"I don't either, much," Ray said. "But I'd sure like to see the Yankees
lose a pennant for once. Spoils baseball, same team winning every year
in one league."
"Yeah," the man said. "I go along on that." He finished his drink and
slid off the stool. "Well, I gotta go. Unless you'll let me buy back."
"Nope. This better be my last, if I'm gonna play poker."
"Okay, then. Thanks."
Ray didn't turn as the man walked behind and past him to the door. But
after the man was outside he turned just slightly and managed to watch
out of the corner of his eye, through the window, without appearing to
be watching. The man crossed the street and went into the drugstore. He
headed for the phone booth and started thumbing through the phone book
that hung on a chain beside it.
Checking up on what Ray had told him by verifying the address in the
phone book? It could be. But then the man looked up another number,
thumbing to another part of the directory, and then entered the phone
booth and closed the door behind him.
What call would he be making, Ray wondered. To Ray's own phone number,
just to verify that no one answered there? That wouldn't prove much.
Calling someone to tell them that he wouldn't be home till later? That
didn't seem too likely; he probably lived alone, and besides he'd had
to look up a number. He'd certainly know the number whereever he lived.
Then Ray realized what call the man would be making. He was checking
Ray's story down the line. First he'd looked up Ray's listing just to
make sure of the address, then he'd looked up Mikos' restaurant and was
now calling it. He'd ask for Ruth Fleck and be told--Ray glanced at
his wrist watch and saw that it was eleven thirty-four--that yes, Ruth
Fleck worked there and had just left to go home. Mikos would still be
there to answer the phone; he knew enough about restaurant routine to
know that Mikos always stayed at least a little while after Ruth left,
to check the cash register, maybe put chairs on tables, do whatever
else had to be done to shut up shop for the night.
He reached out a hand for his drink, and saw that the hand was shaking
so badly from reaction that he put it quickly down on the bar instead.
He had to get himself under control now, and stay that way. He didn't
dare let himself think about what was going to happen to Ruth.
The die was cast now, and there was no way he could call back what he
had done. All that remained was to sit there until he was calm again,
and think things out. He needed an alibi.
Ruth would die any time after midnight. And so, from midnight on, he
had to have a solid, airtight, unbreakable alibi. One with lots of
witnesses. With a ten-thousand-dollar motive for killing his wife, the
police would be utter fools if they didn't at least slightly suspect
him of having done the murder himself, using the psycho's _modus
operandi_--knockout, rape, strangling, in that order--and so his alibi
had to be above suspicion. Already he knew approximately how he was
going to work it, but there were still a few details to think out.
And his nerves. But they'd be all right; they were probably all right
right now. He lifted his hand from the bar and reached for his drink.
It still trembled a little, but not so badly. In a few more minutes
he'd be completely okay.
If he could keep himself from thinking about Ruth.