop said slowly. "You did recognize him. Who was he?"
The girl's features again registered a momentary indecision, but she said nothing.
"You're protecting a dangerous criminal, Miss Rosson. Now who was it?"
She shook her head firmly. "No one, I tell you. All right, I thought I recognized someone. But I'm not sure. And I'm not going to put some innocent man in a police net."
"Let us decide if he's innocent," Trask said.
She shook her head. "No. I once knew a man who was falsely accused. It ruined his life. He had to quit his job, his wife left him-everything."
Bishop stared at her another moment and, sighing, rose. It was apparent that this stubborn girl wasn't going to tell them anything else. He nodded reluctantly to Trask, who was staring raptly at her, and was turning toward the door when he saw a jar with paint brushes through the kitchen door. His heart skipped a beat.
"Do you paint?" he asked casually.
She smiled, relieved that he had dropped the other matter. "Some. I'm taking lessons."
"At the Acme Art Center?" Bishop said, just as casually.
"Yes," she said. Bishop exchanged a quick glance with Trask and smiled at her. "Are you going there tonight?"
She nodded.
"What time?" he asked softly.
The smile drained from her face. "About 8:30," she said slowly. "Why?"
Bishop's eyes studied hers. "You know why. The man is a student there. Isn't he?"
She shook her head violently.
"Then tell us who he is," Bishop said.
"No," she said adamantly.
"Well, we'll see you down there then," Bishop said.
"Please don't come there, Lieutenant. You might make him do something desperate. He's very insecure, and I know he's tried to commit suicide once."
Bishop's patience broke. "For God's sake, ma'am, stop trying to play psychologist and tell us who it is you recognized. You may be playing with a murderer. A murderer who might be trying to strangle someone right now. Can't you get that into your head?"
She hesitated. "I'll tell you what I will do, Lieutenant. I'll watch him tonight, and if I really feel certain it was him, I'll tell you."
The New Yorker shook his head. "You're playing with TNT, lady. If he thinks you're out to finger him, you're cooked. He'll go for your throat like a starved eagle. Do you know what it feels like to have a madman tighten a stocking around your gullet? Or carve you up with a knife? Slowly, maliciously?"
"Leave it, Mike," Trask said, sensing the girl's discomfort. "Maybe we can give her idea a try."
"No, damn it," Bishop snapped, angrily. He stared at Sally. "For the last time, what's his name?"
Sally Rosson looked at him. At last she shook her head. Bishop walked angrily out of the apartment.
Trask patted the girl's hand sympathetically.
"Keep your door locked, Miss Rosson," he said. "And don't let the lieutenant throw you. He's all worked up about this case."
She flashed him a warm smile. "I'll be careful," she said, "and thanks."
When they reached their car, Bishop called headquarters. "If that bastard saw us go in there, she's in serious danger."
He ordered another car to patrol Sally's area. When he hung up a few minutes later, he turned to Trask excitedly. "Listen, I just got some interesting poop. You know this guy Swaller we talked to? He's been married three times and was involved in a Mann Act case a couple of years ago. Took some girl out of the country and shacked up with her."
"What happened with the Mann Act case?" Trask asked.
"It was thrown out of court. The dame was proved to be a call girl and, besides, she insisted she paid her own way. They spent some time in a plush hotel in Mexico City and came back. She was a twenty-two-year-old kid. He's at least forty, I'd say."
"What's your point?" Trask asked, as they cruised slowly through the homecoming traffic.
"Nothing much. Only it takes a certain type to pay the tab for a thing like that. All his ex-wives accused him of continuously playing around with secretaries, clerks-anybody he'd run into. One of the wives said the guy's desire for women was insatiable."
Trask nodded. "Very interesting. Want to have him picked up for more questioning?"
"No," Bishop said, as they drew up to the station house near Hollywood and Vine Street. "We'll be seeing him later if we want him."
Trask looked quizzical. "We will? Where?"
"At the art school." Bishop looked at his assistant's expression and grinned. "I forgot to tell you. When I looked through his wallet, I saw the Acme school card in it. Well, it figures, doesn't it? He's got another nude to stare at for several hours."
A few minutes later, in his office, Lieutenant Bishop sighed and called his wife.
"I won't be home until late, Helen," he said softly.
"How late?" his wife asked suspiciously. "Shall I wait dinner?"
"No," Bishop said. "I'll be too late. Listen, Helen, you remember my mentioning some sex offender who used a camera?"
"I'm not sure," Helen said. "Why?"
"Well, there's a guy in this case. Well, not really involved in it yet. But he uses a tiny camera. One of those German jobs-Minox. I remember about two or three years ago they picked up a guy who had been working in one of these slenderizing joints-you know, where women go to take pounds off. This guy with the small camera-now it may have been a Minox or it may have been something bigger. Anyway he was a handyman around the place and he used to take pictures of the girls in the nude. I believe he used to drill a hole in the wall or something. Damn it, I almost know the guy's name. But there are so many around here to remember."
"Well, don't ask me to remember," his wife said bitterly. "I have better things to do than remember such people."
"Don't get sore, honey," he said. "I only asked you because you always recall these things."
"I don't recall anything," she said irritably.
"If you could only remember this guy with the camera," Bishop began, "it might-"
"I don't remember," Helen snapped, "and I don't want to hear any more about your damned cases. I'll be interested in hearing about your work when they make you a captain and put you onto some sensible duty." The phone slammed onto the hook.
CHAPTER EIGHT
If Joann Crowley had not read the story in the paper, she would not have been frightened of the quiet stranger.
She had walked down to the back cellar of her pool apartment to do her laundry. As usual she had waited until the later afternoon, when it was coolest and when she knew she would be alone. Too early and you had the housewives. Too late and you were crowded by the wage slaves. Since she got home at two-thirty from her teaching job, she could pick her own time.
About four, once a week, she took a pile of washing down, cigarettes, and the afternoon paper. The owner had generously installed a couch and coffee table and a stand-up lamp. It was like doing the laundry at home, and to keep things cool, she usually came down in her bikini after a swim.
The story about the prowler would not have interested her except for Penny's part in it. She was startled to see her name because she worked just behind Penny at the Acme Art Center:
PROWLER AT NOON Mrs. Penny Bruce of 1671 Balustrade Street, Hollywood, barely escaped being murdered by a prowler in her apartment today. The pretty young housewife escaped the rapist, who had gained entry into her home by posing as a County employee, by locking herself in her bathroom after alerting her husband.
Mrs. Bruce, 25, could not identify her assailant except that he was a tall, well-dressed man with glasses, in his thirties or forties, who carried a briefcase. The intruder, posing as a survey maker, first asked Mrs. Bruce some extremely personal questions about her marriage, then forced her to undress so he could attack her. A chance telephone call from her husband and quick thinking enabled her to give him the slip.
"I think what really helped me was that I didn't panic," Mrs. Bruce said. "I could see he was unbalanced and if I had shown any panic or threatened him, I think he would have killed me then and there."
As she finished the story, she made a mental note to ask Penny about it later and closed her eyes. The long swim, the hot day and the wonderful softness of the couch had made her drowsy. She let the paper slide to the floor and stretched her long legs comfortably.
The stranger came in so softly he did not awaken her. For a long moment, he stared quietly at the girl's breasts as they rose and fell with her breathing, and at her long, beautiful legs which tapered gracefully from round, showgirl thighs. He had admired her round, firm breasts moving up and down and the beautifully sculptured legs gave him a new sensation. He felt an urge to stroke her legs and came closer. The sound of his shoes scraping the newspaper awakened her. She sat up self-consciously.
"I-I'm sorry. I guess I fell asleep," she said, smiling sheepishly. "I'll be through with the machine in a minute."
Then she noticed that all he carried was a briefcase.
"I don't want to use the machine," he said in a voice that sounded somehow familiar. It was a voice she had heard somewhere.
"Are you a new tenant?" she asked politely. There were so many people moving in and out that she couldn't keep up with them.
"No," he said smiling. "I don't live here. Actually, I'm making a survey for the County and I wanted to ask you some questions."
"How'd you know I was here?" she asked, surprised.
"I saw you come here," he said quietly. His eyes moved over her body as he talked and she began to feel uncomfortable.
"Are you a virgin, Miss Crowley?" he asked quicky.
She reddened. "Say, what is this, mister?"
"I'd like to know if you're a virgin?" the man said. "And if you're not, how many times you have sexual intercourse every week?"
She felt her blood run cold. It all fitted into place now. The newspaper story, the man's appearance and his questions all pointed to one thing. She felt a dryness in her throat as he sat down beside her and caressed her bare leg.
"What's the matter, Miss Crowley?" he asked politely. "Anything wrong with my questions? No worse than that Kinsey Report, are they?"
"No, no," she said in a hoarse voice as her heart pounded.
"Well, are you a virgin?"
"No." She stiffened as his big hand cupped her breast. Don't panic for God's sake, she told herself. Don't give him any reason to be afraid.
"Do you have sexual intercouse several times a week?"
She shook her head slowly. He began to undo the top of her swimsuit. She made no attempt to stop him. She had read too many stories about women being strangled because they resisted.
"You're not afraid of me?" he asked surprised.
"No."
His voice was so familiar now that she was positive she had talked to him before. But she could not place the face with the dark eyes, behind the owlish frame glasses and the slicked-back hair.
As he removed the top of her suit, she said carefully, "Can I please go now? I have an appointment and must dress."
"No," he said irritably. He began to caress her breasts and then bent to kiss them. She could feel his teeth closing on them and shuddered.
If he bit her or mauled her, she would scream. She was certain of that. Would anyone hear her, she wondered? It was not likely. The rear ceHar was cut off from the pool area and no one came at this hour. She steeled herself not to cry out and prayed that he would not hurt her.
"Don't be afraid," he said. "I won't hurt you. All I want to do is love you. I've wanted to make love to you ever since I first saw you paint that Chinese girl. I wanted to rip your shorts and halter off the first time I saw you. But you looked right through me," he said a little resentfully. "Like the rest of them."
Her eyes widened as he removed the bottom of her swimsuit.
The remark suddenly told her who the stranger was.
She had not recognized him until he mentioned the Chinese girl. She remembered the man who kept coming behind her to examine the painting and to touch her "accidentally" each time. She remembered feeling naked under the constant stares he gave her across the room. She remembered with a sinking feeling that Penny had complained about him, too.
He began to run his hands over her breasts and thighs and back, so close to her now that she could hear his heavy breathing and smell his breath. She willed herself not to show terror.
"I want you bad," he said in a rasping tone. "Now."
He covered her body with his own and then loosened his clothing. Slowly, meticulously, his hot, damp fingers began to caress her.
"I'm glad you're sensible," he said. "I've had just about enough rejections today. I'd have to kill you just as I'll kill that other bitch who yelled cop."
He worked himself up to a peak of desire.
"No," she begged. "No."
"Don't be a fool," he retorted. "I told you I'd had enough rejections today. Make one sound and I'll strangle you."
He put his hands around her throat warningly.
She lay still under him and held her breath as his nails raked the small of her back.
He stared with gazed, fascinated eyes at her firm breasts and athletic thighs.
"You're beautiful," he whispered. "How many nights up there I wanted to do this. How many nights I undressed you as you bent over that easel."
He ran his fingers through her long, black hair.
"You've got beautiful hair, Joann Crowley," he said slowly. "Like spun silk. I used to he awake thinking of how wonderful it must look, the long black silky hair against those milk-white shoulders. I wanted to photograph that, but you woudn't have it. Beautiful, silky hair. Hair's very important, isn't it? You like my hair, Joann? You think it's beautiful now? I go to a very expensive hairdresser."
He put firm pressure on her legs. Then brutally he made love to her. The naked girl felt sick at what he was doing to her, but she did not fight him. She prayed that someone would hear the springs of the old couch or come to use the machine. She was certain he meant to kill her.
Don't panic! Penny got away because she waited until the right moment. He won't kill you if you don't panic and scream.
As he continued to make love to her, nearly smothering her in his tight embrace, her mind tried to think. If she could get him to go upstairs with her, she might get away. She might run for it or lock herself away as Penny had done.
She waited until he reached his climax. Then she said, "Will you come upstairs with me? It's cold here."
He looked at her with suspicion. "What are you trying to do? Run away?"
She quailed at the madness in his eyes. She shook her head.
"You want to yell copper!" he said angrily. Suddenly his rage broke its bounds and he began to tighten his fingers around her throat. "Maybe I ought to kill you now."
"No," she gasped, wrenching her throat away. "Don't kill me. Please don't kill me." She fought to get off the couch, kicking at him with both legs. He grabbed her strong legs and pinned them under him.
"Why shouldn't I?" he retorted. "What good are you? You'll only yell copper as soon as I go. You're all alike. You hate me. You don't even think of me as a man." He moved toward her throat again.
"Please don't kill me," she pleaded. "I'll do anything you say. I'll even let you make those pictures you need for that contest."
His hands stopped suddenly, poised above her windpipe.
"What pictures?" he asked quietly. "When did I ask you for pictures?"
"You wanted nude poses for that national contest," she gasped. "I'll let you take them. Don't kill me, for God's sake."
"Do you know who I am?" he asked sadly. "If you remember those pictures, you know who I am. I can't let you live now, Joann. I'm sorry. I'll have to kill you now."
He tightened his grip on her throat just in time to cut off her scream. A moment later he left, just as quietly as he had come.
Bishop and Trask saw her two hours later.
As he lowered the white sheet covering her, the lieutenant turned sadly to Trask. "We'll have to give this a night and day treatment. I think I know now what he's trying to do."
"What?"
"I think he's getting even for every girl in that art school who turned him down. I've met his kind before. He's probably been brooding about revenge for weeks and he's almost psychotic by the time he meets up with them. It doesn't take much to push him completely over the line. We've got to get over to that art school fast. Before he tries to rape or murder every girl who gave him the brush."
CHAPTER NINE
There is no real Left Bank in Hollywood, but in the soft glow of a full moon, the visitor can think of Santa Monica Boulevard as the closest approach to Montparnasse. In daylight, it is a depressing thoroughfare where the grimy facades of two-bit cafes, junk shops, strip joints and gas stations succeed one another with the sameness of toothpaste being squeezed from an endless tube.
At night it can be quite different. The glow of the green and red neon signs, the knots of cars around the little theaters, the French language movie houses and the sight of hyper-thyroid youths, zigzagging, in beards and sandals, to the fashionable coffeehouses, can make the visitor think that he is driving along the Boulevard Montparnasse.
The Acme Art Center occupied the lower half of a dirty-red brick building near Fairfax Avenue. The dusty sign outside announced classes for beginners and advanced students in painting, sculpture and mosaics.
The school itself consisted of a large store front and a huge cellar. The store front resembled the waiting room of a prosperous fortune-teller. All it lacked was a crystal ball. Thick crimson carpets covered the floors, several barely visible paintings in a Cubist vein hung on the dark, shadowy walls; in the center stood a big, forbidding piece of sculpture which looked like a guided missile. It was labeled: Sensual Love 1959.
Mike Bishop and Al Trask moved aside the heavy black drapes which screened the room from the street and blinked their eyes in the sickly orange light streaming from an overhead lamp. The shadows in the room made it seem full of unseen animals. Bishop stared around him for a long moment.
"Place looks like the Egyptian Department of the Brooklyn Museum," he said finally. "It smells like it, too."
"Somebody's been eating Limburger and onions," Trask said, sniffing the air cautiously.
They approached the walls and peered at the pictures. "What the hell is that?" Trask asked, pointing to a huge portrait of several guitars and mandolins mixed in a kind of musical fruit salad.
Bishop stared at it. "Where the hell is everybody?"
"Beats me," Trask said. "This is the address all right."
The two men put their big drawing tablets on the long table.
"Maybe Sally gave us a bum steer," Bishop said. "Maybe they don't meet Friday nights." He yanked the cellophane wrapper from one of the short, stubby cigars he smoked. "If that dame lied to us, I'll-"
"Why should she?" Trask asked. "Sit down, Mike. Could be we're early."
Suddenly they heard a sound behind them. As they turned, the thick drapes moved to admit a thin dark-haired girl. She wore a skintight leotard with a bright gold belt around her waist and sandals. The tightness of the garment emphasized her long, tapering legs and thighs and her firm, pointed breasts. Her long dark hair was uncombed. She smiled in a friendly way. "Are you waiting for someone?" she asked pleasantly. "Or just lost?"
"We're looking for the Acme Art Center," Trask said. "Is this it?"
The girl's eyes widened. "You're art students?"
"Yeah," Bishop said truculently. "Why?"
"Nothing," she grinned. "You just didn't look the type."
"We're the type," Bishop said, chewing his cigar. "Where is it? Is there a secret panel in the wall or what?"
"No. It's in the rear. Back of that little door is a stairway and that leads to the basement. You can follow me. I'm going there."
"Are you a student?" Trask asked, grinning.
The girl seemed amused. "Not exactly. I'm the model."
"The model?" Trask's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really. Look, I'm a little late. So if you'll excuse me-" She nodded and moved gingerly toward the back. The two men watched the trim figure of the girl appreciatively.
"Say, what the hell are you complaining about?" Trask said, laughing. "I'm beginning to enjoy this case."
Bishop grinned sheepishly. "Yeah. This is one detail I'll have to keep from my wife. I always tell her you have to chase criminals through sewers like in Les Miserables."
As they descended the stairway, they could hear faint laughter. They opened a door at the bottom and entered a large, brilliantly lighted room full of smoke, noise, people and the smell of beer. The studio was much larger than the upstairs store front and much cooler. Only the center was being used by the art class.
On the sides, deep, shadowy alcoves held finished statues, canvases, and other paraphernalia. A large bulletin board near the door exhibited dozens of pictures of students in various stages of undress and was headlined Halloween 1959.
Bishop blinked his eyes and looked about the room. Nearly a hundred people were busy working at clay models or paintings. Many of them had open beer cans on their stands or on the floor, and were smoking. The women were dressed for the most part in shorts and halters or tight-fitting capri pants. The men in old slacks and sport shirts. A few seconds after they entered, they saw the model come out from behind a Chinese screen and take her place on a dais in the center of the studio. This time she was nude.
Several eyes glanced at them with mild interest as they came in the doorway until Dino Pucci, the tall, heavily-moustached owner of the Acme Art Center, rose and shook hands with them.
"Good evening," he said. "My name's Pucci. I own the school."
"I didn't want to disturb the class," Bishop said. "All we want to do is look around."
Pucci winked. "Miss Rosson tipped me off you were coming. But don't worry. Your secret's safe with me. Anything special you want to know about the school?"
"Yeah," Bishop said. "Do you have any queer ducks here, anybody who might have a police record? For any reason?"
Dino shook his head. "We've got some characters but no criminals."
"What kind of characters?" Trask said.
The Italian shrugged. "Characters. Like Brendt there-he's an actor. There's a girl who does ballet. Another guy does nothing all night but miniatures of the model-about two-feet-high paintings, and a guy who spends most of his time photographing the model with a midget camera. When I say characters, I mean they're not run-of-the-mill art students."
"What about Tom Swaller?" Bishop asked softly.
"What about him, Lieutenant?"
"Give us a run-down on him."
Pucci looked at him blankly.
"Look, Pucci," Bishop said softly. "Don't horse with me. There's a guy here who killed a couple students of yours and failed to kill another today. Tomorrow he may go back and finish the job."
The art instructor sparred. "What makes you so sure it's anyone here?"
Bishop rose annoyedly. "Look, I don't have to explain myself to you. I'm a police officer and I'm investigating a murder. Now either talk or I'll ask you to come down to my office to answer questions I want answered. What is it you're so reluctant to spill?"
Pucci squirmed under the little-detective's eyes. He clenched his fists and stared at the big Irishman next to him. "What makes you think the prowler's here?" he asked.
"The. lieutenant asked you a question," Trask reminded him.
Pucci sighed. "Jesus, a guy just starts a place with every lousy buck he has and, boom, something comes along to screw it. What the hell did I do? Nobody'll come near the joint when this gets into the papers."
"Pucci!" Bishop said warningly. "I'm waiting. What do you know?"
"All right, all right," the Italian said, chewing his rum-soaked cigar. "The thing is all these places with live models get a few crackpots-you know, guys who are oversexed and come down just to see some flesh. But I seem to draw the worst kind."
"What do you mean?" Bishop said. "The worst kind. What does that mean?"
"Well, there are a few guys who bother the girls-doesn't matter whether they're married or not. One guy got a girl's husband so riled up he beat the bejesus out of him."
"Ever give any parties?" Trask asked.
Pucci shrugged again. "Parties, that's all. I give one every few weeks. All the students come. Sometimes it's a costume ball. Sometimes it's come as you are."
"From the pictures on that bulletin board," Bishop said, "a lot of them come in damned little."
"These parties get pretty wild? A lot of drinking?" Trask asked.
Pucci shook his head quickly. "Any marihuana smoked?" Trask asked. "I should drop dead on the spot if there is," Pucci said indignantly.
"What about the husband who beat up a student? What was that about?" Bishop asked suddenly.
The Italian reddened. "Well, that happened at a party. The guy got fresh with her. I didn't know anything about it until after it happened."
"Who was the girl?" Bishop said.
Pucci hesitated. "Donna Tyler."
The New Yorker's eyes widened. "The girl who was killed?"
"Yeah. Tom Swaller was pretty drunk and he started making passes at her. He maneuvered her into a dark corner while he was dancing. About ten minutes later she started yelling. Claimed he was trying to pull off her clothes so he could sketch her."
"You mean he was trying to rape her?" Trask said.
"No," Pucci said. "No offense to the dead, but Donna was kind of a tease. She had a jugful and liked everybody to notice it. She might have led him on."
"Jugful?" Bishop asked bewildered. "You mean she was drunk?"
"No, man." Pucci looked at him as if he were joking. "A big bust. She was stacked. Always teasing the boys by wearing narrow halters and all that jazz."
"Get back to the incident with Swaller," Bishop said.
"Well, like I said, Swaller was trying to make a pass. Her halter was untied. All of a sudden she started yelling he was trying to rape her. Naturally Swaller denied the whole thing."
"Did Swaller ever get mixed up in anything else? Try anything with any of the other girls?" Bishop asked.
Pucci thought for a moment. "Well, he dates a lot of girls. Offers to take them home or take them out for coffee after class. We usually go to a little coffeehouse up on Melrose Avenue when we break up around 10:30 here. A place called Gogo's. We have a couple of drinks and we get kind of chummy. Sometimes some of the guys pair off with the girls. It's none of my business what they do after class. Well, Swaller's been trying to make nearly all of them."
"Anybody else complain?"
"No," Pucci said, "not to me anyhow. Look, can I go back to the class now? I'm supposed to be teaching them."
"In a minute," Bishop answered. "We got a few more questions. Are there any other guys you can tell us anything about?"
Pucci gave a weak laugh. "Well, Jesus, Lieutenant, nearly everybody in the class has looked at a girl now and then. I don't know if that makes him a sex fiend."
"I didn't say it made him anything," Bishop said. "I just want to know if any of them did anything odd. What about this guy with the camera?"
Pucci smiled. "Jim Steiner? Jim is harmless. He does a little sculpturing now and then, but his real interest is photography. He's always submitting a nude to those contests in New York or Chicago. He only comes in once in a while. Jim is a little weak upstairs, you know. I know he's tried to date several of the prettier students, but they sort of laugh at him just like they laugh at Sy Brendt."
"Has Brendt been in any trouble?"
The instructor laughed. "Hell, no. He pinches a few of the girls now and then when we have a party, or tries to cop a feel, but he wouldn't try anything serious. The guy's scared of his shadow. That's why he admires Swaller so much. He's always sucking around the guy, trying to find out how he does it. Look, Lieutenant, let me get back there, huh?"
"Okay," Bishop said. "Point this Steiner out to us when he gets here."
CHAPTER TEN
The three men left the dark alcove and walked slowly to the brilliantly lighted center of the studio. Pucci pointed to two empty easels in one corner of the room. Then he wandered off to inspect his students' work.
The detectives quietly opened their pads and began to sketch the nude model who was sitting on a stool, in a circle made by the students.
Bishop looked interestedly at the model. She was beautiful and he didn't blame anybody for staring at her, as an artist or as a man. Her firm, pear-shaped breasts jutted out from the thin torso as she sat there with a bored look.
As the detectives glanced around they noticed Tom Swaller, Sally Rosson, and Penny Bruce sketching.
"What do we do now?" Trask asked his chief.
"Just sit here and watch," Bishop said. "I want to see what Sally Rosson does if Steiner shows."
Trask nodded and continued his sketching, stealing glances now and then at Sally. The blonde was dressed fetchingly in a long skintight yellow capri suit.
"I don't say I'm not enjoying this, Mike," the Irishman said, winking at him, "but I don't see what you've got to gain just sitting here and sketching."
Bishop didn't answer. He was not sure himself what he expected to gain. He studied the faces of the men at the easels.
Why did the idea of a sex criminal who used a midget camera keep striking a chord in his mind? The name itself meant nothing. Was he a sex offender under another name, he wondered? Had he read about him somewhere? He couldn't remember, and the suspense was killing him.
He had been sketching about twenty minutes when suddenly he noticed Sally look toward the stairway. Bishop turned to follow her gaze. A tall, thin man in a dark sport shirt and gray slacks and wearing brown-framed glasses was coming down the stairway. Around his neck hung a small camera.
Steiner, he thought. He watched the man move cautiously around the room as he worked at the controls of his precision camera. Trask had noticed the man at the same moment. They looked at Pucci who was standing nearby. He nodded quickly. "Did you ever see him before?" Bishop asked his partner.
Trask scrutinized the tall, thin man carefully. "No. Have you?"
"No, goddamn it, and that's what's bugging me."
The newcomer passed behind Penny Bruce and looked at her sketching, nodded, and moved on to Swaller.
An interesting reaction was taking place in Sally. She had bent over her easel, turning her back to the detectives, and was doing something they could not see.
"What's she up to?" Bishop said.
"I don't know," his sidekick answered. "I can't see. She's blocking it."
A moment later, as Steiner came up to her easel, Sally Rosson opened her palm and raised it closer to his face. He took her hand and looked at it smilingly. Then his whole body went suddenly stiff and he seemed to stop breathing. He put her hand down slowly.
Walking toward the rear of the studio, he seemed to be studying the bulletin board. Then very casually he turned and moved to the rear until he was out of sight.
"Follow him. See where he's going," Bishop said.
Trask went after the departing figure while Bishop moved closer to Sally Rosson.
"What did you say to him?" Bishop growled. "Nothing," she said.
"Was that the man who came by your window today?"
"I don't know," Sally said, unconvincingly.
"What were you showing him when he came up to you?"
"Nothing."
"Let's see your hand!"
Sally clenched her fist and laughed. "What are you doing, reading palms now?"
Bishop grinned. "Yeah, I'm a fortune-teller. Let's see your hand."
She opened her hand slowly. All he could see was a kind of blotched sentence, the only clear word of which was "police." By clenching her fist and rubbing her fingers across the surface of her palm, Sally Rosson had effectively blurred the rest of the message.
Bishop turned his back to her and moved quickly to Penny Bruce. She looked up frightenedly.
"Mrs. Bruce, you saw Steiner. Was that the man who visited you today?"
Penny's lip quivered nervously. "I think so," she said.
Trask returned a moment later and shook his head. "He's gone, Mike. Back door."
Bishop went back to Sally. "I suppose you think you're smart?"
Sally tightened her lips and said nothing.
"Are you sure that he wasn't the guy in your alley? Can you guarantee it?" Bishop asked. "Are you willing to swear to it?"
Sally Rosson glared at him. "What if he was, damn it? He doesn't mean any harm. He may be a little queer but he's harmless. You think I'm going to help you put a man like that through a third degree? No, thanks."
"We don't put people through third degrees."
"You mean you did see him in the alley?" Trask's cool voice asked. "It if as Steiner, wasn't it?"
Sally reddened. She nodded slowly, not looking at Bishop.
"And it wasn't the first time you saw him in the alley?" Trask asked. "That right?"
The blonde hesitated, avoiding his eyes.
"Look, Miss Rosson," Bishop said softly, "we're not sadists. If this man is an idiot, we'll handle him gently."
Sally shook her head miserably. "I don't know what to do. I don't want to be responsible for having the man put away again."
"What about me?" Penny exploded. "Suppose he tries to come back? He's already promised to kill me. You've got to tell them what you know, Sally. For my sake, please."
Sally looked at her and then made her decision. "All right. I'll tell you." She was aware suddenly of the circle of curious faces around her. "Can we go in the rear, please?" she whispered.
Bishop nodded. They moved back to one of the dimly-lit alcoves.
Sally pressed her hand to her eyes. "He's been coming into my alley like this for months. And he told me he goes to other places. He said he liked to watch people living. That's how he put it, people living. He's like a child sometimes. Even though he's been through college, lived in Europe and all. He told me he was drawn to the alley by my beauty. Whenever he wants to see a beautiful woman living, you know, cooking, washing, eating, he peeks into windows." She flushed. "He told me that's why he kept coming back to mine."
"And you just encouraged him," Bishop said, bridging his eyes wearily with his hand. "God save us from amateur psychologists. You ever think he might have come in and strangled you? Even while he watched you-living?"
Trask shook his head sadly. "That wasn't bright, Sally," he said. "You're better off feeding peanuts to a cobra."
"But he didn't do anything. Even when I ask him in, he usually just sits there and stares. Sometimes he cries."
The nagging thought that he knew the man returned to Bishop. "Did he ever give you another name, Miss Rosson?" he asked. "Think hard now."
She pursed her lips and pondered for a moment. Then she shook her head.
Did he ever mention a place where he might have been held against his will? Where they did this thing?"
He turned to Trask. "We'd better check the state hospitals-Camarillo and the others to see if anyone of his description escaped in the last-how long has he been coming down here, Miss Rosson?"
"About a year," she said.
"Did he say anything else about himself?" Sergeant Trask asked. "Anything that might help us identify him?"
"I don't remember much else," Sally said. "He's told me only that he's afraid of the police. That they caught him taking something once, and even though he put it back, they beat him terribly. But he's never said anything more-except he doesn't remember everything that happens. He blacks out sometimes."
"How many times has he come into your alley?" Bishop asked.
"About once or twice a week."
"About what time of the day?"
Sally colored. "Usually early in the afternoon." She stared at Penny and at the detectives. "But he told me he comes then because he likes to take pictures in the best light."
"You've been posing for him?" Bishop said.
Sally nodded without looking at him.
"In the nude?"
She hesitated and then nodded. "Yes. He enters a lot of contests. He showed me newspaper clippings."
"Has he every tried anything?" Bishop asked slowly. "I mean did he ever make a pass or get rough?"
Sally reddened.
"Tell us about it, Miss Rosson," Bishop said. "It might help." He looked at Penny. "Unless you'd prefer to tell us privately."
Sally shook her head. "No, I'll tell you here." She stopped to think. "I think he must have blacked out then because he never did it again."
Bishop said slowly, "Tell us everything he said or did. It may give us a lead."
"How?" Sally asked.
Bishop closed his eyes. "Lady, I've been chasing sex offenders a long time. I know a lot of their mannerisms. You may be dealing with someone I knew, under another name. If you tell me everything, it may ring a bell. Now, do you understand?"
She nodded slowly. "It was one afternoon when he took some pictures on the beach."
"What beach?" Bishop said. "And was this the first time? Does he take beach nudes often?"
"Near the Ventura County line," she said. She clenched her fist. "Oh, God, I don't remember. It was nearly a year ago."
"I don't think it matters," Trask said quickly. "Does it, Mike?"
Bishop's eyes widened as he heard the Irishman. He shrugged.
"What happened? Look, Miss Rosson. I'm not trying to pin you to the wail. But for God's sake, there's a killer loose. Now let's get to your story, huh?"
The pretty blonde girl grimaced. "Look, can't we do this tomorrow? I'm exhausted. I've had a hard day getting fat off of Beverly Hills housewives and that little interview a couple of hours ago wasn't exactly restful. I wish I'd gone to bed."
Trask looked very concerned. "Maybe I can get it in the morning, Mike. She's pretty beat."
Bishop looked at him and smiled. Trask reddened as his boss's grin widened. Nonetheless, the girl's grateful look made him feel warm inside.
"Miss Rosson, I want to know everything I can about this man's habits. His behavior. His speech. It's important. Now please tell me," Bishop said.
Trask listened uncomfortably. His sympathy for Sally was making the scene very painful.
"Jim took me to the beach," Sally said slowly. "I stripped and posed against some rocks. It was Fall so there weren't people around."
"And then?"
"Then he wanted me to pose in some black lace panties."
"Black?" Bishop said quickly.
"Yes. Against the beach sands or running over the edge of the surf in my bare feet."
"Is that what they call sexy these days?" Bishop growled. "Go on. Then what happened, Miss Rosson?"
"Well, we took time out for some beer."
"Did you get dressed?"
"No, it was warm and we were only supposed to take a few minutes. Then Jim acted a little funny."
"How?"
"Well, he began to stare at me in a funny way. Like-like-" The blonde girl colored a delicate pink.
"Like a man who wanted to make love to you?"
"I guess so," she agreed slowly.
"What did you do?" Bishop asked.
"I tried to get him back to the pictures."
"What happened then?"
"He acted-well, very crushed. As if I'd hurt him terribly. Then he started kissing me on my cheek and crying. After that he moved away for a while and looked at me kind of mournfully."
"Then?"
"I fell asleep. I was tired from running and the sun and the beer. We were lying behind some rocks that screened us from the road and I didn't worry about people. I woke up-about ten-fifteen minutes later, I guess. He'd rolled his body on mine and was trying to tear my underwear. I was terrified by the look in his eyes. I thought he was trying to-" She stopped.
"Go on," Bishop said.
"Give her a minute, Mike, for God's sakes," Trask said.
Sally threw him a grateful look and continued. "I started wrestling with him. He broke his hold suddenly, began sobbing, and begged me on his knees not to tell the police. He said he'd lost his head because I was so beautiful. He'd become dizzy and blacked out. He confessed it had happened before."
Bishop turned to Sally. "Try to recall. Did he ever mention any hospital he was in? Camarillo? Los Angeles? Or others out of California?"
She shook her head. "No. But he was terrified that they'd send him away for attacking me. I never saw anyone so broken up. He was never like that again. In fact, he was always the opposite. Always sending me flowers or bringing me food."
"You should have told the police," Bishop said. "The man is probably a dangerous psychotic."
"But he didn't harm me. He didn't do any more than a lot of men do. People who are completely normal. What was I supposed to do? Have him arrested for blacking out a few minutes? I tell you he's a sweet, harmless guy, but I don't think he'd hurt anyone."
Bishop rubbed his hand on his neck. "This guy may be a child with you. With another girl-Penny Bruce, for example-he may be a maddened killer, triggered to murder in five seconds."
Pucci's approach stopped Bishop's next question.
"Call for you, Lieutenant. The alcove to your right."
He picked up the phone. "Lieutenant Bishop."
"Hello, Mike," his wife's voice answered. "Mike, I know who he is." Her voice was excited. "The sex offender who uses a tiny camera."
"Who was it?"
"You remember that case about three years ago where a guy used to go peeping in alleys and take pictures of girls? He used to come in and try to sell these women the pictures he had taken with the camera, and then, when they let him inside, he tried to attack them. Near Hollywood High School."
Bishop swore under his breath. Joe Sanderson! He suddenly remembered the man's name. Sanderson had been put away in a mental home and escaped a year later. "Thanks a million, darling," he told his wife.
He heard Helen snort. "Well, don't think I'm going to do this all the time. I had it on the tip of my tongue and I thought I'd call you. Actually, I knew it an hour after you asked me, but I was still so sore at your missing dinner that I almost didn't call you at all."
Bishop groaned. "Oh, Helen, Helen," he said, "you should have called right away. I didn't know who he was so I didn't hold him. I'll see you later."
"How much later?" she asked cannily.
"I don't know," Bishop retorted angrily. "Maybe 4:00 A.M. How the hell do I know where to find him now? It's a cinch he hasn't gone home if he knows we're looking for him. Why the hell didn't you call me as soon as you knew instead of keeping it to yourself?"
Helen's answer was brief and expressive. She hung up. Bishop stared at the phone. Then, hurriedly, he dialed headquarters. A moment later he told Trask who Steiner was and turned to Pucci to get his address.
The big Italian grinned helplessly. "I can't help you, Lieutenant. All I know is he lives over in the Silver Creek Lake district. He never gave an address."
"Does anybody here know where he lives?" Bishop asked irritably.
Pucci thought for a moment. Then his face brightened.
"Yeah!" he cried. "Brendt took him home a couple times. They live a few blocks away from one another. I'll get him, Lieutenant.
"Has Sanderson ever been charged with anything else?" Trask asked Bishop.
Bishop nodded. "He went berserk once and tried to throttle a woman who screamed for help when he entered her home."
Sally shook her head. "I can't believe it, Lieutenant. I just can't. Jim is the gentlest man I know. He could have killed me a dozen times when we were all alone."
"You're lucky he didn't, Sally," Trask said. "The gentlest are sometimes the most dangerous. They're human time bombs. Waiting for someone to push the button."
Sally's lips tightened and a whiteness appeared around her nostrils. "What if he comes back? Should I call you?"
"Yes," Bishop said. "But don't let him hear you. Never frighten him. It could be fatal." He hesitated and continued slowly. "If he ever shows up while you're phoning us, I mean if he's in the room, watch your step. Switch to something about a wrong number. Say you're sorry the other party has the wrong number. And to make it better, repeat any number and say no, it's not yours. In the most ordinary voice possible. These people can be acutely sensitive and react to the smallest detail."
The two girls nodded uneasily.
"Keep your doors locked, back and front, until further notice," Trask said. "Take no chances."
"God," Sally said. "Now I am getting scared."
They were interrupted by the arrival of Pucci and Brendt.
"Can you give us Sanderson-I mean Steiner's address?" Bishop said quickly.
The bald actor's narrow, dark eyes had a gleam in them. "Is he the guy?" he whispered. "The one who tried to kill Penny?"
"Answer my question, buddy," Bishop said, annoyed. "Now, where does he live?"
Sy Brendt's forehead suddenly broke out into small furrows. "I can't remember the exact address. It's on the other side of a hill I live on. I could find it with a car, but I don't remember the name of the street."
"You got a city map?" Trask asked Pucci.
"I got a better idea," Bishop interjected. "How about driving us there? Right now."
Brendt nodded. "I got my car outside."
"Let's go in mine," Bishop said. "It's got a siren and a phone. They may be sending messages on the way."
Trask turned to the blonde girl and tapped her arm gently. "Please be careful. I'll call you later to see if you're all right."
She smiled at him. "Thank you, Sergeant."
"If it's all right with you, Sir Walter Raleigh," Bishop said sarcasticaly, "Jimmie may be getting ready to kill four other women. What do you say we move?"
The big Irishman colored but said nothing.
A moment later the detectives and Brendt were speeding along Santa Monica Boulevard toward Highland Avenue and then north to the Los Angeles freeways.
"What kind of car does he drive?" Bishop shouted back to Brendt.
"A 1955 Chevy," Brendt gasped.
"You know him well?" Bishop asked.
"So-so," Brendt admitted. "We live close by and we get together now and then."
A few minutes later they climbed the hills above the Silver Creek reservoir.
Sanderson dwelled on a high winding street near the reservoir. It was a section of Los Angeles that had once been fashionable but now was inhabited mostly by transients. A number of painters, in love with the magnificent view of the vast, stretching city and the picture-postcard blob of water, lived in little stucco houses on the crests of steep rises.
The hilly S-shaped streets reminded Bishop of San Francisco as the car labored up the sharp inclines. Brendt continued to give instructions in a soft voice until they finally arrived.
Sanderson lived in a small stucco house just over the crest of a particularly steep hill. Trask jammed the front wheels against the curb and put the car into reverse so it would not roll downhill.
The house they headed for was a terrible imitation of a Cape Cod cottage with a grotesque cupola; obviously the whim of someone who juggled architectural styles. Bishop winced when he saw it. It had a large picture window that was covered with thick drapes. The door was locked and the lights out. Bishop motioned to Brendt to stay in the car. The detectives drew their guns and walked quietly to the rear of the house.
A door leading to a small patio was easily forced open. A moment later the two men filed through a dark corridor into a large room with a high ceiling. Bishop and Trask stood still for several seconds and listened. Not a sound. They were aware of a strong musty smell. After a moment, Bishop pulled down the blinds and turned on a small table lamp.
They had obviously stumbled on Sanderson's workshop. Two tables in the room were full of negatives and prints of nudes in a wide variety of poses. Checking them quickly, Bishop and Trask picked out photos of a dozen girls in the class. There were two pictures of Penny Bruce focused on the cleft of her melon-like breasts and one of Sally Rosson's derriere as she bent over her clay model.
"You think that's our prowler?" Trask asked.
Bishop nodded. "I'll put out an all-points on the phone right now." He looked at the Irishman and shrugged. "We haven't much chance of finding him probably. The guy may be halfway to the Mexican border by now."
Trask nodded sheepishly. "What else can we do?"
Bishop turned angrily toward Trask. "Nothing. If we're lucky, we may pick him up before he steals into another alley tomorrow. And if we're not, he may be strangling somebody in Laguna Beach or San Diego around noon. If that blonde you're getting loopy about hadn't opened her mouth, we'd have had him an hour ago. God! I hate motherly broads. When are people going to learn that you can't coddle psychos?"
The little detective looked around the room.
"Where the hell's the phone?" he asked. "I want to call headquarters."
They looked under the masses of photos and film supplies. Nothing.
"Let's get to the car," Bishop said.
Brendt was sitting quietly when they got back. Bishop raised headquarters on the auto phone. He ordered a stakeout opposite the house and asked to be informed if Sanderson were spotted anywhere.
"What color's his car?" he asked Brendt.
"Dark green."
"Look for a dark green Chevy-1955. License is under the name of Steiner probably," Bishop said into the phone. "Call me anytime he's spotted. The guy's a psycho and I want to be there when they take him. Be careful. He may be armed."
They took the actor back to his car near the art school. There was little conversation on the way. Both detectives were engrossed in trying to guess the prowler's next move. Finally Bishop said aloud, "I don't think he'll go near any of the girls in the school. Not for a while. He's on the run. He's scared to death. The last place he'd come near would be this part of town."
"Yeah. Except this is such a hell of a big town it doesn't make any difference. He could be holing up in Inglewood or San Fernando Valley or up in one of the canyons. Or he might leave town."
As Brendt alighted, Bishop said, "Do you know where Steiner might go? His usual haunts, I mean?"
The bald actor thought for a moment. "Most of them. I know he likes to hang around the coffeehouses in Hollywood. I remember because he asked me to go several times."
"Thanks," Bishop said. "Did he mention any names of cafes? Or any other places?"
"No, he wanders around to a lot of them. Oh, he likes to go to the Farmers Market a lot. He likes to sit and watch the girls. I used to go with him sometimes."
Bishop nodded. "How about restaurants?"
"He likes Mexican and Chinese food. I don't remember any special places though."
Trask groaned. "Los Angeles must have about a thousand Mex and Chinese joints."
"How about shops? Does he like any particular shop?" Bishop asked. "This is really very helpful, Brendt."
The actor groped for something. "Yeah. He's always running off to Ohrbach's or the May Company when they have a big sale. I remember he showed me some sport shirts he got there."
He stopped and said uncomfortably, "Can I go now, Lieutenant? I have to feed my pets."
"Sure. And thanks. Call us if you think of anything else. Or if Steiner contacts you. okay?"
"Of course."
"I feel like a damned fool," Bishop said to Trask as they drove off. "I had the bum in my hands and I let him scoot. They ought to put me on a beat on skid row."
"You're nuts, Mike. You had nothing on Sanderson. You didn't even know who he was."
Bishop shook his head unhappily. "We've got to get the bum, Al. The D.A.'s horning in on the investigation. They're putting one of their men on it full time."
"We'll get him," Trask said soothingly.
"I wish I knew what the hell he was planning. With a psycho, you never know. He may be on the road or holed up blocks from here waiting to rape another student."
Trask shook his head. "He's been warned and he's running. If we get any report on him-it'll be from out of the state."
"What the hell makes you so sure?" Bishop said sourly. "What do you want to bet on that?" He knew he was on safe ground. The Irishman budgeted his pay very carefully.
"You want to bet ten bucks he shows up here within twenty-four hours?" Bishop said irritably. When he was confronted with his own mistakes, he could not endure being reassured by anyone.
"Well, I'll bet two," Trask said, cautiously. "Bet ten if you're so damned sure," Bishop retorted.
Trask reddened. "All right, damn you. Ten." At noon the next day, Trask lost.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The tall man in the light business suit walked toward the pink stucco building on the crest of a Hollywood street. At intervals he glanced quickly behind him.
No one.
There were patrol cars cruising about the area a few blocks away where Penny Bruce and Sally Rosson lived. But none here. He was sorry about the cars. He would have liked visiting Penny and finishing the job.
The bitch, he thought. Pretending to be so high, mighty and holy. He felt an irresistible desire to strangle her until that pretty face turned green. But there would be time enough when the police pulled out. There was no sense in sticking your neck in a noose. Meantime, there were a couple of other stuck-up bitches to take care of. Women who thought they were high and mighty. Who looked at him-or rather through him every night in that art class.
He glanced around him once more and walked up the front steps of a small house, tightened his grip on the briefcase, and rang the bell. The occupant took a long time to answer and he had to curb an impulse to run. The patrol cars were more than half a mile away, but they might be extending their radius. Or the police might decide to question anyone who fitted a certain description. Then the door was opened.
It was opened by a young woman of nineteen in a loose-fitting robe decorated with Egyptian hieroglyphics. Her long, black hair fell about her thin shoulders and her dark eyes were struggling to come fully awake. "Hello," she yawned.
"How do you do, Miss Harmon," he said affably. "I'm from the Bryan-Jennings Agency."
Her eyes came fully awake now.
"The advertising agency?" she asked excitedly. "Oh, come in, come in!"
He laughed sympathetically at her flurry of excitement and followed her into the dark, cool room that smelled of wine.
"I'm sorry the place looks so messy," she said. "We had a ball here last night. A lot of beat characters from Venice West. Like it was full of horses. Crunch, crunch, crunch! Everything seems to have been trampled."
She stopped to pick up some couch pillows from the floor. "I'm sorry, Mr.-what did you say your name was?"
"Harry Lane," he said. He leaned forward in his basket chair and watched her. The girl's robe had come open as she bent over and he could see that she was naked underneath. Her pear-shaped firm breasts protruded from her thin chest like two sculptured crests. Suddenly, as she moved to get another pillow, he caught a brief tantalizing glimpse of the rest of her. It made his temples throb painfully.
"Sorry, I'm not dressed," she said matter-of-factly. "Fact is, I didn't get to bed till four. Listen, let me give you a cup of coffee while I dress. Okay? Then we can talk. I didn't expect you this early."
"No, please, don't bother. I don't have too much time. I've got a lunch date with an editor of Vogue at Perino's in about half an hour."
The tall man crossed his long legs casually and smiled at her.
"Perino's?" Lois was impressed. Perino's was the most expensive place in town. "My God. I couldn't afford a pot of coffee in that place. That's worse than the Hilton."
He agreed, laughing.
The dark-haired girl drew her robe closer to her superb figure. "Well, I still feel funny talking to a man from Bryan in this getup. It looks like an Egyptian kimono."
"You don't sleep in that, do you? Not in California?" he said with a hint of teasing in his voice.
"Oh, never! Specially not in this heat. No, I sleep in the raw."
His dark eyes seemed to brighten. "Now maybe that might be a layout for us. We might do it if that long hair went a little further down than your navel."
"Yes," she said, laughing with him. "But not for McCall's. What kind of poses do you want?"
"Well, as a matter-of-fact, that's why I'm here. I want to work them out. Then go back and talk to the layout boys. You don't mind going through a few poses, do you? Just to give me an idea?"
"No," she said quickly. "Of course not. Only I expected you to come in a couple hours. I wanted to shower and make up, you know. Couldn't it wait till after your lunch? We'll have a lot of time then."
"Wish I could," he said regretfully, not taking his eyes away from the cleft of her breasts just above where the robe closed. "But I have to get back and kick this around in a session at the office." His voice softened as he went on. "I'd like you to get this job, Lois. And if you're good, there'll be others at $25 an hour."
Her eyes widened. "Twenty-five? I thought you said fifteen."
"For this one, but if you're good, we go up, and I think you'll be good. I'm the one to decide, anyhow."
"Twenty-five," she repeated. "That's wonderful. I can quit posing at that drafty Acme studio. God, that's wonderful. I almost wan': to kiss you, Mr. Lane, do you know that?"
He smiled appreciatively. "Harry, please."
He looked at his watch. "Well, better get started." He stared at her so strangely that her eyes fell to her robe. In her excitement, she had let her loose-fitting robe fall open again. The visitor was staring at the patches of white skin that were exposed.
She drew the robe closer, embarrassedly. "What would you like me to do first?" she asked, smiling.
"Take off that robe," he said agreeably.
"Take off my-" She stared at him. "I don't understand."
"Well, I'd like to see what your figure's like."
"But you've seen pictures of me. You told me so on the phone."
He shrugged. "Pictures don't tell all. They may have been taken years ago. I want to check for blemishes. These precision cameras we use show up a lot of faults, you know. I want to know all the touching up we might need."
"Touching up?" she said worriedly.
He smiled. "Take off the robe, dear." He turned his palms upward. "After all, you can't expect the buyer to buy without seeing the merchandise."
"I don't like to be called merchandise," Lois said, somewhat annoyed. The tall man's brutal self-assurance was beginning to irritate her, but she hesitated to offend him. The fee for the modeling job was too important.
She started to remove the robe and then remembered the windows. "I'd better pull down those blinds," she said.
"Sure. But hurry. I don't have much time." His voice was still pleasant but a note of petulance had crept into it. She moved quickly to the windows, lowered the blinds and then faced him. Without another word, she pulled her arms from the sleeves of the robe and let it fall to the floor at her feet.
He sucked in his breath sharply, not taking his eyes away. "My God, you're beautiful. I've never seen you like this. You look much more beautiful in daylight."
"In daylight?" she began, puzzled. "I don't understand. The photos you saw were all taken in natural light."
He was not listening. His eyes crawled hungrily over the firm white breasts, the sloping white belly, and the smooth, firm, tapering white thighs.
"You look like an odalisque by Matisse," he said reverently. "Please he on that couch. Yes, like that. My God, those beautiful breasts." For a moment he lost his power to speak. Then he went on softly, worshippingly, staring at the magnificent torso of the girl, sprawled now, long, lovely legs and curved back on a low couch. "You're exquisite dear," he continued. "You have what the French call fines attaches. Tiny wrists and ankles. But everything is in the right proportion. Everything."
"Can I get up now?" she asked. The visitor's intense manner and the way he devoured her with his eyes worried her.
"In a minute, dear. In a minute. I want to look at your lovely white skin a little longer. I hate looking at women's bodies at night, i hate them under artificial light. It changes the color of the sweet skin. I love a woman's white skin in daylight. Even in strong sunlight. Her flesh is twice as beautiful, twice as sensuous. I go out of my way always to look at a woman's body during the daytime. When the sun's high in the sky. That's when the light's best."
The man's hypnotic voice, the words he used were making her uneasy. He seemed to be talking to himself more than to her. "No wonder painters love to draw those breasts. They're absolutely marvelous. And those thighs. I love large full thighs on women. I remember a beautiful poem about thighs."
"We'd better get to the other poses." she interrupted. His ecstatic glances and the tremor in his voice were beginning to make her nervous. "Are these all for the soap ad now?"
"Don't rush me," he said petulantly. "I'll come to them in time." He reached forward and touched a spot on her right thigh. "Beauty mark. We can put some makeup on that. Lord, Lois, your skin is so smooth. It feels wonderfully cool. If we could only get that into the ad. But it's hard." He ran an exploratory finger from her hip to her toes on one leg, sliding his hand along lovingly down the pink flesh.
She shuddered involuntarily but said nothing. He had promised her two full weeks of work on the different ads. At the rate he would pay her, she could get a better car and fly home to Chicago to see her parents. She had heard that sometimes these men were coarse and demanded a "feel." She hoped he wouldn't try anything else. She would have to throw him out and the whole deal would be ruined.
He started another trajectory with his forefingers, slowly down the other leg. Suddenly the doorbell rang shrilly.
He stood up stiffly, glaring at her. She jumped up.
"Oh, my God, that's Mrs. Young. I forgot, we're having lunch." She leaped to the spot where her robe had fallen and hurriedly put it on.
"Who's Mrs. Young?" he said, annoyed at the interruption.
"A neighbor. She's bringing some roast pork and apple sauce."
"Tell her to go away," the man rasped. "I don't have much time."
The bell rang again. Three short rings.
"I can't," Lois said. "She has a key. If I don't answer, she'll enter. She feeds my Pekingese when I'm out of town."
"Tell her to go," the man insisted.
It was too late. They heard a key turn in the lock and a moment later the door swung open. A short, stocky woman in her middle thirties, wearing red slacks too small for her huge hips and a scarf around her head, entered. She carried a large covered tray. She stared at them.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, nonplussed. "I didn't mean to barge in ... I thought you were asleep."
"No," Lois said. "Mr. Lane's from the Bryan agency. He came early."
"Oh, I see," the woman said. Then her eyes noticed the blinds. She smiled. "Well, I guess I'd better be going, huh?"
"Well," Lois said uncomfortably. "Oh, Mr. Lane, this is Mrs. Young."
"Pleased to meet you," he said affably. "Sorry, we're so busy. Please do excuse us."
Mrs. Young was surprised at the tenseness in the man's voice. She nodded stiffly and put the tray down on a small table.
"Sure. Well, I'll see you, Lois. Hope you like the pork and apple sauce."
Lois nodded. She wanted desperately to ask her friend to stay but she was afraid of losing the assignment.
Mrs. Young turned to Lane, nodded coolly and turned to go. She opened the door and started out.
"Toby," Lois said suddenly.
Mrs. Young turned, expectantly.
Lois shook her head. "Nothing. Thanks a lot for bringing lunch. Let me buy you a drink tomorrow."
Mrs. Young smiled. "Fine. Call me when you're free. Good-bye, Mr. Lane."
When the visitor left, Mr. Lane quickly turned to Lois and said irritably, "Who the hell is that woman?"
Her eyes grew wider. "I told you. She's a neighbor."
"You told her to spy on us," he said, accusingly.
"No, of course not," she said annoyed. "Though God knows what she thinks now. I had the blinds down and nothing on but this robe. She probably thought you were-"
He leered. "Shacking up with you?"
She colored. "Well-"
"Probably thought I was playing with you on the couch. She's probably got a dirty mind, huh? I suppose she wants to know all the details whenever one of your boyfriends stays overnight, eh?"
"No, she doesn't," Lois said angrily. "And nobody stays overnight."
"No?" the visitor said, lifting an eyebrow. "You'll excuse me if I don't believe that. I'll bet there are loads of men who would like to feel what's under that robe, Lois, especially those lovely breasts. Can you blame them? Men are animals, you know."
The conversation had taken an alarming turn. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost 12:30. She hoped he would notice the time and leave. He had probably had a few drinks somewhere. So many agency people did, she knew. The combination of the alcohol and her nakedness had probably overexcited him. She could see the danger signal in the way he breathed, in the tenseness of his voice.
"Take off that robe," he said softly. "Take it off."
His silky voice alarmed her now. Usually when she was alone with anyone who seemed so close to the point of wanting to maul her, she insisted they go out somewhere. It made her flesh crawl to be alone with a man in that overexcited condition. Once she had been seized by a half-drunk escort during a nightcap in her flat. She had been terrified.
The man had sat there in a kind of alcoholic trance, his desire flayed by the drinks, her perfume and the skintight Capri pants she wore. He had jumped on her suddenly and mauled her, hurting her terribly.
Now, sitting here next to Lane, she could feel his tenseness and desire. He seemed to be a coiled spring waiting for a signal to strike her. Only a last measure of control and a fear of losing the modeling contract kept her from fleeing the room.
"Take it off," he repeated, his eyes imprisoning her own.
"It's after 12:30," she pleaded in a small voice. "You'll be late for your lunch. I can come to your office tomorrow."
"Take it off," he repeated slowly. He moved closer and removed the robe from her body.
He put his arm around her and moved her to the couch.
"Does that door lock automatically?" he asked suddenly. "I'm sick and tired of interruptions. Now let's see if you have any more blemishes that might show up in our ads."
She lay supine on the long couch, her heart beating quickly as he scrutinized her. Occasionally he squeezed the flesh of her stomach the way someone squeezed the cheek of an infant. Then he said brusquely, "Turn over please!"
She rolled over. She could hear him draw in his breath again.
"This is the first time I've seen a Venus dimple up close," he said slowly. His hand cupped her buttock and then his finger traced a curved line. "Here it is. My God, it's wonderful. You can feel it, really feel it-that magnificent concavity-that superb indentation. I've tried to find models with it so I could get it into my photographs. It's as rare as a four-leaf clover."
"Please, you're hurting me," she said, as he cupped her buttock in his hand again. "Let me up."
"I'm sorry," he said easily. "I got carried away. There's nothing to be worried about from that angle. I can tell you that. You have the most photogenic derriere I've ever seen. You can turn over now."
Her heart pounding, she rolled over again. Just a few moments more, she told herself, to quiet her mounting fears. Just a few moments more. Then he'll go. Then I'll have that job. Only, please, God, don't let him keep touching me. I'll scream if he keeps doing that with his hands. He had begun to run his fingers around the contours of her breasts. Please, God, don't let him get carried away. She knew she would have to sacrifice the job and the money she needed badly, if he insisted on having intercourse with her. Mr. Lane ran his finger casually around her navel. "This is almost as pretty as your Venus dimple," he said.
Venus! The word struck a chord again. Something familiar about the phrase "Venus dimple" had struck her even in the first surge of fear. She stiffened as a thought occurred to her. "Who told you that phrase?" she asked, asked.
"What phrase?" he asked, as he brought his eyes to within a few inches of her breasts. "Venus dimple."
"Oh, I've heard it from a number of people. Now lie still. I want to check carefully those freckles just above your navel."
"Please, Mr. Lane-it's close to one o'clock. You'll miss your appointment with that editor."
He laughed. "Don't fret about it." He kissed her navel. "I love the scent of your flesh, you know that, Lois?"
"What are you doing?" she said alarmed.
"Never mind," he said.
She stared at him as he opened his belt and stepped quickly out of his trousers. He wore nothing underneath.
He speared her with his hand as she sought to rise from the couch.
"No," she said. "I don't want to. Please."
"I won't hurt you," he said gently, holding her down.
"Let me go," she wailed. "Let me up."
"Stop fighting me, damn you. Don't you want that job?"
She kicked at him with her legs. "No. Let me up. I'll scream." She scratched at his face with her nails as he fell on her.
"Stop it, you bitch!" he yelled as she bit the arm clutching at her.
She was not listening. She was pouring every ounce of energy into fighting him off-scratching at him, biting, pummeling with her fists when she could get them free of his own.
"STOP, STOP!" she screamed. Suddenly he screamed in turn as she kneed him in the groin. He broke his hold on her and, holding onto himself, howled in pain.
"You bitch!" he screamed. "You effing bitch! I'll kill you. You sleep with every son of a bitch in that art class, but I'm not good enough for you, huh? You can't give me what you give everybody, huh?" He stopped to breathe heavily and then slapped her face repeatedly until it was stained a deep red. "All right, you bitch, I'll do it the easy way. I tried to be nice to you. I tried to be gentle, but you're just like the others."
The words, even more than the slaps turned her blood to ice water. She realized then what had slowly been percolating in her mind. He was not Harry Lane. He did not come from any advertising agency. Precisely at that moment it dawned on her that this was the prowler who had attacked other women in her class. She realized, too, why the phrase "Venus dimple" had rung a bell. Only one man in that class had used it. She stared at him, completely incredulous.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he said suddenly.
She was too paralyzed with fear to answer.
Even when he hurt her by squeezing her breasts hard as he repeated his question.
"Tell me!" he demanded, peremptorily.
She made no answer.
For a moment, drunk in the ecstasy of his desire, he paid no attention to his growing uneasiness. He threw off the remainder of his clothes, forced her legs open with his sweaty fists and entered her. She groaned and tried to get out from under him, flailing at him with her hands and yelling. He stifled her screams by cupping her mouth with his hand. She bit him and he pulled his hand away with a shout of pain. With a force she never dreamed she had, she threw him off. He grabbed her quickly and pinned her down again.
"Let me go," she screamed. "Let me go!" Then she saw his eyes and her blood ran cold. He was staring at her like a madman. "Don't kill me," she begged. "Please don't kill me!"
Now his own fears, which had been quiet while his desire soared, flared up. He tightened his grip and his eyes widened.
"Who said I was going to kill you?" he said slowly.
"Please, please," she begged. "I won't tell who you are."
His face hardened suddenly. As he locked her eyes with his, she read the message in them clearly.
It was: Murder.
"I'm sorry you said that!" he said sadly. "All I wanted was what you've given all the other bastards in that class. You and all those other bitches."
She shook her head weakly. "Please.
You're wrong. I never did it with anyone there. I swear it."
"You're a liar!" he yelled. "How many times have I sat there watching all those bastards eyeing you up and down? Eating up your lovely breasts, your belly, every inch of you. And when I asked if I could take you home, you laughed at me. Then I'd see you get into someone else's car."
"Please," she begged, "you're hurting me with your hand."
"When I asked you why you wouldn't go out with me, you said I wasn't your type!"
"I didn't mean it," she said weakly as his hands tightened around her throat. "I swear I didn't mean it."
"No, I know what I've been missing," he said softly, as he pressed his thumbs in hard.
"No," she wheezed. "No, please ... I don't want to die."
"I'm sorry you recognized me," he said, as he kept pressing down. "I'm really sorry. All I wanted was to see what it was like to make love to you."
When she was still, he turned her over gently. Placing his finger just above the ridge of her buttocks, he traced again the indentation of her Venus dimple.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"They're sitting ducks, Lieutenant. Every pretty girl in that class. All waiting for the murderer to strangle them while the police do a Keystone Comedy chase, and I still wonder why the students don't know each other better."
"Do me a favor, Larry, and shut up," Lieutenant Bishop said. He looked morosely at Al Trask in Cantor's Delicatessen.
"Suit yourself," the reporter said, getting up from the booth. "Unless you give me something else, that's my angle. They're sitting ducks."
"Aw, cut it, Larry," the Irish detective begged. "It's bad enough the D.A.'s after him and his wife's sore. Do you have to sandbag him, too? Lay off, for Pete's sake."
The tall, slim newspaperman shook his head sadly. "I'm a reporter, Trask. I have nothing against the lieutenant. But I'm supposed to be covering this damned case. They've had two murders and two near rapes in one week. But every time I come up for an angle, he turns his back. Look, pal, I've got to make a living, too."
"Print what you want, damn you, but get off my back," Bishop said angrily. "You keep asking me where we'll look for Sanderson next. Well, I'm not going to tell you."
"Larry," Al Trask said, warningly, "lay off."
Mike Bishop turned his bloodshot eyes up to the reporter's. He was bone-tired from following false leads on the killer and the dressing down he had just received in the chief detective's office. He was in no mood for sneers from Larry Davis. "I think you'd better go, Davis," he said softly.
Davis changed his tone to a more placating one. "Look, Mike."
"Don't call me Mike."
"Lieutenant. I'm sorry if I've rubbed you the wrong way. I know you've had a hard time. But this is news. Just answer a few questions."
"Like what for instance?" Bishop said coldly.
"You find any fingerprints in the girl's house this afternoon?"
"Smudges," Bishop said with disgust. "Nothing we can use to trace anything."
"Anything that makes you sure it was Sanderson?"
"Yeah," the detective said. "He killed her the same way as the other two and we found a couple of photos-the same ones he has in his house."
"Can you give me a fuller rundown on how the girl's body was found?"
Bishop looked disgusted. "You got all that from the report. How many times you want to hear it? The guy from the agency found the door open when he came for his appointment about an hour later and reported it."
"I see," Larry Davis said, writing. "And where were you two when it happened?"
"We were downtown in the Mexican section," Bishop began, then stopped, his face florid with anger. "Why, you son of a-."
"What's the matter?" Davis said, in apparent surprise.
"Nothing," Bishop spat. "I'll write your story for you and save you the trouble. While the two detectives in charge of the case ate tacos ten miles away, the prowler walked into the girl's home and throttled her! Or do you prefer strangled?"
Davis grinned. "Hey, you write a pretty good lead, Mike. You should have been a reporter."
"Lay off, Larry," Trask said again. "That kind of thing doesn't help anyone."
"All right," Davis said, pursing his lips for a moment. "I'll make a deal. You let me go with you wherever you look for this guy and I'll forget that lead."
"You know I can't do that," Bishop snapped.
"Every police reporter in town would want to come. For Christ's sake, what do you want me to do, follow him around with a bus?"
"We don't have to tell anybody," Davis grinned. "What do you say, Mike?"
"No dice," Bishop said. Davis shrugged his shoulders. "Okay, if that's how you want it. How do you like this lead, Mike?
"Cliff Bruce, the outraged husband of one of the prime victims sought by the rapist-killer, accused the police of bungling the entire case and said the prowler could walk into any of the victims' houses without attracting the slightest notice.
"When confronted with this statement, Lieutenant Mike Bishop made no comment. The detective in charge of the case and his partner revealed they were tracking the killer in a neighborhood miles from the scene when the slaying occurred."
Davis smiled. "Want to bet?" He turned to Bishop. "What about my idea of going with you? What do you say, Mike?"
"I'm saying nothing," he said in a low, even voice, just loud enough to be heard by the reporter. "Don't try to con me and don't call me Mike."
Davis grinned weakly. "Is that all you have to say?"
"No. One other thing. You want anything else on this case, talk to Trask. Don't come near me. For your own benefit. I'm allergic to you."
"As you wish, sir," Davis said, acidly. "And for your own information, I think Bruce is right. Anybody could walk into those houses and strangle them."
"You'd better push off," Trask growled, "while you're still able to walk. Another crack like that and I may forget myself."
The reporter grinned, shrugged again and walked away.
Bishop stared at him with unconcealed loathing. "The bastard!" he said.
"He's kidding," Trask said. "He won't write anything like that, and even if he did, I doubt they'd print it. He's just baiting you, Mike."
"He's still a bastard," Bishop said again. "I still wonder why nobody in that art class recognizes anybody else."
They were interrupted by the cashier who pointed toward the telephone on her counter. Trask ran to the instrument.
Bishop watched the big, rawboned detective stride quickly to the phone. Suddenly he saw Trask nodding sharply toward him and then turn excitedly back to the phone. Trask blurted some words into the instrument and hung up quickly. He beckoned to Bishop in answer to his unvoiced question. Bishop grabbed the check and moved quickly to the counter.
Trask put his mouth to his superior's ear. "They think they just spotted him going into the Farmers Market. They're not sure."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
During the next hour, Bishop sweated while he waited for messages. When they came he felt miserable. The patrols had found dozens of tall men in the market-none of them Sanderson.
He pounded the desk angrily. "Where'd the son of a bitch go?" he yelled. "We got guys watching every exit. Even if he did get out, how far could he get? The streets are sealed in every direction. He couldn't have got half a mile without being questioned." He stared at Trask. "All right-nothing is foolproof. But where the hell would he go?" He looked at the phone and then left the room.
"Fine," she laughed. "You caught me in the shower. I'm dripping like a sieve."
"I'm sorry, Miss Rosson. I'll hang up and let you get dry."
She laughed again. "That's perfectly all right. I appreciate your concern about me. Please call anytime you feel like it. Oh my God, the floor looks like a lake. Good-bye."
He hung up smiling. He liked her laugh and wondered what it would be like to hear it every morning. He dialed Penny Bruce's number. Ten rings went by with no answer. He wondered uneasily if she were safe.
"Irish!" he heard Bishop yell behind him. "We're back in business."
"What's happening Mike?"
"I think I have a fix on Sanderson. I knew he'd have to hole up someplace near the Farmers Market to keep out of sight, so I called his buddy Brendt. Brendt says Sanderson practically lives in drive-in movies."
"Yeah but...."
"There's one next door!" Bishop said, grinning. "Across the street. It figures Irish. Sanderson hid in the crowds, waited for an opening and jumped across the street."
"Could be, Mike."
"I'll give you ten to one kid. Anything come through here? I went inside so I wouldn't tie up the phone!"
"No. But I can't get Penny Bruce. Shouldn't she be home now?"
Bishop winced. "I hope not. I hope she's locked in under a hair dryer or seeing a movie. Come on. Let's get down there. I got cars watching all the exits. If he's in that theater he's cooked."
As they approached their car on the parking lot, they saw Larry Davis wave jauntily at them from his Jaguar.
A few blocks east of the Farmers Market, they turned into the entrance of the Gilmore Drive-in Theater. Bishop shook his head at the cashier and parked the car to one side.
"Something wrong with the car?" the man asked. "I'll have to ask you to park somewhere else."
Bishop got out of the car and showed the man his badge. "We're police officers. We've got reason to believe a killer we want is inside. We'll need your full cooperation for this."
The man's eyes boggled as he saw three patrol cars and two motorcycle cops approach. He nodded quickly.
"Be glad to help. But you're going to have a tough time locating him. The lot's jammed. We got two big hits."
The detective surveyed the giant lot. It was terraced in rows that began a few feet back of the mammoth screen and fanned out to a rear wall hundreds of feet away. It seemed as if every car in Los Angeles had parked there for the night. On each row were more than two dozen cars of every size, make and color. Sleek late-model sedans were flanked by convertibles, sports cars, pickup trucks, station wagons, and even ancient Model A's.
Bishop groaned aloud and then plunged into the mass of vehicles. As he did, the screen exploded with an ear-shattering rock and roll number and giant figures in Technicolor gyrated behind them.
The detectives moved along the row of cars at the back of the huge lot and glanced into each vehicle. They could see hardly anything in the darkness inside. Bishop looked at the sea of cars and shook his head.
"I don't see any other way but to walk each row from the last one down and look inside each car. If we fool around in the center rows, he might notice what we're doing and run. No flashlights please, and no noise." He instructed two men to watch the exit for any car that pulled out toward the street and then continued to file along the hindmost row. "I feel like a goddamned peeping torn," he growled. A few seconds later his eyes widened. "For Pete's sake, don't these goons realize they're doing this in public?"
The cars were loaded with youngsters who were ignoring the movie and making love. Bishop caught glimpses of several girls who were sitting half-naked on the laps of boys or kissing them with their heads turned away from the screen. In a few cars couples were making passionate love on the back seats.
Bishop was hardly astonished but he was too intent on finding Sanderson to worry about them now. A moment after he and Trask had finished checking the two back rows, the screen went dark suddenly. Dozens of car doors around them swung open. For several minutes long lines trooped to the distant snack bar. The detectives waited patiently for the passengers to get back into the cars. It would be harder than ever to find Sanderson in that mass of moving figures. To Bishop's surprise many of the people who had left for candy and popcorn entered different cars on their return.
"What's the idea?" Bishop asked. "They've moved to other cars."
Trask grinned. "Visiting friends, I guess. And a few are probably switching partners."
Bishop swore. "On top of everything else, we gotta cope with musical cars. How the hell do we know he isn't moving around?" He turned despondently to Trask. "Go to the manager's office and call for more men, Al. This may take all night. It's so dark I can hardly make out anybody's face in those damned cars." He watched Trask's robust frame move away and then turned back to the search. This time he checked at a much slower pace, studying the passengers carefully.
When he and Trask had walked down the rows before, glancing briefly into each car, no one had bothered to stop their lovemaking. They had decided the men were lost and trying to find their own cars. The necking went on un-brokenly.
Now Bishop's changed tactics fired anger and resentment. One girl who lay against her boyfriend in the back seat with her halter off screamed as she saw the detective's face glued to the window. He hurried away before her boyfriend jumped out of the car.
In the next row he was surprised to see a girl sitting on the floor of the back seat in nothing but panties. This time he was surprised only because she was alone.
The detective was trying to figure out why she was sitting in a place where she could not see the movie when he felt angry fists pound his back and neck. He turned to see an outraged giant behind him. The boy grabbed Bishop by the collar.
"Wait a minute," he shouted. "I'm a police officer."
"Bullshit, Mac!" the infuriated boy shot back. "You're a frigging peeper!" , He rained blows on the detective's face and neck. Bishop fought back but the youth had weight, height and reach on him. He had gone down for the second time when he heard Trask's voice. A moment later the burly Irishman was pounding the boy with ham-like fists.
The cars on both sides of the back rows flung their doors open simultaneously and several men jumped out. In a moment Bishop and Trask were rushed by a dozen youths. As he fought them off, Bishop could smell the beer on their breaths.
"Goddamned peeping bastards!" he heard one boy yell. Then a whistle blew in the distance, a fist crashed against his head and he lost consciousness.
When he awoke several minutes later, Trask was bending over him.
"What happened?" he asked.
"They clobbered you," Trask said, laughing. "You're okay. You knocked three teeth out of one guy. You got a good right hook, boy."
"How long have I been out?"
"About thirty minutes."
Bishop winced. "We'll never check all eight hundred cars before the film ends. It just takes too damned long this way. I'm going to call Brendt. He's been to drive-ins with Sanderson before, hasn't he?"
"Sure," Trask said, puzzled. "So what?"
"Listen, when you go to movies, you usually sit about the same row from the back or front. Give or take a few. Right?"
"Sure, but not always. Not if it's a crowded movie."
Bishop rose and dusted himself. "That's true. But suppose you were among the first ones in?"
Trask's eyes brightened. "That's right. He may have come in here as soon as it got dark. He knew we were tailing .him. It would only take a minute to get here from the market."
Bishop nodded. "Keep looking. I'll be back in a minute."
At the manager's office, he was met by several uniformed police who had just arrived in response to Trask's summons. He told them to spread out and check the passengers in each car. Then he dialed Brendt's home. The phone rang several times before he answered.
"Hello," he finally said, gruffly.
"Brendt? Lieutenant Bishop here. Listen, tell me quickly if you know. When you and Sanderson go to drive-in movies, where do you generally park? I mean, inside the lot itself."
Brendt paused for a minute. "Usually the first few rows behind the snack bar. Jim's always running up for peanuts or ice cream or some damned thing to eat."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah. He hates sitting in the back. If I were you, I'd check the first few rows near the eats. Check the snack bar, too. He may be in there now."
"Thanks," Bishop said, "you may have really given us something now."
"Always glad to help, Lieutenant," Brendt said.
Running quickly to where Trask and several men were waiting, he ordered them to concentrate on the rows near the screen. Although his head still ached terribly, he joined in the search. This time, however, he took no chances with the passengers. He opened the door of each car, showed his badge and asked the lovers to unclinch.
He had nearly reached the end of the row when he saw Sanderson. He was coming back to his car with a chocolate sundae, a bag of popcorn and several pieces of candy.
For a moment he stared incredulously at the detective. Then he threw his load into Bishop's face and ran. Bishop tore after him, chasing him around several cars. He pulled a whistle from his pocket and blew it twice. Immediately police descended on them from two directions.
Sanderson looked at the approaching police and darted past Bishop toward the opposite end of the vast lot. He had nearly outdistanced them when he collided hard with a man carrying two boxes full of hot coffee. Stunned, Sanderson fell to the ground. When he came to a moment later, he was looking into Bishop's face. His hands were securely handcuffed.
"Let's go, Sanderson," Bishop said gently.
"Where?" the tall man asked, frightened.
"To my office. It's nice and comfortable. We're going to have a long chat. You and me."
Sanderson stared at the circle of police and fascinated moviegoers behind the detective.
"I didn't do anything," he said, almost too softly to be heard.
"You lying bastard," someone in the crowd said. "You killed two women."
"No," Sanderson said earnestly. "I never killed anyone."
"Come on, Joe," Bishop said gently, wishing the crowd would shut up. It was hard enough handling a psychotic under any circumstances. Under the eyes of a peering crowd, it was much worse.
"No," Sanderson yelled in terror. "You're going to give me the third degree. You're going to "keep asking me horrible questions."
"No," Bishop said. He motioned to Trask to get his other arm. Together they lifted him from the ground.
"Let me go," Sanderson screamed. "Let me go. You're going to send me back to that horrible place. Let me go. I didn't do anything. I swear to God!" He fought the detectives.
The tall man began to sob like a child and the crowd suddenly lost its arrogant superiority. Bishop asked the manager if there were any doctors in the theater. The man nodded brightly. Two doctors had left their exact position on the lot in case of emergency. One of them came up briskly a moment later and, at Bishop's request, gave Sanderson a sedative by hypodermic needle.
As they put him in a police car a few minutes later, Sanderson said sleepily, "I didn't kill those women. I can prove it. I didn't kill those women."
Bishop shook his head. "That's what I love about these babies. He's already forgotten about them."
* * *
When he awoke the next morning, Sanderson stuck to his denials. He had had nothing to do with the killings. Even under the probing of a police department psychiatrist, he refused to budge.
Bishop nodded sympathetically as the photographer spoke. Then he leaned forward and showed the man several nude photographs.
"Aren't these yours?" he asked.
"Yes," Sanderson agreed frightenedly.
"You like to play rough with girls, don't you? It excites you to grab their breasts and their behinds, doesn't it?"
Sanderson stared at him and nodded.
"If a girl doesn't want to make love with you, you get mad, don't you? Burning mad?" Bishop's tone was easy, soft-as if he were playing with a child. Actually the big man's trapped, frightened expression and the pain he showed in trying to cope with the questions, made him seem like a child. Bishop patted his hand. "We know you killed these women because they turned you down."
"No," Sanderson yelled. "No, no, no!"
The psychiatrist leaned forward . and whispered in Bishop's ear.
"All right, Joe," Bishop said suddenly. "Let's suppose you're right. You didn't do it, you say. But suppose we show you, you don't remember what happened. Suppose we prove to you, you did kill them. Then will you admit it?"
The tall man's eyes filled with fear again.
"I promise you no one will hurt you," Bishop said. "But will you tell us all you know if we prove you're wrong?"
"How can you prove it?" Sanderson asked, warily.
"Very easy. You tell us where you were the day Penny Bruce was attacked. If we prove you weren't there, that should help convince you."
Sanderson eyed him warily.
"You want me to say what you want so you can put me back in that place," he said stubbornly.
Bishop shook his head. "No, Joe. Supposing we bring Penny Bruce here and she tells you, you were the man."
"NO!" Sanderson yelled. "I was not. I was not! I swear it. Don't hurt me. Please. Don't hurt me. Please, please, please!" He turned to the psychiatrist pleadingly. "Don't let him hurt me, please."
"He won't hurt you," the psychiatrist said easily. "Even if you admit what really happened. Nobody will hurt you. You will be given kind treatment. I promise you."
Sanderson was silent for a long moment.
"If Penny Bruce says you were the man who attacked her," Bishop said again, as if to a child, "and we prove you were there, will you tell us everything?"
Sanderson nodded slowly.
Bishop exchanged glances with the psychiatrist.
"All right. Where were you at noon, day before yesterday?"
"I was taking pictures at a wedding," Sanderson said slowly.
"Give me the address and phone number."
The photographer took a slip of paper from his pocket and gave it to him.
"How long were you there?" Bishop asked.
"For about four hours. First I took pictures at the bride's house. Then at the wedding. Then the reception." He smiled, remembering. "It was a lovely wedding."
"I think," said the psychiatrist, "you are wrong about the date, Joe. Think hard now. Did this wedding not take place several days or weeks earlier?"
"No," Joe said.
Bishop looked at the paper. "This is pretty worn out. It might have been in your wallet for weeks."
Sanderson shook his head.
"All right, Joe," the detective said. "We'll check this story. I'll call them now and then I'll have Penny come. All right?"
Sanderson's eyes showed terror again, but he nodded.
Bishop started to say something else when the door opened and Trask entered.
"The news boys are all outside. What'll I tell them?"
Bishop took him aside. "We'll be ready in a few minutes, Irish. He finally agreed to talk if we could break his alibi and get Penny to identify him."
Trask nodded quickly. "She's been waiting in my office for an hour. Shall I bring her in now?"
"No. Give her about ten or fifteen minutes. So he thinks we just sent for her. And call the people on that slip. The wedding probably took place some time ago, and if we can get the exact date, it might help."
Trask took the paper and left.
"Now let's just have some nice coffee and doughnuts while we wait," Bishop said, warmly. "Just you, me, and the doctor. Okay? Every-thing'll be cleared up in a little while. Right, Joe?"
Sanderson reacted gratefully to the detective's display of genial warmth. He smiled sheepishly and nodded. When the uniformed policeman entered with the coffee and doughnuts, he even acted hungry. He was busy eating his fourth doughnut and downing his second cup of coffee when the door opened to admit Penny Bruce and a policeman.
The pretty, dark-haired girl stopped nervously at the threshold and stared at Sanderson who dropped his coffee suddenly and ran to the farthest corner of the room.
He remained there, cowering and shivering as her eyes raked him over. Bishop, the psychiatrist, and the policeman stared at her, waiting.
"Say something to her," Bishop suddenly instructed the man in the corner. He realized she would have to hear his voice.
The man did not move his lips.
"Say something, Joe," Bishop said again. "Tell her your name and age."
The man's lips moved noiselessly as if he found the words impossible to voice. Then slowly the sound came through, the syllables muffled as if only by the strongest willpower could he utter them.
"My name is Joe Sanderson," he said in a childish singsong. "I am 35 years old."
Penny Bruce stared at him a moment longer and then shook her head violently.
"It's not him," she yelled. "He's not the man."
Bishop stared at her. He opened his mouth to say something when he saw Trask's face at the door. The expression on the Irishman's face startled him.
"What's the matter, Al?" he said, realizing with a sinking feeling as he asked that he knew very well what the matter was.
"They say the wedding was day before yesterday," Trask said in a strange voice. "He was with them nearly five hours-from eleven until four."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bishop bit into his chopped liver sandwich as he studied the clock at Cantor's Delicatessen.
Twelve-fifteen. The strong California sun poured through the plate window. "Why do those people in the art class pretend they don't know each other?"
"Calm down," Trask advised across the table. "If he tries anything, we'll know. We have two cars cruising the neighborhood regularly. Penny's neighbor's primed to call us if anybody calls."
"I know," Bishop said gruffly. "But what if he tries Sally?"
Trask reddened. "I got a man staked out opposite her house. Eat your sandwich, Mike."
Bishop shook his head. Today the chopped liver tasted like sawdust. The kosher pickles like marinated leather.
"First time I ever saw you leave any chopped liver," Trask joked. "What are you doing, eating reducing pills?"
"Go ahead, joke," the ex-New York detective growled. "They're cooking my goose up at the D.A.'s office and you talk about chopped liver. They want to take over running the show, they can have the whole circus." He rose heavily.
"Where are you going?" Trask protested.
Bishop tried a weak grin and put his hand on the Irishman's shoulder. "Listen, I don't want any speeches from you. All right? I'm calling the Chief at headquarters and admitting I don't have a prayer. That lets him walk into the D.A.'s office clean and make any arrangement he likes."
"You know damned well what arrangement he'll make," Trask retorted. "Some snot-nosed assistant in the D.A.'s stable will be running the case. You won't be able to make a move without his okay."
"I got no choice, Al," Bishop said, exasperated. "As soon as the afternoon papers hit, the ball game'll be over anyway. City Hall will be calling the Chief of Detectives and the D.A. They'll be chewing my ass tomorrow, anyhow."
"Let them," Trask said. "Nobody in our business brings them all in. Why should you?"
Bishop shook his head. "Look, it's all right for you. You're a bachelor. I got my wife on my back. She hates me working these sex cases anyhow. And all this crap in the paper about my Harpo Marx chase all over town. Christ, Al, she can't even talk to her friends. Even my kid Laurie's getting it. Her classmates at UCLA are telling her her old man ought to be on television."
"Mike, wait another day at least."
Bishop patted the Irishman on the shoulder affectionately. "It's not just me, kid. I owe it to the Chief, too. He's gotta fight City Hall. Remember? Sit tight and finish your bagel. I'll be back."
The big, rawboned Irishman watched his chief move through the crowd of lunchers waiting to be seated. Bishop's face looked drawn and sleepless as he picked up the phone on the cashier's counter and dialed police headquarters.
He must have had a bad night, Trask thought, watching him. Helen upset over Davis's tongue-in-cheek stories, embarrassed for him, for the girl. She always took it all so personally. And the calls from the D.A.'s office-some arrogant little assistant D.A. wanting a whole replay of all the moves in the case-they hadn't helped either. Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted. Bishop was beckoning excitedly. He rose quickly and crossed the room.
"Let's go, kid," Bishop said.
"What happened?"
"He's over at Sally Rosson's. The prowler."
Trask looked sick. "When?"
"A minute ago. I decided I'd check Sally and Penny again. I was sure this bastard's compulsion would send him to one or the other. Especially if he thinks we had Sanderson pegged as the killer."
"What did she say, Mike?" Trask blurted.
"What I told her to say if the prowler came back. When I told her who I was, she said I had the wrong number. Then when I repeated my name, she gave me some phony number and said it wasn't hers."
"Let's step on it," Trask said, worriedly. "Did she sound all right? I mean, you think he'd tried anything?"
"She sounded a little nervous. I told her to stall him as gently as she could and try to get back to the kitchen to get him a Coke. If she can do that, she'll try to open the back door for us."
"Fine. Let's move faster," Trask pleaded.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The tall stranger had come to Sally Rosson's flat shortly after noon. He had knocked politely several times and waited. Sally, dressed in a halter and shorts, stopped cleaning up to listen.
Sally knew the police car was patrolling the area and was not too worried. Nonetheless, when the knocking came, she felt her heart pound. She let the visitor rap several times while she wondered what to do. It might be a peddler or even a neighbor, but she was too nervous to find out. For a long moment, she stared helplessly at the door.
Finally she decided to tell whoever it was that she was ill and could not see anyone.
"Who is it?" she asked through the door.
"Mr. Conrad, L.A. District Attorney's Office. I planned to call for an appointment but the police are tapping the line and want it kept free. Lieutenant Bishop asked me to come and see you. Need some more facts on this case. He said you could help me."
Sally sighed with relief and unlocked the door. The visitor was a very pleasant-looking man, tall, broad shouldered and had nice warm brown eyes. He carried a leather briefcase in one hand.
"I'm sorry I'm so nervous," she said apologetically. "Please excuse my dress. I was doing some household chores."
He laughed. "Well, I don't think a person ought to wear formal dress to clean up."
"No," she smiled. "Won't you sit down, Mr. er-"
"Conrad. Thank you. I'm sorry if I've disturbed you, Miss Rosson. But we have our own investigation and I've got to make a report this afternoon to the district attorney."
"Well, sure," the blonde girl said quickly. "But I told everything I know to Lieutenant Bishop. You can get it all from him. Don't you people share these things?"
"Yes, yes, of course," the young man interjected. "I've done that. I've read his report. This is just some supplementary material I need-to, well, kind of round it out. Our reports have to be fuller."
The girl nodded. She settled herself comfortably on the leather couch, stretching her long, shapely legs, and lit a cigarette.
"Shoot," she said. "What else do you want to know?"
The young man smiled and opened a long legal-sized pad he had taken from his case.
"Well, now, this man who came to your window. Sanderson."
"Yes."
"Did he come before?"
"Yes, but I've told all that to Lieutenant Bishop. Besides, as I said to him-the only time Jim ever did anything to me was on the beach."
"What beach?"
"Well, out toward the county line. When we made those photos."
"What happened there?"
The girl's eyes widened. "Didn't you read the report? I thought you said-"
The tall man reddened, and nodded embarrassedly.
"I did. But tell me again, please. I want it a little more thoroughly."
"Well, I was posing for these nudes and Jim got kind of carried away."
"I don't know as I blame him," the young man said pleasantly.
Sally smiled her appreciation. But something in the man's too-casual tone and the way he looked at her legs disturbed her.
"Well, he kind of stared at me in a funny way," she began. "I was posing in black panties, like I said."
"Can I see those?" the tall man said matter-of-factly. "I mean, if you still have them."
"I think I do," she said, a little flustered by his request. "But I don't see what that would add to your report."
"Please get them," he asked politely.
Somewhat upset, she went into her room and got the panties. He examined them very carefully. She watched him with a mounting uneasiness she could not explain.
"Then he raped you?" the tall man asked finally.
"No, not quite. I gave all that to the lieutenant, Mr. Conrad. Do I have to go over all that again?"
Was she mistaken or was he looking at her now like a psycho? His eyes seemed to crawl over her legs and breasts. As he smiled at her hypnotically, a premonition of danger filled her. She remembered that it was shortly after noon. He continued to stare at her, ignoring her question. A cloud of fear mushroomed in her stomach.
Suddenly the telephone rang.
"Excuse me," she said nervously.
The tall man stood up. "If that's the police, please don't tell them I'm here," he said crisply. "Weer-conduct our own private investigations. I'd rather not let them know what I'm doing."
His words really worried her now. She picked up the phone and said hello.
"Sally?" she heard Bishop's voice say. "Lieutenant Bishop here. You okay?"
"What number do you want?" she answered, her heart beating faster.
"This is Lieutenant Bishop."
"I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number. This is not Hollywood 7-4916," she said slowly, hoping the visitor could not hear the beat of her heart. There was a moment of what seemed an interminable silence at the end of the line.
"Control yourself, honey," Bishop said, finally. "We'll be right up. Don't act scared. Stall him by being nice. Don't, for God's sakes, let him know if you recognize him. Offer him a Coke or something so you can get to the back and unlock the door."
She hung up and, without looking directly into the visitor's eyes, said, "Wrong number."
"Let's go on," the visitor said. "If you don't mind?"
"No."
She sat down nervously, feeling all at once very undressed, in her tight-fitting shorts and narrow halter.
"So all he did on the beach was look at you in a funny way, huh?"
Her heart beat faster. He had obviously not read any report about the incident. Had not consulted with Bishop.
"That's right," she said. Her throat suddenly felt very dry.
"I'm surprised," he said, impaling her with his eyes. "I would have thought he'd do much more than look. Have you ever been bothered by prowlers before?"
"No," she said.
His fixed gaze was unnerving her. She tried to appear as calm as possible.
"Anyone ever try to attack you? Sexually?"
"No."
"What are you so nervous about, Miss Rosson?"
"Nothing."
He smiled broadly as he read her fear. "You don't think I'm the prowler? Do you?"
"No," she said slowly. "Not at all."
He laughed. "Well, why shouldn't you? He always comes about this time, doesn't he?"
She did not answer him.
He put a finger to his upper Up. "What if I were to tell you my name is not Conrad," he said slowly, "and that I'm not from the District Attorney's Office. Does that frighten you?"
"No, I don't think so," she said, hearing the pounding of her heart. He was sitting about six feet away from her. The way he stared, he might be getting ready to do anything.
"You're thinking right now that I'm going to attack you," he said softly. "That right?"
"No," she said. She wanted to add something else-something to add to the stark, frightened-sounding "no," but her palate felt very dry.
"Tell me what you're thinking," he asked, his eyes boring into her own. "I want to know exactly what's going on in that pretty little head. You think I'm the prowler and you're wondering if the police will save you. Is that it?"
She shook her head quickly, watching his every move. If he sprang at her, she would try stopping him with judo. He looked pretty strong, but he might not know the defenses. It was a chance anyway and she had to take it. She wished to God that the police would hurry. The man might be armed. He might have a gun in that bag.
"If you're counting on the police," he said softly, "I'd advise you to forget it. If they couldn't catch a man they had surrounded in a department store, they'd never get me. I'd kill you long before they got here."
Clenching her fists, she said as smoothly as she could, "Would you like a cup of coffee? Or a drink?"
"So you could run into the bathroom or yell for help?"
"No." She tried to muster up a tired smile. "I just thought you might like it."
"I suppose they call this being nice to a psycho," he said. "You're very good. Very convincing. If I didn't know you were shivering like jelly, I'd believe it. But it's a good try. Who taught you? Bishop?"
"No."
"No?" he said surprised. "Are you sure?"
"I mean yes," she said. "Yes, he taught me."
"What else did he tell you to do if I came and he wasn't here?"
"Just to be nice. To treat you nicely."
He laughed, enjoying this very much. "Be nice to the madman, eh?"
"He just said be nice."
He pulled a cigarette from a package in his pocket and put it to his lips. "Want one?"
"Yes, thank you."
He lit both cigarettes in his mouth and gave one to her. He drew on it easily. She choked on hers as the smoke went down the wrong way.
"Would you mind if I got some water?" she said slowly, hoping her voice did not shake too much.
"Go ahead," he said softly. "Listen, I think I'll have a Coke after all. I like Coke."
As she moved to go, he rose, and for an awful moment she thought he would attack her. He smiled instead.
"Let's see what your great protectors are up to."
He tiptoed to the window and glanced into the street. His laughter filtered back to her. She had almost reached the small laundry room leading to the back door when she saw his face behind her.
"I'll empty the ice tray for you," he said. "Your watchdog's down the block. Know how I got in without his even seeing me? I waited while he cruised around the block. Clocked his speed a few times and then beat him. See how easy it is?"
He smiled at her as he sipped his drink. "Mind if I look around your place, Miss Rosson?" he asked, genially.
"No." Her voice sounded hoarse even to her.
As he walked into the bedroom, her mind raced with possibilities. The back door was locked by a single hook. If she moved quickly, she could unhook it. She dismissed the idea of escaping. He might hear the door move or her footsteps as she ran through the long alley and shoot her. She decided it was safer to wait for the police. If he tried to rape her, she might still be able to handle him.
She moved slowly toward the laundry room.
"Nice bedroom, Miss Rosson," she heard him say. "Very pretty." His voice sounded closer.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After he parked the car, Lieutenant Bishop told Trask to follow him into the alley. "Hear anything?" Bishop whispered.
Trask shook his head. "I'm going in." He reached for the handle.
"Shoes off!" Bishop said. "Psychos don't always think. If he hears us, he might break her neck."
The big Irishman winced and pulled off his shoes. Bishop and Reilly followed suit. The door was unlocked. Trask moved it back very slowly, muffling the sound of the hinges.
Bishop put a finger to his lips and nudged Trask into the laundry room. On cat feet the detectives moved into the carpeted hallway. Sally Rosson's apartment was laid out like a railroad car. There was a comfortable-sized living room in the front. Behind it in a row were a dining room, a kitchen, bath, and bedroom.
As the two men crouched in the corridor linking the rooms, they could see Sally facing them. She was sitting on a love seat in full view. They could not make out the visitor's head. He was sitting too low in his big armchair. But they could see his feet.
Something about the man's shoes seemed familiar to Bishop. It teased his curiosity to look at them. But he could not remember where he had seen them. He turned to Trask. "I swear I've seen those shoes."
Trask nodded tensely. "We rush him now or wait?"
"Hold your horses, man."
The Irishman crouched with his gun in hand, sweat trickling down his neck.
From their position halfway down the long corridor, they could see Sally's frightened face and see her lips move. But they could not hear her. Or him. The sounds were too faint.
The strain on the Irishman worsened as the girl's terror grew.
"Let me rush him now," he whispered to Bishop.
"No, you damned fool," Bishop rasped in his ear. "Look at her face. How do you know what he has in his hand? He may have a knife or a gun. This guy's insane, man. Don't you understand? He hears you coming. Wham. She may get a bullet in her stomach."
Trask nodded. Bishop was right. The explanation of the girl's terror might be that. The prowler might be pointing a gun at her. Or did she look like that because of the dirty things he was threatening?
He tried to rein in his fears for the girl. Calm down, he told himself. But the expression on her face worried him. The prowler might shoot her even without hearing them, he thought. He might lay a hand on her, and if she refused, he might strangle her then. Or fire at her. Or stab her.
He felt his temples throb and sweat on the palms of his hands. Even the gun felt wet. He stared at the frightened girl helplessly, wanting to aid her. Afraid to move.
Suddenly he saw Sally's face change and her hand fly to her throat. Her voice suddenly became audible.
"Please don't kill me," she begged.
At the same moment, the visitor rose toward her. Trask sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and ran.
The visitor was taken completely by surprise as the Irishman gun-whipped him furiously across the head.
Through the fog and storm in his ears, Trask could hear the girl and Bishop yelling at him. But it took both Bishop's arms to stop him from bludgeoning the man to death. As he drew back, he looked down at the man's bloody head and stared unbelievingly.
It was Larry Davis.
Speechless, he stared at Bishop. His chief looked almost as incredulous.
"You're the prowler, Larry?" Bishop said finally. "You?"
The reporter groaned as he felt his head and shook his head. "No, of course not."
"Then what the hell are you doing here?" Trask said angrily.
"Can I have a drink?" Davis said. "And some towels? Or do you want me to bleed to death?"
They helped him up and moved him to the couch.
"You know him?" Sally said, confused.
Trask grimaced. "He's a reporter. And for all I know, a killer, too."
Bishop turned to her. "Better get him some towels and some whiskey if you have any. He's got some bad cuts on his head. Not that you don't deserve it," he snapped at Davis. "I should have let Trask kill you. You'd better have a damned good explanation, sonny. For my money, I can't think of a better guy I'd like to book for those killings."
When his head was bandaged and he had swallowed a strong drink of bourbon, the reporter told them his story.
The whole idea had been a gag he had dreamed up because of the prowler's escapes.
"I wanted to prove what I said to you. That anybody could get into these apartments without police interference."
He rubbed his head ruefully. "I proved it all right."
The detectives exchanged glances, and Bishop shook his head.
"You mean you barged in here as the prowler just to get a goddamned feature story? Why, you disgusting little rat. I ought to book you for-" He shook his head angrily. "I don't know what-anything, just to get that stupid smirk of yours out of circulation."
Davis bowed his head. "You have every right, Lieutenant. It was disgusting." He looked at the girl. "I didn't mean it to go this far. I just wanted a few quotes from you and good color stuff."
"What the hell's the matter with you?" Trask stormed. "If I didn't have this badge on, I'd beat your brains out." He turned to Sally. "What was he saying or doing that made you look like that?"
"I was trying to scare her," Larry said, from the couch. "So I could write how the prowler affected someone. Then when I saw how it worked, I felt guilty and tried to calm her down. I got up to pat her hand and tell her who I was when you came down on me like a ton of bricks."
Trask scrutinized him for a minute. "Mike, you don't think he may be lying, do you? You don't think he's really the prowler, do you?"
Bishop watched the injured man silently. "I wouldn't put it past him. He's a vindictive bastard and a sadist. Likes hurting people. I think we ought to take him in."
The reporter's eyes widened with horror. "You mean you're arresting me for murder? Are you out of your head, Lieutenant?"
"No, I'm not out of my head," Bishop barked. "You are. I'm out hunting for a dangerous sex killer and you've fallen into the trap. So I'm hauling you in. If you want to call a lawyer, there's the phone."
Sally stared at them all as if she were watching a weird comedy.
"You mean he's really the one?" she said, incredulously.
"You're crazy," the newspaperman yelled, jumping up from the couch. He groaned at the pain caused by the sudden movement.
"You can't arrest me. I'm a newspaperman. I was working on a story when those attacks happened."
"All of them?" Bishop asked.
"Well, I was off yesterday morning," Davis said, "but I was working the other time. And also when he went after Penny Bruce. Look, Lieutenant, I know this was a bad idea. And I'm sorry. But you're not going to arrest me for that."
"Not for coming here if you're clean," Bishop said. "Unless the lady prefers charges. But I'm booking you until we check your story."
"How long will that take?" Davis said. "I went up to San Francisco the day of the first killing."
"Oh, I think about two or three days."
"Two or three days!" Davis yelled. "You're kidding."
"I'm not, sonny. Get up now."
"But day after tomorrow's my day off," he moaned. "I was going down to Tijuana to see the bullfights."
"Sorry, Davis. This is a murder case. And if you've been reading the papers, too many suspects have been giving us the slip."
He turned to Trask and winked.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The call from Brendt livened things the next morning. The actor phoned twice before Bishop arrived to say he had information that might identify the prowler. But he insisted on talking to the lieutenant.
Bishop told Trask he would go and see the actor.
"Why didn't you tell him to come in?"
The Irishman grinned. "He says he has to feed his pets."
The Lieutenant looked bewildered. "All morning?"
Trask nodded. "Apparently it takes a long time. I suggested he come by in an hour and he said he couldn't. Seems they eat slow."
"What the hell has he got? A menagerie? I'd like to see those pets."
He drove quickly to the Echo Park area, too irritable even to listen to the radio news.
"All I need now is to go watch some goddamned actor feed his pets," he told himself bitterly as he climbed the winding hilly streets above Echo Park Lake. "The damned fool probably has fifty parrots or cats." The thought of fifty cats in one closed room was already making him nauseous. If they were mixed with parrots and dogs, he would die.
The pets turned out to-be stranger than that. When the bald actor greeted him in dirty Levi's, he seemed quite agitated. He waved to Bishop to follow and darted back into a dark hallway muttering, "I don't like to interrupt their feeding. It upsets them."
. The detective emerged at last into a huge high-ceilinged room with bay windows on three sides. The view of Los Angeles was breathtaking. On one side were the tall dun-colored Hollywood hills, on the other the tall office buildings of the business district. Bishop was admiring the view when he felt something tug sharply at his trouser cuffs. When he lowered his eyes to see what it was, he almost jumped through the window.
It was a seven-foot boa constrictor!
"Relax, Lieutenant," Brendt said. "He's very friendly. The only time he gets mad is if you step on him hard. This is the baby who has a temper." He pointed to a large mongoose attached to a leash in the far corner of the room. The animal's dark eyes glared at him. "Sit down," Brendt said affably. "I'll be through in a minute and then we can talk."
Glancing around the room filled with crates, odd tables, and book shelves, Bishop selected a small claw-legged upholstered chair. He had noticed a strong smell in the room when he entered. Now it was an overpowering stench. "Is all that coming from them?" he asked.
The actor, who was crouching on his saddled feet over a large crate, shook his head. "No. This adds to it." He held up a dead rat by the tail. He continued to talk as he fed rats to his pets. "Strange as it may seem, they're friends and like to eat their meals together, Lieutenant. It makes for complicated arrangements. Sometimes I don't have enough rats to go around. Have to cut them up. Which they don't like too much."
He pointed to the long brown serpent with the dark crossbars. "Hamlet is a very funny snake. Sometimes he gets grouchy for days and won't come near me. If I don't feed him right, he gets worse. Maybe it's the Latin temperament. He's Cuban.
"The mongoose, Lollobrigida, looks angry, but she's not. Don't you think she's got eyes like Gina's? Beautiful actresses usually bore me. Their vanity is written all over their faces. Biggest scene-stealers in the business. But she fascinates me. Would you care for a rum-soaked cigar?" The words tumbled out of the actor's mouth helter-skelter as he placed the rats in two open cages and coaxed the animals inside.
"We can talk now," he said. "They'll eat without coaxing."
Bishop, who had been breathing through his mouth for several minutes, turned his eyes away from the jaws of the boa. "Can't we go inside? I forgot my oxygen tank," Bishop said. He could never figure actors. As far as he was concerned, they were all nuts. Especially the unsuccessful ones.
"I don't think I can leave till they finish," Brendt said seriously. "They might have indigestion, or fight. Afterwards I have to put Hamlet back in his cage and put him in the garden for his sunbath. He loves to he in the sun after he eats."
"All right," Bishop said resignedly. "What'd you want to tell me?"
"In a minute. Want a rum-soaked cigar?"
"No, thanks. I only smoke Dutch Masters."
"I only smoke rum-soaked cigars," the actor said, lighting one. He stopped puffing and looked at Bishop. "Has it ever occurred to you that Tom Swaller might be the prowler?"
Bishop blinked at him. "We checked Swaller with Penny Bruce. She would have known him."
"Unless he were disguised," Brendt said slowly.
The detective suddenly remembered Penny's hesitation when she had looked at Swaller. And there had been something familiar about the prowler. A disguise would explain it. "Hey, you may have something there," he said excitedly. "What brought this on? I mean, what made you think we might have been wrong about Swaller?"
Sy Brendt shrugged as he puffed on his rum-soaked cigar.
"I thought about it soon after the thing happened. But you were chasing Steiner, Sanderson-whatever he's called. When that fell through, I thought I'd tell you what I thought."
"I'm damned glad you did," Bishop said. "I wish more people were as helpful as you. Half the time a cop has to work uphill because nobody who knows anything wants to stick his neck out." He looked at the actor. "What else do you know about him?"
"I know he's an arrogant bastard who's always shooting his mouth off. Thinks he's a holy marvel with women."
Bishop stood up. Hamlet had finished his lunch, but Lollobrigida was still gnawing lazily on a leg. He felt a little queasy in the stomach.
"Can I use your phone?" he asked.
"Right near the front door," Brendt said smiling.
The detective phoned his office and asked for Trask.
"What's the dope?" the Irishman asked.
"Do we have a stakeout on Sally and Penny?"
"Sure. What did he tell you?"
"He thinks it's Swaller, disguised. What do you think?"
"It makes sense," Trask said after a moment. "Shall I pick him up?"
Bishop hesitated. "No. Not yet. All we need is another goof and we'll have to hand in our badges. Let's make sure it's Swaller first. Put a man on him. Or better still, let's go after him ourselves."
"I'll put a man on him now and we'll relieve him after lunch. For some reason I'm hungry today. I could even go for chopped liver."
Bishop groaned. "Don't mention chopped liver, for the love of Mike."
"What's the matter? I thought you loved it. That's what you get for eating it every day. I used to feel that way about mulligan stew."
"It's not that. I just don't feel like eating, period." He felt bilious and the stench in Brendt's place wasn't helping.
"Look, I'll have to make this fast. I want to get out of this place. It smells like a sewer. I'm not sure it's Swaller, but it's worth trying. Listen carefully. Call him. He ought to be home today-it's Saturday. Tell him we got the guy and he's confessed. He can go anywhere he likes. Then pull off the men cruising the street."
"Pull them off?" Trask sounded astonished. "You saw how easily Davis got in."
"I know. But this time we're doing it differently. We'll be watching Penny's place. And I mean watching."
"What about Sally?"
"Call her and tell her to lock herself in. Back and front and let no one in. Put a man there, too. But I think our boy'll try for Penny. I think he's worried about her more, and anyway Swaller lives much closer to her."
"Shall I call Penny?" Trask asked.
"Yeah, tell her not to let anyone in. Lock herself in. Both doors just to be on the safe side. But don't give any names. If we're cockeyed on Swaller, I want this to be our secret. They're still laughing at headquarters about the last one." He inadvertently took a deep breath, and nearly fainted. "And call me back as soon as possible. I want to get the hell out of (his stinkpot. It's killing me."
Trask ran into busy signals on both Penny and Swaller and after two attempts called Sally. She was delighted by his call and invited him for lunch.
"Wish I could," he said, crestfallen. "Maybe we can do it tomorrow if this thing goes through."
She agreed to follow his instructions carefully. He tried Swaller again. Still busy. He got Penny a moment later and repeated Bishop's instructions. Then he went back to Swaller. Swaller's phone was still busy. Since he could not call Bishop back until he talked to the adman, he dialed Sally's number again.
This time they had a longer talk. Trask began to tell her about his nephew and his correspondence law course. She listened sympathetically. He enjoyed the conversation so much that he forgot Bishop was waiting. He remembered when the police switchboard operator broke in to tell him Bishop wanted urgently to talk to him. He said good-bye hurriedly and got on the other line.
"Goddamn it, Trask," Bishop shouted. "What took you so long? Did you talk to them?"
"Swaller's been busy. I'll try him again."
A few seconds later he spoke to Swaller. He gave the news of the confession in his most casual manner and told Swaller he was free to go where he liked.
The moment Swaller finished the conversation, he slammed his fist into his palm and began to dress excitedly. He put a lock-pick burglar tool in his pocket. Then he poured himself a large neat drink and gulped it down. The patrols would be pulled off in fifteen minutes. Half an hour at the latest. Then it would be safe for him to go to Penny's. He forced himself to wait the full thirty minutes. Then, putting on his jacket, he walked the few blocks to her house.
Force of habit kept him cautious. He watched the street for several minutes. Only the usual passenger cars and an occasional business or delivery vehicle entered Penny's block. He could see no uniformed men or plainclothes-men anywhere. Apparently Sergeant Trask had told the truth. He fingered the burglar tool in his pocket.
He walked briskly toward the center of the block which ran at a right angle to Penny's street. Between the garages that filled most of it, a narrow alley led to the backyards of several houses. He entered quickly and made a beeline for Penny's door. Using the burglar tool he jiggled the door lock by picking it. It worked. He opened it quickly and closed it behind him.
From the darkness of the tiny laundry room he stared at the alley. No one had followed him. Relieved, he turned towards Penny's bedroom from which the faint cha-cha-cha sounds reached him. He walked confidently down the hallway toward the closed door of her room. Suddenly a new doubt filled him. What if all this had been a trap? What if Trask had bed? What if he had really been followed? What if it had never been the police who called in the first place? He had only heard Trask's voice once before for a minute or two.
It might easily have been Penny's husband suspecting him and laying a trap. Knowing he would walk into it. He doubled back to the small room and searched the alley again. He could see no one. Reassured, he turned back toward the bedroom. At her door, he listened carefully. Silently he tried the knob. The door wasn't locked. He could hear nothing but the music. He crouched and stared through the keyhole. What he saw made the blood rush to his head.
Penny Bruce was sitting at her vanity table in a pair of black lace panties with cream-colored ruffles.
She wore nothing else.
She was looking into the glass as she combed her long black hair. The sight of her firm breasts made the blood rush to-his head. He felt weak in the knees just looking at her. It seemed ages since he had caressed those mounds. Or felt his fingers glide down those magnificent tapering legs.
Oblivious of anything else now, he glued his eyes to the hole and enjoyed her. It was as if he were watching an exciting, sensuous French film. He saw her make the long graceful motions with her comb and brush; motions that made her lovely breasts shiver. He felt a pounding in his temples as she began to slide long slim legs into a pair of sheer black hose. When she flexed her beautiful limbs to draw up the stockings, he could hardly stand it.
She hooked the tops of the black stockings to her garter belt and walked up and down before the long glass examining herself.
When she stood still before the mirror and tested the firmness of her breasts, he could bear it no longer. He had to have her now.
Jumping up from his crouching position, he opened the door quickly and went inside. Dazed with desire, he threw his arms around her, covered her mouth with his own and in a swift movement lifted her and and threw her down on the bed. The hammering in his temples was so loud as he rolled on top of her and began kissing her that he did not immediately hear the men come in. He moved his mouth hungrily down her throat and was cupping her breasts when rough hands pulled him away from her.
Penny screamed. Reaching frantically inside his coat, Swaller drew a gun and fired wildly at his attackers. He was trying to fire again when the first of the bullets struck his chest.
He stared bewilderedly into the faces of Lieutenant Bishop and Sergeant Trask. Shaking his head, he muttered, "No."
Bishop caught him as he began to roll off the bed. Swaller turned his face to the girl, stared at her with obvious loathing, and said, "Why?"
The girl shuddered and turned her eyes away from the question on his face. A moment later he was dead. Penny began to sob into her pillow. The ex-New York detective watched the unclad weeping girl helplessly, then seizing a dress from a nearby chair, he covered her nakedness. "See if she has any liquor inside," he whispered to Trask. "She's in bad shape."
"Did he rape her?"
Bishop stared at the girl's form, still racked with sobs.
"I don't know. We came in fast. But if he didn't, he got pretty close." To himself he muttered; and no one in that art class recognized him. Why?
As Trask left, he bent down to examine the corpse.
The front bell rang and Bishop went to answer the door. Several persons had heard the shots and came running. He showed them a badge and shut the door firmly. When he reached the bedroom, Trask was giving Penny a shot of Jack Daniels Sour Mash Whiskey as she lay propped up under the bedclothes. Her eyes were all red and her cheeks tearstained but she was quiet.
"You feel better?" Bishop asked gently.
She nodded.
"I'm sorry we weren't any quicker. He's the prowler, isn't he?"
She hesitated for a moment and then nodded. She avoided the detective's eyes. His experienced eyes noticed and wondered why.
"It must have been pretty horrible," Trask said. "His sneaking up on you undressed and all." She's hiding something, he thought.
She did not reply.
"Look, would you like me to get a doctor?" Bishop asked.
She shook her head. "I'll be all right," she said hoarsely. "You came in before he could do anything."
"You want me to call in a neighbor? She can get you anything you need. Or your husband?"
"No," she said almost hysterically. "Just leave me alone now, for God's sake! Just leave me alone!"
Bishop made a face. "I'll call you later to let you know when we might need you for the coroner's inquest. You'll have to testify and identify him. It won't take too long."
"Please leave me alone," she said, her lips trembling. "I'll do anything you want. Identify him, testify-anything. Only I want some peace now."
"This man is dead," Trask said apologetically. "We have to go through a certain police routine in these matters, but we'll make it short. Would you like to get dressed and wait in the living room? You'll feel much better. We can't move the body until the photographer and the medics get here. But it shouldn't be too long."
"All right," Penny said wanly. "I'll go inside."
Bishop, who had been staring at the body, straightened up. "Mrs. Bruce, why didn't you recognize Swaller as the prowler the other day?"
Her face twitched nervously. "I don't know. I was-he was all different when he came here the other time. He didn't look like Swaller at all. His hair, his voice, his nose were all different."
Trask's eyes brightened. "That accounts for her hesitation. There was something familiar about him, but the man was disguised."
Penny nodded. "He was completely different. He talked differently and he wore glasses. I thought even then I knew him, but I couldn't be sure."
Bishop nodded. "Okay, we'll leave you to get dressed now." When they were outside, Bishop said, "I wish we could have taken him alive."
"There was nothing else we could do," Trask said. "You saw him draw the gun." The little detective took off his straw hat, nodded absently and moved toward the front room. "The guy threw me completely off balance," the Irishman continued. "I thought he'd go in and talk to her for a while. But he jumped on her right away and there was nothing else I could do." He paused thoughtfully. "He must have got all worked up looking at her through the keyhole and couldn't wait."
The ex-New York detective said nothing as he tore the cellophane from a cigar and chewed the end.
"What's the matter, Mike? You look unhappy."
Bishop shrugged. "I can't understand why he came in the back door. And why it was unlocked. You told her to lock it, didn't you?"
The big Californian scowled. "What difference does that make, Mike? The girl identified him as the prowler. That's all we need. The case is closed. Stop worrying. You're always worrying."
Bishop growled. "Don't tell me to stop worrying, damn it. If I'm going to worry, I'm going to worry. That's all there is to it. There's something about this whole business I don't like. And I'm not sure what it is yet, and nobody recognizing any classmates after class-together. Disguises, slimises-why?"
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
He was still worrying the next day. The police work was over, the prowler dead, the story front-paged His own boss, the chief of detectives and the D.A. had all congratulated him and Trask. Even Helen was delighted. She had made them her class-A chicken paprika dinner, complete with sweet and sour red cabbage and Hungarian chocolate cheesecake. Bishop still worried.
"There are too many loose ends," he grumbled as they had lunch at Cantor's. "Too damned many."
"I just don't get you, Mike. It's all over. Forget it, will you?" Trask shook his head.
"Damn it, Trask, I want to be sure we didn't kill an innocent man. And I'm not sure. What the hell's wrong with you? You think it's all so simple. She says it's the killer, so we wrap up our guns, put on our hats and blow. As simple as that. Baloney. I want to be absolutely certain we killed the right man. I don't want to have this goddamned thing waking me up in the middle of the night for the next month. I'm a cop, damn it, not a murderer. Did we kill a rapist or just some poor bastard we caught shacked up with her? I know what she said. I just find it hard to believe, that's all."
Trask nodded slowly. "All right, let's have what's bothering you. It doesn't worry me, but if it's doing all that to you, let's have it. Is it just because Swaller used the back door? So what? He might have been taking extra precautions against the police. The fact that he was carrying a gun means one thing to me. He was worried about being caught. As for the back door being unlocked? All right. She forgot, that's all."
"She forgot?" Bishop said incredulously. "When you had just instructed her not to forget? And what the hell was she doing dressed like that, waiting for him like a call girl? The prowler's supposedly on the loose out to kill her, so she strips down to black lace panties to welcome him. Why?"
"How the hell do I know?" the red-faced Irishman retorted. "Who knows why women do anything? It was her house. She could have worn pink lederhosen if she wanted to, or long Johns."
Bishop shook his head. "I just don't like it, Irish. Not the way he came in, not the way she was dressed. Not the way he looked at her after we nailed him. And a few other things, too."
* * *
The front doorbell woke Penny from her late morning nap. She frowned. It was probably some damned reporter again. To ask the same damned fool questions and ask for pictures. She put on a robe and walked tiredly to the door. When she opened it, she was surprised.
It was Sy Brendt with a bouquet of pink roses in one hand and an overnight case in the other. The bald actor smiled sheepishly and handed her the flowers.
"I heard what happened," he said, "and I thought you might like these."
She controlled a slight repulsion and forced a smile. "Thank you, Sy. They're pretty. Where are you bound for?" she asked just to have a moment's polite small talk with him and be finished. She did not want him to come in.
"I've been offered a part in some TV Westerns," he said shyly. "They shoot them way out in the San Fernando Valley and I'll have to stay a few days. I'm on my way out there now actually but I wanted to see how you were. Can I come in a minute?"
"I'm awfully tired, Sy, really."
"Sure. I'll only stay a minute. I'm late now. It's just that I have a book of Rodin's sculptures I wanted to give you. A friend brought it from Paris. You like Rodin, don't you?"
"I love him," she said. "But why me?"
"Well, I heard you and Swaller discussing it once at the school-and I thought you'd be interested."
She wavered. "Well, come in a minute. But just a minute. I really must rest. It's been a horrible day."
He nodded shyly. "I've been meaning to bring the book for days but I thought you might think I was the prowler."
She stared at him and laughed. "You? Oh, God, no. I'd never have mistaken you for him. Not in a million years."
He reddened as he registered the shade of contempt and amusement in her voice. For a moment he hesitated and looked as if he would turn away in embarrassment. Finally, his Adam's apple quivering, he stepped into her front room. As he passed her, Penny caught a whiff of a strange, unpleasant odor. The same odor she remembered from the school. A rank animal-like smell.
She frowned as he sat down. She would have to control her repugnance for a few moments.
"Would you like a drink?" she asked.
When he nodded, she went back to her bedroom. She wanted to kick herself for having asked him in. Just sitting near him upset her. She'd have one quick drink with him and then complain she had a headache. In the bedroom, she removed her robe and put on a light summer dress.
Brendt had always aroused a repulsion in her and she never quite knew why. Perhaps it was the hungry looks he always gave her in the art class. His eyes seemed to devour her. They were always fixed on some part of her body that was a trifle overexposed. He had a way of looking that made her feel everything she wore was too tight-that she was half-naked.
When she brought the drinks in, he had laid the book out on the coffee table. He drank his whiskey quickly with a smack of the lips.
"Would you like another?" she asked reluctantly.
"I'll get it," he said affably. "You look at the book. It's terrific."
It was. It had nearly all of Rodin's masterpieces: The Kiss, The Lovers, The Thinker.
She was so absorbed in the beautiful reproductions she paid no attention to the sounds from the rear of the house.
When he came back, he held a tray with two drinks, the bottles and some cheese and crackers. She was surprised.
"I don't want another drink, thank you," she said, trying to hide her annoyance.
"I hate to drink alone," he said pleasantly.
"Come on. You like the pictures? Aren't they lovely?"
She nodded uneasily as she sat beside him on the couch. She could smell onions on his breath and she recoiled inwardly. The sport shirt and slacks he wore looked unpressed and dirty. Her repulsion increased. She sipped her drink for a moment and said as politely as she could:
"Please excuse me, Sy. I'm really very tired. And the doctor's ordered me to get a lot of rest. So if you'll forgive me, I think I'll go back to bed."
"But it's early," he laughed. "And you haven't looked at all the pictures." He turned to a reproduction of a naked man and a naked woman in a passionate embrace. "I love this one. The girl looks a lot like you, I think. Don't you think so?"
She colored a little. "No, I don't think so."
He laughed. "Sure you do. Without your clothes on, of course."
She reacted with an inner start to his words. The woman in Rodin's sculpture had breasts shaped like hers and the shoulders and legs were similar.
She rose firmly and said, "I'd better go now. Thank you for stopping by."
Without moving, still leafing through the book, he said absently, "Go ahead. I'll just look through these for a while. I've only seen them once myself."
Something about the tone of his voice made her uneasy.
"I thought you were in a hurry," she said, trying to control her irritation.
"Not too big a hurry. I can get there later," he replied, smiling.
"Well, I don't mean to sound inhospitable, Sy. I appreciate the flowers and the book but-"
"You haven't even finished your drink," Brendt protested.
"I don't want anymore," she said quickly. She felt a growing sense of helplessness in coping with him. "My husband will be home soon and I'd rather not have him find you here. He's-well, he's a jealous type."
Brendt grinned, showing his teeth, and took a hearty swig of his drink. "He won't be here for several hours."
She started. "How do you know?"
He shrugged. "What difference does that make? Sit down and finish your drink." His tone had become just a little sharper.
Alarmed, she said as calmly as she could, "All right, I'll finish my drink, but then I want you to go."
She sat down on the couch as far from him as she could. In her growing state of nervousness, Brendt's disagreeable smell made her feel especially queasy. She decided that he had probably had several drinks earlier and was being stubborn. She had seen him tight in the art school a few times. It made him hard and resentful.
"Look at that one," he said, pointing to another lovers' embrace. "Did you know that Rodin always waited until he finished his statues before he made love to his model? He claimed he couldn't do a good job if he had sexual intercourse with a woman before he did her figure. I couldn't wait that long. Especially if she looked like you. And I think you're twice as good as her. Your breasts are much lovelier."
Suddenly her control snapped. She rose and said, "Please go, Sy."
He poured himself another drink and smiled. "Why is it that a woman always gets mortified if you tell her her body is lovely? You wouldn't speak that way to Tom Swaller," he said acidly. "Or rather you would not have. Must remember your handsome boyfriend with the glorious head of hair is dead."
She paled as she jumped up. "What do you mean my boyfriend? He was nothing of the kind," she said furiously. Her white face trembled with anger but he seemed not to notice. He munched nonchalantly on a morsel of cheese and then licked his fingers.
"Wasn't Swaller your boyfriend?" he asked smiling. He swallowed some more cheese. "Very good. What is it, aged Wisconsin cheddar?"
"Who's been spreading that crazy story?" she asked angrily.
"Afraid your husband might be upset?" he said smacking his lips. "He doesn't know Tom's been coming here several afternoons a week to make love to his wife, does he?"
"That's a filthy lie," she retorted. "A filthy disgusting he."
"Is it?" he asked, his dark eyes fixing her own. "You really expect me to believe that Tom Swaller was the prowler?" he said jeeringly.
"Yes!"
"I happen to know he wasn't."
Her face went white. "How do you know?"
He smiled and munched another piece of cheese before replying.
"I know because I know who the prowler is."
"You know who the prowler is?" Penny asked astonished.
"I've known all along."
"Who is it?" she asked in a tiny voice.
He finished his drink and stood up.
"I'll tell you in a minute. Do you mind if I put my costume on now? I'll have no time to change later."
She scowled. "All right," she said reluctantly, "but hurry."
He moved to the corner of the room where his overnight case lay and began to rummage through it. With his back to her, he removed a pair of shoes, a pair of spectacles and a dark toupee. She could see him look into a small mirror as he did something to his face. Carefully he fixed the hairpiece on his bald head and then put on the glasses. Finally he removed the shoes he wore and stepped into another pair.
Slowly he turned to face her. The heavy dark spectacles framed his face in a new way. The toupee made him younger looking and the shoes inches taller. He walked closer to her and said in a strange, yet agonizingly familiar voice:
"I'm from the county assessor's office, ma'am. Would you mind answering a few questions?" She was staring at the prowler.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
In Cantor's Delicatessen, Trask continued the talk about the case with Bishop.
"Mike, I'm sure we'll get all the loose ends out later. When we get a fuller report from Penny. We couldn't talk to her very long yesterday. You saw the state she was in. The important thing is she did identify Swaller as the prowler. That's the main thing, isn't it?"
Bishop continued to chew his cigar silently.
"Tell you what, Mike," the Irishman said good-naturedly. "The Dodgers got Drysdale on the mound tomorrow. I'd like to see him cop his twentieth and watch Willie Mays clout a few. He's hit twenty homers so far. What do you say we go to the ball park?"
"Yeah, yeah," Bishop said absently. "Why not?"
Trask threw up his hands. Bishop was nuts about the Dodgers. He could talk hitting and pitching records for hours. But he completely forgot baseball when a case bugged him.
"Okay," Trask said resignedly. "Let's kick it around some more. I know when I'm licked. What else is eating you?"
"I keep thinking of the way Penny stared at Swaller the first time we asked her to check him. We thought she was giving him a careful once-over. I don't think it was that at all now. She was just thrown off balance completely. This guy wasn't just another jerk-either a stranger or even just some guy in her class. It was a guy she knew, damn it. Knew well. I could feel it in my bones. She was gawking at him because she was astonished to see him there. He was the last guy in the world she expected to see right there."
"Okay, so where do we go from there?" Trask asked.
"Penny went to the back door first when the prowler came a few days back, remember? So did Swaller now. She left the door unlocked. Swaller knew it was unlocked. He didn't even try the door. He walked in. Another thing. You ever walk into an alley like that-with several doors staring you in the face? Would you make a beeline for the right one without once taking your bearings?"
"No," Trask said pensively. "But he might have cased the joint before."
"Sure," Bishop said triumphantly. "That's what I mean. He had cased it. And the house, too. When he entered the house, he knew exactly where he was going. Like a man who's been there several times before. Like a guy who almost lives there. Do you get me? She was waiting for the guy, Al. I know it."
Trask shook his head. "I don't know, Mike," he said without conviction. "In that case, what the hell did she say he was the prowler for?"
"She also said that he wasn't a few days ago. I don't buy that crap about his disguise. Her story just doesn't convince me."
"Then why does she insist it was Swaller now?"
"Because we caught the bastard in bed with her, damn it. We caught her in a flagrant act of adultery. She was there in bed naked and ready for him. We had killed the guy. He was dead. Now it was up to her to save her reputation. She had her husband to think about now. Don't you see that? What was she going to do at a time like that? Admit she was having an affair with Swaller? Bring everything down on her own head? The easiest way out was to call the guy the prowler. It solved everything."
* * *
Sy Brendt smiled at the girl's consternation.
"I thought you'd be surprised." He lit a cigarette and puffed it a moment. "Now would you mind putting on those black lace panties again for me?" he said affably.
She put a hand to her thoat and tried to scream. No sound issued from her mouth.
"We've got plenty of time," he said in a matter-of-fact voice. "The police won't bother us. Neither will your husband. Shall we go into your bedroom?"
She stared at him speechlessly. For a long moment she tried to get words out but her terror blocked them. Finally she was able to speak hoarsely.
"Please don't kill me," she begged. "I'll do anything you want. But please don't kill me. I won't give you away. They think it was Swaller. They won't look for you."
He considered this for a moment. Then he came closer and ran his hand over her breasts. "That's right, isn't it? They do think it's Swaller. Well, we'll see. Right now I'd like to see you in those black beauties."
He marched her ahead of him into the bedroom, taking the bottle with him. Silently he regarded her as she pulled the dress over her head and undid her white brassiere and panties. "Come here," he said suddenly. "Over here."
She hesitated, frightened by the look in his eyes.
"I said come here!" His voice had a dangerous edge to it. She moved closer to him. He smacked her bare backside with a resounding slap that left the white flesh red. "That's for the upstaging you gave me all those nights at the Acme Art Center when I tried to be nice to you. Or offered to drive you home."
He bent her over his knee and applied his palm several times, spanking her with obvious gusto. "That one's for sniffing at me as if I were a bum or a wino! And that's for telling Swaller that I was the funniest thing you ever saw. And that's for telling him you knew I'd love to get into your pants, but you'd sooner do it with a gorilla. Oh, he told me all about it. He was a great boy for telling tales, Tom. Would you like me to tell you all the clinical details about your love affair?"
The girl's cries of pain stopped him.
"Careful now, we don't want the neighbors to hear, do we?" He laughed as a thought occurred to him. "You know, it just came to me. It would suit you fine if I just made love to you and took off. Wouldn't it? Everybody'd think the case was closed and your husband wouldn't know a thing. All it would cost you is a little sex. And you're used to that."
He laughed again and gave the girl on his knees a whack. "That's for being so contemptuous when I said I might be the prowler. I could see it in your eyes. Imagine a funny little jerk with a head like a billiard ball going around attacking grown women, huh?" He gave her another resounding whack. "And that's for asking Pucci to get rid of me because I was a smelly creep who gave the girls the shivers. I'll show you what a creep I am. Come here." He pulled the girl upright, crushed her in his arms and pressed his wet mouth hard against her own.
* * *
In the delicatessen, Trask shook his head doubtfully at Bishop's last remark. "You're so absolutely sure of this you're willing to accuse her of lying to us? Of committing adultery?"
"No, damn it. I'm not absolutely sure. I'm just sure enough of my doubts to want to talk to her again. If I were certain that she had lied to us, I would have called her hours ago. This thing's been eating me since we left the place."
The Irishman rubbed his waistline and sighed. "I need another beer like a hole in the head, but I'm going to have it." He waved toward the waitress. "You're taking on a big order, Mike. If you're wrong, you're making a lulu of a mistake. You'll also smash the poor kid's marriage."
"I'll tell you something else I might smash if I don't do it. I might smash her life. This guy is a psychotic, damn you. Don't you understand? If he's still floating around, he'll come back for her. He's already promised to get her."
The Irishman's face lost its bland expression. "Jesus. I never thought of that." He looked at Bishop. "Well, are you going to call her or not?"
Bishop sighed. "I guess I have to, Al. There's no other way. She's going to explode when I tell her I think she's been sleeping with her classmate. But I'd rather have her explode than see her strangled."
He rose and walked over to the cashier's counter. He dialed Penny's number slowly and waited. The phone rang several times. He was about to hang up when her voice came over the line. It was so faint he could barely make out what she was saying.
"Hello," she said in a weak voice.
"Penny. Lieutenant Bishop here. I'd like to ask you a few more questions. Can I come over?"
"I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number," she replied in a neutral tone.
"Look, this is Bishop. Lieutenant Bishop."
"What number are you calling please?" she asked.
"I'm calling Hollywood 7-86-" He stopped as he realized what her words meant. "Listen, Penny," Bishop said crisply. "I think I understand what you're saying. But I want to make sure. If the prowler, the real prowler, is there, tell me this is not a Granite number. Quickly."
"This is not a Granite number," she said slowly.
"Okay, hang up and don't get him angry. We'll be right over." He hung up and bounded to the booth. "Come on," Bishop yelled. "We just got an SOS. She's got the bastard with her now!"
* * *
Brendt put his arms around Penny and squeezed as hard as he could. He was annoyed by the girl's stiffness and refusal to put up any fight. He dug his fingers into the flesh of her upper arm.
"You surprise me. I thought you like rough lovers. At least that's what Swaller told me. Nothing Pollyanna about you in the hay."
He slapped her face. "You want me not to hurt you? Don't make faces as if I smell, you bitch. Or do you still think you're too good for me?"
The naked girl began sobbing as he embraced her again and let his lips move down her throat. She groaned as his nails scratched at the flesh of her arms.
Don't scream, she told herself. Don't scream. Don't try to fight or he'll strangle you. The crazed light in his eyes made shivers run down her spine. Whatever he was doing, or thinking now-he was too far out to listen to mere words. His face resembled a hungry wolf's. She forced herself to make no move that would enrage him.
"I suppose I really ought to kill you," he said slowly. "It wouldn't surprise me if you gave me away in that phone call." He slapped her again.
"No, I didn't, I swear," she wailed. "It was a wrong number."
"Why not?" he growled. "You did last time. Every time I come, you have a little phone call, don't you? Why didn't you just hang up if it was a wrong number?"
"I don't know," she sobbed. "He asked me a question."
"Why didn't you just say wrong number and hang up? No. You had to have a whole conversation. Who were you talking to? The police? Your husband?"
"No one. I don't know who it was."
He shrugged his shoulders. "It doesn't matter. They won't get me; if that's in your stupid little head, get it out. Nobody'll get me." His eyes were amused. "If I do decide to kill you, I have a great gimmick for it," he said conversationally. "It'll look just like suicide. A really weird kind of suicide. It'll make a great story for the newspapers. In fact, I got the idea out of one."
En route to Penny's house, Bishop put out a radio call for assistance. By the time he reached her place, several cars had already pulled up silently and uniformed men were turning back anyone who entered the street. Within minutes several others had drawn up.
Police were staked out in front of and behind the house.
Bishop sprang to the curb and moved to another police vehicle. "Anything happen yet?" he asked the men in the car.
"He's sent us a couple of greeting cards through that window," a burly detective told him. "No sign of him or the girl."
Bishop's face fell. "I was hoping I could save the girl. Maybe we still can. But I don't know. These psychos!" He shook his head at Trask.
"How about tear gas, Mike?" Trask said. "That might get him out."
The Lieutenant scowled. "Where's the microphone?"
The detective handed him a microphone.
"This is Lieutenant Bishop of the Los Angeles police. We've got you completely surrounded. Come out quietly with your hands up. You and the lady. You will not be harmed. I promise you. You will not be harmed."
There was no answer. Bishop repeated his message twice slowly.
As he finished, a bullet smashed the glass and whined past the car in which he was speaking.
Bishop stared at the window. "I'm going in there. You got any vests?"
The policeman nodded. "In the trunk."
"Get one for me, Trask said.
"I'll take him alone," Bishop said. "With that big belly of yours, you're a perfect target, Irish."
"Aw, shut your face," Trask said. "It's not that big."
A moment later they corseted themselves in the bulletproof vests.
"Jesus," Trask groaned as he pulled in his stomach. "I have gotten fatter."
Bishop turned to the other men. "Clear the neighbors out of here. Don't let anyone come out of their houses. This bimbo might come out shooting when he smells the goop. Toss them in as we break in the door. Better warn them on the speaker. I don't want stray bodies on the sidewalk."
A uniformed policeman issued a warning on the loudspeaker as Bishop and Trask moved toward the back door of Penny's house.
Brendt had become suspicious at the sudden cessation of traffic sounds. He was used to the familiar bleat of the fresh fish trucks, the bread trucks, the fruit carts, and the ice cream vendors who moved through Los Angeles neighborhoods all day long. Now he heard nothing.
After a while, his nervousness growing, he left the bedroom and, pushing Penny ahead of him, went to the front window. He warned her to make no move, no outcry.
"What's all that?" he whispered to the girl. "What are all those cars doing near the corner?"
"I don't know," the girl said, frightened.
"If you signaled the police when you were on that phone, I'll kill you," he said bitterly.
He took a gun from the bag near the sofa and cocked the trigger. He crouched near the window out of sight. When he saw two policemen approaching too close to the house, panic filled him, he forgot the loudspeaker warning, and fired twice. The policemen scattered quickly. Fear flooded him as he realized the mistake he'd just made. The police had probably surrounded them by now and his shots had pinpointed him. He turned to scream at the naked, cowering girl.
"You warned them, you bitch, didn't you?"
The girl shook her head and cringed as if she expected him to rain blows on her back.
"You're lying," he screamed at her. "I was thinking of letting you go. But not after this." He moved quickly to his bag and pulled out a plastic bag with drawstrings. He pulled the drawstrings and tightened the mouth of the bag. He giggled as he came closer. There was a tense look in his eyes. "Now we'll see how you look with this on."
"No," she screamed. "No. Don't kill me. Please don't kill me. I won't say anything. I won't do anything. I'll tell them anything you want."
"No!" he shouted. "Put this on."
"Please don't kill me," she pleaded.
"Why not?" he yelled. "Haven't you just killed me? Didn't you just call the police? I wanted to be nice to you. I was going to let you live. All I wanted was to make love to you. Why did you have to tell them? Was I hurting you so badly? I was just doing what your husband does all the time. Or Tom Swaller. Why did you have to betray me?"
Suddenly his face hardened. "I know why. Because you thought I was a funny, bald-headed jerk. Somebody you could laugh at. Somebody who smelled. Not good enough to even spit on. That's what you all thought. You smug, arrogant bitches. Jumping into bed with anyone who would ask you. Anyone but me."
He raised the plastic bag over her head. The terrified girl ran to the other side of the room. As he followed, she sprinted down the corridor, heedless of his gun. He raced after her and seized her arm as she reached for the bathroom door.
"Not this time, Penny," he said grimly. Grabbing her waist with one hand, he hoisted the bag over her head again. She screamed as he tried desperately to pull the bag down. He threw her down on the bed and pummeled her with his fists.
Suddenly the windowpane shattered and something hit the floor with a thud. The room began to fill with a pungent cloud of gas that made them gasp and choke and their eyes smart.
"You bitch!" Brendt screamed in a rage as he fought to breathe. He pulled the girl back away from the mushrooming cloud of gas. As a new thought struck him, he began to laugh hysterically. "Put this on, Penny. It's your gas mask," he told her.
She fought to get away from him but his grip was too strong.
"Don't fight it, baby," he said in a quiet voice that chilled her. "You've got to put your mask on. You can't go on breathing this stuff. It'll kill you. Put it on!"
The room was now becoming so flooded with gas that they could barely breathe. Gasping and coughing, Brendt held the girl securely while he forced the plastic bag over her head. He drew the string taut and began to tie them as another volley of gas shells came through the window. He was startled for a second and turned to look. The girl broke away from his grip and vanished in the dense, swirling fog.
"Come back, Penny!" Brendt screamed as he groped for her through the thick smoke. "Come back and put on your gas mask." He began to cough and retch loudly as he tried blindly to find the girl.
At the same moment, Bishop and Trask smashed the doors in and entered, followed by several officers. Holding handkerchiefs to their noses, they moved quickly through the gas-filled house. As they entered the bedroom, they could see the girl's legs sticking out from under the bed.
Bishop drew the girl out, put a blanket around her and told a uniformed man to take her out to the street. He looked for the prowler. He was not in the room. He pulled open the closet door. It was empty.
He tried the door of the bathroom. It was locked. "Come out of there!" he shouted. "We've got you surrounded. You can't get away. Open the door and toss out your gun."
There was no answer from the bathroom.
"I'll give you a count of ten," Bishop said. "Then we'll shoot the lock on the door and we'll come in shooting. Take your choice. We're not fooling." As the detectives pulled open the windows, he counted slowly to ten. There was still no answer. "Okay, we're coming in. This is your last chance. Come out now with your hands up or we come in shooting. What's your answer?"
The answer was a shot inside the bathroom. No bullet came through the door.
Bishop stared at the men around him and nodded. Someone behind him fired at the lock on the door. A few seconds later, they threw it open. "Wait, I'd better go in first," Bishop said. He could have fired at the ceiling."
Cautiously, sweating in his bulletproof vest, he entered the bathroom. It was empty. Slowly he opened the door of the shower stall. Sy Brendt lay slumped on the tile floor, his gun beside him. He had shot himself in the chest, but he was still alive. The toupee had fallen to the floor and his naked scalp trickled drops escaping from the showerhead. "I thought it might be you," Bishop said softly.
The actor stared at him. A glaze had come over his eyes. "Please make sure they feed my pets," he said. "Only rats. That's all Hamlet and Lollobrigida eat. They're the only things alive that ever gave a damn about me."
A moment later he was dead.
Bishop turned as he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Trask. He stood up.
"The girl's okay, Mike. She was all right as soon as they took her out into the fresh air."
Lieutenant Bishop shook his head, took off his hat and wiped his brow with his hander-chief. He moved closer to the window. "What a town! Los Angeles. Even the murders out here come out like B-movies. All these phony complications. Disguises, plastic bags, all that crap. Where else could it happen but Hollywood? Next week, Fu Manchu."
He examined the body for a moment and then went in to see how Penny was. When he came back, Trask was putting down the phone.
"Come on over to the house tonight, Al. Helen always celebrates the end of a case with a twenty-dollar meal: chicken paprika, Hungarian chocolate cheese cake, and champagne."
Trask flushed deeply. "I'd like to, Mike, but I just offered to take Sally Rosson to dinner. She's still a little shaken."
Bishop eyed him carefully. "Bring her over, Al. If she's going to be a cop's wife, she might as well learn how to cook."
