Avaunt, ye demons, and away with imaginary conversations. Let us to a
very real, if suddenly conceived, plot for murder.
In Pete Kowalsky's Palace Bar, Ray Fleck looked up from his drink, in
which he had found no answer to his problem, and saw the answer walking
toward him.
That is, he saw a man walking toward him from the back end of the
tavern, undoubtedly coming from the john; he must have been in it when
Ray had come in the place a minute or so ago. Ray didn't know the
man, but still he looked vaguely familiar. He was medium in height
and stocky, probably about Ray's own weight except that he had broad
shoulders and a narrow waist, just the opposite of Ray's distribution
of weight. He had a somewhat coarse, brutal face--anyway a face that
looked as though it could look brutal. And dark intense eyes that
looked--well, haunted was probably the best word. For some reason he
couldn't name a cold chill went down Ray Fleck's spine. He'd seen that
man _somewhere_ before. Where?
The man hadn't noticed Ray and obviously didn't know he was being
watched and wondered about. He stopped behind the bar stool that was
the second one down from Ray's and stood there a moment. There was an
almost finished drink on the bar in front of that stool and apparently
he was deciding whether to sit down again and finish it or to go on out
of the tavern.
And in that moment as he stood there Ray knew why the chill had gone
down his spine. For a moment the man's hands, _big_ hands, flexed and
unflexed--and then went rigid as though he'd suddenly realized what he
was doing and had forced himself to stop. Then he slid onto the stool
in front of the drink.
Now Ray knew, suddenly but beyond all doubt, where, when and under what
circumstances he'd seen the man. He knew he was sitting two stools away
from the psychopathic killer who was terrorizing the city. And who,
according to what the squad car cops had told him in Jick's only half
an hour or so ago, was on the prowl tonight and had already tried to
get at two women.
His first thought was to get out of there fast and phone the police
from the drugstore that was still open directly across the street.
And hope the man would still be here when they came. Then he saw
the dangers of that. For tonight--until they'd had time to dig into
background and find evidence--it would be his word against the
psycho's. And the cops would keep him for hours, questioning him--and
bawling the hell out of him for not having reported what he'd seen when
he'd seen it two months ago. They'd make him sound like more of a heel
than a hero for reporting it now. And suppose he phoned in and the cops
didn't get here in time to catch their man they'd be even tougher with
him. And if the deal got in the newspapers the psycho would know there
was someone around who could identify him, and he'd know who. That
would be a hell of a spot to be in. And what did he have to gain? He
had troubles of his own.
And then the second thought came to him, full blown and foolproof. And
he knew he had to do it right away before he lost his nerve. Or before
the man finished his drink and left.
He took the rest of his own drink at a draught and called out, "Hey,
bartender," to the bartender he didn't know. "One more double." And
then casually to the man who sat almost beside him, "Have one with me,
pal?"