Snodman wrinkled his still youthful brow. "But why on earth does he send the poems? Doesn't he realize they merely increase his chances of being caught?"
The commissioner leaned over his desk. "Fair play, Snodman. The psychologists say that he's so clever and supremely confident that his conscience compels him to give his victims warning. They say that The Snuffer wants to preserve his anonymity yet boast about his work, so he writes poems. Some of them are quite good."
Snodman, who fancied himself something of an expert on literature, wanted to disagree with his superior but thought better of it. Besides, he was curious as to why the commissioner was filling him in on this subject, so he sat patiently and waited for his boss to get to the point.
"The point is," Moriarty said, biting on his curved pipe stem, "that a man named Ralph Capastrani has agreed to testify next month before a Senate Subcommittee hearing on organized crime. We thought it was a hush-hush thing, but kept Capastrani under protection anyway. Then, this morning, I received this poem in the mail."
"Does Capastrani know anything about it, sir?"
"No. We don't want him to
die of
worry before the hearings. We're taking every precaution to keep The Snuffer from earning another fortune from the syndicate. Capastrani is under guard in a room at the Paxton Hotel, just two blocks from here. We moved him in this morning." The commissioner paused for effect and pressed his fingertips down onto the glass desktop. "Starting in ten minutes, your job will be to guard him."
"I'm honored you have the confidence in me,
sir,"
Snodman said, actually rather insulted that the commissioner should think he would have a hard time outwitting the composer of these jingling trivialities.
Commissioner Moriarty smiled his Holmes-like smile. "You are one of the most highly educated men on the force, Snodman, and in the few years you've been with us you've proven yourself to be an efficient and hardworking policeman. Few men of your caliber choose police work as a profession, and your dedication is unquestioned. I can think of no man on the force who would have a better chance of outwitting The Snuffer."
Snodman took this deluge of compliments with aplomb.
The commissioner picked up a silver letter opener and neatly opened one of the many letters on his desk. "Capastrani is in room twenty-four on the third floor," he said by way of dismissal. "I'll be over later myself to check on things."
Snodman rose casually and took his leave.
Suite 24 was small and sparsely but tastefully furnished. Shades had been pulled over the third floor, ledgeless windows; heating and air conditioning ducts had been blocked and the comfort was being inadequately supplied by a rented window air conditioner; food was brought up three times a day by a room service waiter who was duly searched before being admitted. Outside the door to the hall stood an armed patrolman; outside the door to the bedroom sat Snodman; inside the bedroom lay Capastrani, sleeping peacefully. Suite 24 was invulnerable.
Obviously Capastrani, a squat, hairy individual, had faith in his police department, for almost all of his time was occupied by sleeping and eating; but then, besides listening to the monotonous watery hum of the air conditioner, there really wasn't much else to do in suite 24.
Snodman's mind dwelt on how much the syndicate would pay to have Capastrani killed. It dwelt on Commissioner Moriarty and his thorough knowledge of The Snuffer. The commissioner had even consulted a police psychologist. Snodman had seen the gleam in the commissioner's eyes as he'd discussed the cunning assassin, and he was sure that Moriarty had dedicated himself to foiling or even capturing The Snuffer. A policeman's dream, Snodman said to himself, smiling.
The long day went by without event. The patrolman outside the door had changed when the three o'clock shift came on. Capastrani had emerged from his room only to eat a late breakfast and lunch, which he'd wolfed down before returning to stretch full length and fully clothed on the bed. Snodman had read a travel magazine three times. He yawned and looked at his watch: five o'clock.
At five forty-five he was speaking frantically into the telephone to Commissioner Moriarty. "You'd better come over here right away with a lab man, sir. I think somebody tried to poison Capastrani!"
Within five minutes the door to suite 24 flew open. Snodman's police revolver was out of its shoulder holster in a flash, but he relaxed as he saw it was the commissioner and a lab man. They looked in surprise at Snodman's revolver as Wilson, the uniformed patrolman guarding the hail, closed the door behind them.
"It's all right," Commissioner Moriarty said. "We should have knocked."
Snodman slipped the revolver into his suitcoat pocket. "Have a look at this," he said, pointing to the tray of food that room service had brought up for Capastrani's supper. To the lab man he said, "I think there's arsenic on the steak."
"I'm glad you called me personally," Commissioner Moriarty said. "You did the right thing."
Snodman smiled. "I knew you had a special interest in the case," he said. "I thought you'd want to come right over."
The commissioner nodded soberly. "That's why I chose a hotel only two blocks from headquarters."
The three of them leaned over the tray of food. "You can't see it now," Snodman said, "but there were traces of white powder on the underside of the steak when it was brought up. Most of it's dissolved in the juices by now.'
The commissioner picked up the plate and sniffed. "What made you suspicious?" he asked, replacing the plate.
Snodman shrugged. "A hunch. And I thought there was a peculiar odor about the steak."
"Check it out," the commissioner told the lab man. Then he drew Snodman over to the sofa to talk with him.
"Capastrani know about this?" Moriarty asked.
Snodman shook his head. "He's still asleep. I was going to wake him when supper came."
"Hmm," the commissioner said. "I don't understand how anybody could have slipped arsenic into that food. I toured the kitchen this morning and checked out the help myself. They're all trustworthy, long-time employees."
"Maybe somebody was bought," Snodman suggested. "The Snuffer would be able to afford it."
"Good point," the commissioner said. "Does Capastrani eat steak every night?"
"It's a standing order with room service. That's just the sort of habit The Snuffer would take advantage of. You said he studied his future victims carefully before each job."
"I didn't say that," the commissioner said. "He didâin his poem."
The lab man, a studious looking young fellow, walked over to them. "There's arsenic on the steak," he said. "I checked the salt, pepper, ketchup, coffee, even the cream for the coffee. Everything on the tray besides the steak is okay." Then he held out the slip of paper in his right hand. "This was stuck to the bottom of the steak plate, sir."
The commissioner took it, unfolding it slowly as Snodman watched closely. They read:
I am quite sure my little trick
Nicely stilled your Pigeon's song
'Cause a little bit of arsenic
Never hurt a soulâfor long
The commissioner crumpled the poem and put it in his pocket. Then he turned to the lab man. "You can go now," he said. "On the way out tell the kitchen to send up another steak, and this time you stand right there while it's cooking."
"Right," the lab man said, and walked briskly and efficiently out of the room to implement his orders.
"We won't tell Capastrani about this," the commissioner said to Snodman. "He doesn't even know The Snuffer is after him. There's no point in rattling the state's star witness."
"Yes, sir," Snodman said.
The commissioner stretched his lean body. "You've been cooped up in here all day," he said to Snodman. "Why don't you go out for a while and get a bite to eat and some fresh air. The patrolman's outside the door, and I'll stay here myself and keep an eye on things until you return."
"Thank you, sir," Snodman said with appreciation. "To tell you the truth, I was about to ask that little favor myself. I could sure use some fresh air and a change of scenery." He walked to the door and paused. "Is there anything I can bring you, sir?'
"No, no thank you." The commissioner seemed almost eager for Snodman to leave. "Take an hour if you want, Snodman."
"Why, thank you, sir." He stepped into the hall and softly shut the door behind him.
Just after Snodman had left, room service arrived at the door with Capastrani's new steak. The commissioner let them in, examined the steak, made sure the patrolman in the hall was alert, then went into the bedroom to awaken Capastrani.
As he first emerged from sleep the squat little man was shocked to see the commissioner. Then he blinked his eyes a few times and recognized him. Without a word, he looked at his watch and rose from the mattress to leave the bedroom and eat supper.
With a smug little smile, the commissioner sat on the sofa and watched as Capastrani settled himself before the tray. Apparently the little man had been sound asleep and was completely unaware of the recent occurrence. Capastrani sprinkled salt and pepper liberally on his steak and buttered a roll. Then he unscrewed the cap on the ketchup bottle and tipped it. As was not unusual, nothing came out. He shook the bottle a few times, gently, then shook it harder. He was holding it upside down, looking at it curiously, when the force of its explosion blew out the entire third floor west wall.
As the ominous sound of the explosion reached police headquarters two blocks away, Snodman leaned back in his desk chair in his tiny office and smiled. He drew the genuine ketchup bottle from his shoulder holster and placed it in his bottom desk drawer. Then he picked up the slip of paper on which was the poem he'd just compulsively jotted down, tore it into tiny pieces and let the pieces flutter down into his wastebasket. For all his cleverness, the one thing he couldn't do was write poetry. Still, bad as they were, even in his lifetime his little jingles might yet achieve a certain degree of fame.
From far in front of Ulman the shrill, drawn out sound of the locomotive's whistle drifted back, long and lonely notes, like the forlorn wails of a distant siren. Ulman, bracing himself against a rough plywood wall, in the swaying boxcar, rose slowly. He could feel the train losing speed already as it slowed for the unmarked and seldom used crossing just outside of Erebville. It wouldn't do for him to ride all the way into the Erebville switchyard, for he'd been told that the railroad dicks were tough and eager there, especially this time of year, when the hoboes and migrant fruit pickers were moving west. Ulman had been told back east by a knowledgeable one-eyed hobo that the train would slow for this crossing about midnight, and that was the time to leap.
He made his way across the lurching car to the wide steel door that was closed all the way to a warped two-by-four, which he'd jammed in place to keep from getting locked in. He held on to the edge of the door for a moment, drew a deep breath, then with all his strength shot it sliding open.
Cool country air rushed in on him as he looked out into moonless darkness. He rubbed his grizzled chin, waiting for just the right moment. As the train rolled to its slowest point, then began to regain its speed, he leaped.
Ulman got to his feel slowly, slapping the dust off his clothes. His legs felt rubbery after the constant motion and his ears missed the constant roar. He grinned as the roar diminished and he saw the train's lights disappear in the distance. Tomorrow he'd hike to the other side of Erebville and jump the next twelve o'clock train west.
But where to spend the night? That was the problem, but a problem that Ulman had solved hundreds of times before. He stared about him into the darkness, and then he saw the lights. They appeared to be coming from the window of a house about a mile off.
It struck Ulman as odd that one of these country families would be up so late, and lucky, for he might be able to negotiate for a bunk in an outbuilding. If not that, at least he'd have a chance for a good feed in the morning. He made sure that nothing had fallen from his pockets, then set off walking.
It turned out to be a small frame farmhouse, and the only outbuildings were a ramshackle barn and a pigpen, neither of which
appealed to Ulman as night quarters. He walked quietly toward the porch, noting that the usually present farm dog hadn't barked to reveal his presence. Before stepping up on the porch he decided to peek in one of the shadeless windows.
The inside of the house was dirty and cheaply furnished. The naked bulb in the ceiling fixture cast bright light over a worn carpet, ancient, ready-to-collapse chairs and a ripped sofa. Ulman decided to sleep in the open tonight and approach the house again in the morning for breakfast. He was about to turn away when a woman entered the room.
Her inexpensive flower-print dress matched her surroundings, but the woman didn't. She was about thirty, Ulman guessed, tall and
graceful, with fine features, straight brown hair and very large blue eyes. Though the dress she wore was obviously cheap, it couldn't have been designed or worn better to show off her curvaceous figure. The hemline was well above shapely knees, the waist drawn in, the neckline low. She held a white cat cradled in her left arm while she idly stroked it with a graceful right hand. Ulman could tell somehow by her actions that she was alone.