Lolling in the hot tub, she decided on the Cameron Arms Hotel, and pondered which dress she should wear.
But when she stepped from the tub, she felt again that familiar weakness, a vertigo. Her knees sagged; she grabbed the sink for support. It lasted almost a minute this time. Then the faintness passed. She took a deep breath and began to perfume her body.
It took her more than an hour to dress and apply makeup. It seemed to her she was moving in a lazy glow; she could not bring her thoughts to a hard focus. When she tried to plan what she was about to do, her concentration slid away and dissolved.
An odd thought occurred to her in this drifting haze: she wondered if her adventures were habit-forming. Perhaps she was venturing out this night simply because it was something she always did just prior to her period. It was not dictated by desire or need.
She drank two cups of black decaf coffee, but no more wine and no more pills. By the time she was ready to leave, close to 9:00 P.M., her mindless euphoria had dissipated; she felt alert, sharp, and determined.
She wore a sheath of plummy wool jersey with a wide industrial zipper down the front from low neckline to high hem. Attached to the tab of the zipper was a miniature police whistle.
She transferred belongings to the patent leather shoulder bag, making certain she had her knife and the small aerosol can of Chemical Mace. As usual, she removed all identification from her wallet.
She was wearing her strawberry blond wig. Around her left wrist was the gold chain with the legend: WHY NOT?
An hour later she strode briskly into the crowded lobby of the Cameron Arms Hotel, smoking a cigarette and carrying her trenchcoat over her arm. She noticed men turning to gawk, and knew she was desired. She felt serenely indifferent and in control.
She looked in at the cocktail lounge featuring the disco, but it was too noisy and jammed. She walked down the lobby corridor to the Queen Anne Room. It appeared crowded, but dim and reasonably quiet. She went in there.
It was a somewhat gloomy room, with heavy upholstery, fake marquetry, and vaguely Oriental decoration and drapes. All the tables and banquettes were occupied by couples and foursomes. But there were vacant stools at the bar.
Zoe Kohler went into her act. She looked about as if expecting to be met. She asked the hatcheck girl the time as she handed over her trenchcoat. She made her way slowly to the bar, still peering about in the semidarkness.
She ordered a glass of white wine from a bartender dressed like an English publican of an indeterminate period: knickers, high wool hose, a wide leather belt, a shirt with bell sleeves, a leather jerkin. The cocktail waitresses were costumed as milkmaids.
She sat erect at the bar, sipping her wine slowly, looking straight ahead. On her left was a couple arguing in furious whispers. The barstool on her right was empty. She waited patiently, supremely confident.
She had just ordered a second glass of wine when a man slid onto the empty stool. She risked a quick glance in the mirror behind the bar. About 45, she guessed. Medium height, thick at the shoulders, florid complexion. Well-dressed. Blondish hair that had obviously been styled and spray-set.
His features were heavy, almost gross. She thought he looked like an ex-athlete going to fat. When he picked up his double Scotch (he had specified the brand), she saw his diamond pinkie ring and a loose chain of gold links about his hairy wrist.
The Queen Anne Room began to fill up. A party of three raucous men pushed in for drinks on the other side of the single man. He hitched his barstool closer to Zoe to give them room. His shoulder brushed hers. He said, “Pardon me, ma’am,” giving her a flash of white teeth too perfect to be natural.
“Getting crowded in here,” he offered a moment later.
She turned to look at him. He had very small, hard eyes.
“The conventions, I suppose,” she said. “The hotel must be full.”
“Right,” he said, nodding. “I made my reservation months ago, or I never would have gotten in.”
“Which convention are you with?”
“I’m not with any,” he said, “exactly. But I came up for the meeting of the Association of Regional Airline Owners and Operators. Here …”
He dug into his jacket pocket, brought out a business card. He handed it to Zoe, then flicked a gold cigarette lighter so she could read it.
“Leonard T. Bergdorfer,” he said. “From Atlanta, Georgia. I’m a broker. Mostly in sales of regional airlines, feeder lines, freight forwarders, charter outfits—like that. I bring buyers and sellers together. That’s why I’m at this shindig. Pick up the gossip: who wants to sell, who wants to buy.”
“And have a little fun with the boys?” she asked archly.
“You’re so right,” he said with a thin smile. “That’s the name of the game.”
“From Atlanta, Georgia,” she said, handing back his card. “You don’t talk like a southerner.”
He laughed harshly.
“Hell, no, I’m no rebel. But Atlanta is where the money is. I’m from Buffalo. Originally. But I’ve lived all over the U.S. and A. Where you from, honey?”
“Right here in little old New York.”
“No kidding? Not often I meet a native New Yorker. What’s your name?”
“Irene,” she said.
He had a suite on the eighth floor: living room, bedroom, bath. There was a completely equipped bar on wheels, with covered tubs of ice cubes. Liquor, wine, and beer. Bags of potato chips, boxes of pretzels, jars of salted peanuts.
“Welcome to the Leonard T. Bergdorfer Hospitality Suite,” he said. “Your home away from home.”
She looked around, wondering if anyone in the Queen Anne Room or on the crowded elevator would remember them. She thought not.
“All the booze hounds are at a banquet right now,” he said. “Listening to a fat-ass politician give a speech on the deregulation of airfares. Who needs that bullshit?”
This last was said with some bitterness. Zoe suspected he had not been invited.
“But it’ll break up in an hour or so,” he went on, “and then you’ll see more freeloaders up here than you can count. Stick around, Irene; you’ll make a lot of friends.”
She was uneasy. It wasn’t going the way she had planned.
“I better not,” she said. “You boys will want to talk business. I’ll have a drink and be on my way.”
“You don’t want to be like that, honey,” he said with his thin smile, “or Poppa will spank. Be friendly. I’ll make it worth your while. Now then … let me have your coat. We’ll have a drink and a little fun before the thundering herd arrives.”
He hung her coat in a closet, returned to the bar. He busied himself with bottles and glasses, his back to her.
I could take him now, she thought suddenly. But it wouldn’t be—wouldn’t be complete.
“You married, sweetie?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Divorced. What about you, Lenny?”
“Still a bachelor,” he said, coming toward her with the drinks. “Why buy a cow when milk is so cheap—right?”
She took the wine from him. When she sipped, she made certain she implanted lipstick on the rim so she could identify the glass later.
“What’s this for?” he asked, fingering the small whistle hanging from the tab of her zipper.
“In case I need help,” she said, smiling nervously.
“You don’t look like a woman who needs help,” he said with a coarse laugh. “Me, maybe. Not you, babe.”
He pulled the zipper down to her waist. The dress opened.
“Hey-hey,” he said, eyes glittering. “Look at the goodies. Not big, but choice.” He caught up her wrist, read the legend on her bracelet. “Well … why not? Let’s you and me go in the bedroom and get acquainted before anyone else shows up.”
He grabbed her upper arm in a tight grip. He half-led, half-pulled her into the bedroom. He released her, shut the bedroom door. He set his drink and hers oh the bedside table. He began to take off jacket
and vest.
“Wait, Lenny, wait,” Zoe said. “What’s the rush? Can’t we have a drink first?”
“No time,” he said, pulling off his tie. “This will have to be a quickie. You can drink all you like later.”
He stripped to his waist rapidly. His torso was thick, muscular. None of the fat she had imagined. His chest, shoulders, arms were furred. He sat down on the bed and beckoned, making flipping motions with his hands.
“Come on, come on,” he said. “Get with it.”
When she hesitated, he stood again, took one stride to her. He ripped her zipper down its full length. The front of her dress fell apart. He embraced her, hands and arms inside the opened dress, around her naked waist. He pressed close, grinding against her.
“Oh yeah,” he breathed. “Oh yeah. This is something like.”
His face dug into her neck and shoulder. She felt his tongue, his teeth.
“Wait,” she gasped. “Wait just a minute, Lenny. Give a girl a chance. I’ve got to get my purse.”
He pulled away, looked at her suspiciously.
“What for?” he demanded.
“You know,” she said. “Female stuff. You get undressed. I’ll just be a sec.”
“Well, hurry it up,” he growled. “I’m getting a hardon like the Washington Monument. All for you, baby.”
She ran into the living room. She saw at once that she could easily escape. Grab up shoulder bag and coat, duck out the corridor door. He was half-undressed; he wouldn’t follow. She could be long gone before he was able to come after her.
But she wanted to stay, to finish what she had to do. He deserved it. It was the timing that bothered her, the risk. He was expecting guests. Could she complete her job and be out of the suite before the others arrived?
Softly, she locked and chained the corridor door. She went back to the bedroom with her shoulder bag. He was pulling down his trousers and undershorts. His penis was stiffening, empurpled. It was rising, nodding at her. A live club. Ugly. It threatened.
“Be right with you,” she said and went into the bathroom. Closed and locked the door. Leaned back against it, breathing rapidly. Zipped up her dress, tried to decide what to do next.
“Come on, come on,” he shouted, trying the locked door, then pounding on it. “What the hell’s taking you so long?”
She would never be able to lull him, get behind him. Unless she submitted to him first. But that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. That would spoil everything.
She opened the knife, placed it on the edge of the sink. Took the can of Mace from her purse. Gripped it tightly in her right hand.
“All set, Lenny!” she cried gaily.
She unlocked the door with her left hand. He slammed it open. He was close, glowering. He reached for her.
She sprayed the gas directly into his face. She kept the button depressed and, as he staggered back, followed him. She held the hissing container close to his eyes, nose, mouth.
He coughed, sneezed, choked. He bent over. His hands came up to his face. He stumbled, fell, went down on his back. He tried to suck in air, breathing in great, hacking sobs. His fingers clawed at his weeping eyes.
She leaned over him, spraying until the can was empty.
She ran back to the bathroom, hurriedly soaked a washcloth in cold water. Held it over her nose and mouth. Picked up the knife, returned to the bedroom.
He was writhing on the floor, hands covering his face. He was making animal sounds: grunts, groans. His hairy chest was pumping furiously.
She bent over him. Dug the blade in below his left ear. Made a hard, curving slash. His body leaped convulsively. A fountain of blood. She leaped aside to avoid it. Hands fell away from his face. Watery eyes glared at her and, as she watched, went dim.
The gas was beginning to affect her. She gasped and choked. But she had enough strength to complete the ritual, stabbing his naked genitals again and again, with a mouthed, “There. There. There.”
She fled to the bathroom, closed the door. She took several deep breaths of clear air. She soaked the washcloth again, wiped her eyes, cleaned her nostrils. She inspected her arms, dress, ankles, the soles of her shoes. She could find no bloodstains.
But her right hand and the knife were wet with his blood. She turned on the hot water faucet in the sink. She began to rinse the blood away. It was then she noticed the knife blade was broken. About a half-inch of the tip was missing.
She stared at it, calculating the danger. If the blade tip wasn’t near him, lying on the rug, then it was probably lost in the raw swamp of his slashed throat, broken off against bone or cartilage. She could not search for it, could not touch him.
She began moving quickly. Finished rinsing hand and knife. Dried both with one of his towels. Put towel, knife, and emptied Chemical Mace can into her shoulder bag. Strode into the bedroom. The gas was dissipating now.
Leonard T. Bergdorfer lay sprawled in a pool of his own blood. Zoe looked about, but could not see the knife blade tip.
She picked up her glass from the bedside table, drained the wine. The empty glass went into her shoulder bag, too. She turned back to wipe the knobs of the bathroom door and the faucet handles with the damp washcloth. She did the same to the knobs of the bedroom door.
She put on her coat in the living room. She unlocked and opened the hallway door a few inches, peeked out. Then she wiped off the lock, chain, and doorknob with the washcloth, and tucked it into her bag. She opened the door wide with her foot, stepped out into the empty corridor. She nudged the door shut with her knee.
She was waiting for the Down elevator when an ascending elevator stopped on the eighth floor. Five men piled out, laughing and shouting and hitting each other. Men were so physical.
They didn’t even glance in her direction, but went yelling and roughhousing down the corridor. They stopped in front of Bergdorfer’s suite. One of them began knocking on the door.
Then the Down elevator stopped at the eighth floor, the doors slid open, and Zoe Kohler departed.
6
ON APRIL 18TH, THE night Zoe Kohler was sipping white wine at Harry Kurnitz’s party at the Chez Ronald on East 48th Street, Edward X. Delaney was dining with reporter Thomas Handry at the Bull & Bear Restaurant, a block away.
Handry was a slender, dapper blade who looked younger than his forty-nine years. His suits were always precisely pressed, shoes shined, shirts a gleaming white. He was one of the few men Delaney had known who could wear a vest jauntily.
The only signs of inner tensions were his fingernails, gnawed to the quick, and a nervous habit of stroking his bare upper lip with a knuckle, an atavism from the days when he had sported a luxuriant cavalry mustache.
“You’re picking up the tab?” he had demanded when he arrived.
“Of course.”
“In that case,” Handry said, “I shall have a double Tanqueray martini, straight up with a lemon twist. Then the roast beef, rare, a baked potato, and a small salad.”
“I see nothing to object to there,” Delaney said, and to the hovering waiter, “Double that order, please.”
The reporter regarded the Chief critically.
“Christ, you never change, never look a day older. What did you do—sell your soul to the devil?”
“Something like that,” Delaney said. “Actually, I was born old.”
“I believe it,” Handry said. He put his elbows on the table, scrubbed his face with his palms.
“Rough day?” the Chief asked.
“The usual bullshit. Maybe I’m just bored. You know, I’m coming to the sad conclusion that nothing actually new ever happens. I mean, pick up a newspaper of, say, fifty or a hundred years ago, and there it all is: poverty, famine, wars, accidents, earthquakes, political corruption, crime and so forth. Nothing changes.”
“No, it doesn’t. Not really. Maybe the forms change, but people don’t change all that much.”
“Take this Hotel Ripper thing,” Handry went on. “It’s just a re
play of the Son of Sam thing, isn’t it?”
But then the waiter arrived with their drinks and Delaney was saved from answering.
They had ale with their roast beef and, later, Armagnac with their coffee. Then they sat back and Delaney accepted one of Handry’s cigarettes. He smoked it awkwardly and saw the reporter looking at him with amusement.
“I’m used to cigars,” he explained. “I keep wanting to chew the damned thing.”
They had a second cup of coffee, stared at each other.
“Got anything for me?” Handry said finally.
“A story?” Delaney said. “An exclusive? A scoop?” He laughed. “No, nothing like that. Nothing you can use.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“I can give you some background,” the Chief said. “The powers-that-be aren’t happy with Lieutenant Slavin.”
“Is he on the way out?”
“Oh, they won’t can him. Kick him upstairs maybe.”
“I’ll check it out. Anything else?”
Delaney considered how much he could reveal, what he would have to pay to get the cooperation he needed.
“That last killing …” he said. “Jerome Ashley …”
“What about it?”
The Chief looked at him sternly.
“This is not to be used,” he said. “N-O-T. Until I give you the go-ahead. Agreed?”
“Agreed. What is it?”
“They found nylon hairs on the rug in Ashley’s hotel room.”
“So? They’ve already said the killer wears a black nylon wig.”
“These nylon hairs were a reddish blond.”
The reporter blinked.
“Son of a bitch,” he said slowly. “He switched wigs.”
“Right,” Delaney said, nodding. “And could switch again to brown, red, purple, green, any color of the goddamned rainbow. That’s why nothing’s been released on the strawberry blond hairs. Maybe the killer will stick to that color if nothing about it appears in the newspapers or on TV.”
“Maybe,” Handry said doubtfully. “Anything else?”
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