Lady Killer

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Standing on top of the garbage can in the alley alongside The Pub, the man could see into the small window directly to the table where George Laddona was sitting.

He had not been wrong, then. He had known George's habits well enough to realize that he would stop at The Pub again tonight on the way home from the diner, would sit at his regular table, and would order a large schooner of beer. And when that was consumed, he would order another… except that tonight he would not order another, he would never order another glass of beer again because at eight o'clock he would die.

The man looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It was 7.52.

In eight minutes, George Laddona would die.

He felt a sudden sadness. It was a thing he had to do, of course. It was the only way he could see. And he had planned it very well, had planned it so that he would be in the clear, so that even if he was suspected of motive, the facts would never tie in with him, the facts would never tie in with the man who'd be seen running down the street after the shooting.

And then to his own apartment. And then, tomorrow morning, back to work, unchanged, seemingly the same. Except that he would have committed a murder.

Would they stop him?

Had his letter been too subtle? Well, of course, he could not tell them, could he have come right out and told them? But hadn't there been enough hints, hadn't he cleverly indicated what was going to happen, and shouldn't they have figured it out?

They had certainly figured out the rest. They hadn't been laggard about that, by God. He thought of the apartment he'd rented on Twelfth Street, the sleazy dump where he'd planned to spend the night, a place within walking distance of the shooting. He could no longer do that. They had found the apartment, had almost captured him. He could still remember shooting it out with the red-headed cop. That had been exciting, exhilarating. But now he couldn't use the apartment; he'd have to return to his own apartment. Was that wise? Suppose someone saw him? Should he simply wander the streets tonight? Should he put on the—

He stopped his thoughts abruptly and looked at his watch again.

7.55.

He reached into his pocket, felt something soft and warm, was surprised for an instant, and then remembered. And then his hand closed on something cold and hard, and he pulled it from his pocket, and the dim moon in the already dark sky illuminated the Luger with a deadly glitter.

He checked the magazine. It was a full clip.

Those magazines he had left in the apartment. Could they be traced? It didn't matter. He didn't have a licence for the gun. Would they trace it to the man from whom he'd bought it? No, that was unlikely. He'd bought it in the neighbourhood, and he was sure it was a stolen gun. The man he'd bought it from had had all sorts of things to sell. This was some neighbourhood, all right, some neighbourhood, and still it had been good to him. It would be even better to him. After tonight it would be better.

He clicked off the safety.

It was 7.57.

He rested the Luger on the window sill, and carefully took aim at the back of George Laddona's head. On his left wrist, the second hand of his wrist watch moved, and moved, and moved. The minute hand suddenly lurched. He saw it move, actually saw it move. It was 7.58. Would they stop him? He doubted it. The fools. The stupid fools.

Carefully he kept his hand steady, and waited.

At 8 o'clock, just as he was going to fire, Cotton Hawes burst into the alley mouth.

'Hey!' he shouted. 'You!'

The gun went off, but the killer's hand had yanked back an instant before he'd fired. Hawes lunged at him. The man turned, the Luger in his fist. Hawes leaped.

The gun went off again, and then the garbage can and the man rolled down clatteringly on to the alley floor. The gun was coming up again, turning to point at Hawes, a graceful weapon with a lethal discharge. Hawes swung. The gun went off wide. He swung again. He felt his fist collide with the man's face, and again he struck. And now the day's punishment, the heat, and the chase, and the seeming futility of the senseless desperation welled up in Hawes, exploded into his fists so that he battered the man until he was senseless.

And then, sighing heavily, he dragged him out of the alley mouth.

Inside The Pub, George Laddona was still trembling. The bullet had whacked into the tabletop, missing his head by perhaps two inches. He sat with a puzzled expression on his face, and his hands shook, and his lips shook as Hawes tried to explain.

'It was your partner,' he said. 'Jo Cort. It was your partner who shot at you, Mr Laddona.'

'I don't believe it,' George said. 'I just don't believe it. Not Jo. Jo wouldn't try to kill me.'

'He would if he had a money-hungry girl-friend,' Hawes said.

'You mean… you mean she was behind this?'

'Not actually,' Hawes said. 'At least, I don't think so. She didn't tell him to kill you, if that's what you mean. Felicia Pannet isn't the kind of girl who'd spend the rest of her life with a murderer. But she let him know what she wanted, and this probably seemed to him the only way he could get it for her.'

'No,' George said. 'Not Jo,' and he seemed ready to weep.

'Remember that picture I showed you today?' Hawes asked.

'Yes! That wasn't Jo! That was someone else. That's the man—'

'Wasn't it?' Hawes asked. He took the picture and a pencil from his pocket, and hastily went to work on it. 'Wasn't it Jo Cort?' he asked George, and he showed him the changed picture.

'Yes,' George said. 'Yes, that's Jo.'

'Believe me,' Hawes said. 'He tried to kill you.'

George brushed at his eyes. 'He succeeded,' he said.

In the police sedan, with the prisoner between Meyer and Carella on the back seat, Hawes drove leisurely back toward the precinct.

'Why'd you shout "Smith!" when we were leaving?' Carella asked.

'Because I was looking at Meyer's damn box of cough drops, and all of a sudden I remembered.'

'What'd you remember?'

'I remembered a landlady saying, "That's the way he looked this morning." It didn't make sense at the time, but actually it meant he looked different this morning than he had looked on other mornings. And then this girl who lived across the hall from him. She said he'd reminded her of a Russian spy. All he needed was a bomb. And she thought it was funny that his name was Smith. When I asked her why, she said, "Well, the cough drops and all, you know." I thought she was nuts at the time. But tonight, when I saw Meyer's box of Smith Brothers Cough Drops, it all clicked into place. Cort had shaved in the apartment the night before, that's what the scissors and straight razor were doing in that medicine cabinet.'

'It figures,' Carella said. 'He's had that beard since he was eighteen. He thought he wouldn't be recognized without it.'

'And he wasn't,' Hawes said. He stopped for a traffic light. 'But what I don't understand is how he planned to go back to the diner tomorrow morning? He'd be identified immediately.'

'Maybe this'll help you,' Carella said. 'I found it in bis pocket.'

He nipped a soft furry object on to the front seat. Hawes picked it up. 'A false moustache and beard!' he said. 'I'll be a son of a bitch!'

'I guess he planned to wear that until the real McCoy grew back,' Carella said.

'He can grow a real long beard where he's going,' Meyer said. 'Anybody want a cough drop?'

Carella and Hawes burst out laughing.

'Man, I'm weary,' Carella said.

'I guess O'Brien gets to see his ball game, huh?'

The traffic light changed. On the back seat Cort stirred into consciousness. He blinked and then mumbled, 'You stopped me, didn't you?'

'Yeah,' Carella said. 'We stopped you.'

'You've got the light, Cotton,' Meyer said. 'Let's go.'

'What's the hurry?' Hawes asked. 'We've got all the time in the world.'

END