Lionel laughed in relief. “Yes! That’s mine—!” He stepped toward the desk but was restrained. His elation wavered. “Why have I been brought here?”

“How long have you known Mrs. Maffucci?” asked Hickey.

“Who?”

“Regina Maffucci. She works at one of the arcades as a Gypsy fortune-teller, Madame Zanto. Her given name is Regina Maffucci.”

Lionel frowned. “I never set eyes on her before yesterday. I didn’t know her name until you just told it to me.”

“But this is your book?”

Reluctantly, Lionel nodded. “Yes. But—”

Hickey signaled silence. He opened the book and turned its pages, his face registering disgust. “You describe some revolting things, Mr. Gerring. ‘Large stone pressed upon his chest till he expires.’” He turned to another page. “‘All that remains afterward are her charred shoes.’”

“Those are notes for scenarios I’m working on. Stories.”

“A moving-picture story?”

“Yes.”

Hickey grimaced. “No one in their right mind would choose to watch a moving picture like that, Mr. Gerring. Just as no one in their right mind would write about something so reprehensible as the murder of those two girls.”

“Is that what you think?” Lionel gaped at him. “That’s ridiculous! Ask Mr. Spoor—call him now, damn it! I’ve pitched every damn one of those stories to him.”

“Enough of that!” commanded Hickey. He continued to flip through the pages. “You have a diseased mind, Mr. Gerring. Who would imprison their cat behind a wall?”

“It’s a story! And it’s not even my story! It’s by Edgar Allan Poe, ‘The Black Cat.’ The others are from ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’ and ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’ They’re very well known, ask anyone.”

Hickey scowled. “I’ve never heard of them. Mr. Morgenstern, have you? Mr. Doylan?”

The plainclothesman, Morgenstern, nodded. “I have. Couldn’t tell you the writer’s name, but I read that story about the morgue and the ape who kidnaps a lady in France.”

“France.” Hickey pronounced the word as though this in itself might be proof of guilt.

Morgenstern nodded. “Don’t know if he’s the killer, but he definitely stole those stories.”

“Everyone does it,” Lionel protested weakly.

“What about this?” Hickey indicated a page with a single word scrawled on it. “‘Hellgate.’ Is that from one of your magazines?”

“That was a note for a different scenario, about the killings here at the park—”

“How dare you? Those children aren’t in their graves and you’d defile their memories with this?” Hickey looked as though he might throw the notebook into Lionel’s face. “Can you account for your whereabouts for the last two days?”

“I can. Yesterday—”

Someone knocked at the door.

“Captain Hickey?” A sergeant peered inside. “Detective Berens is here to question Mr. Gerring.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Paterno. You can show him in. Mr. Morgenstern, Mr. Doylan, thank you.”