But how had the man known who she was? He couldn’t have remembered her from that chance encounter on the crowded street. Unless he had eyes in the back of his head, or was in league with the devil. Of course, according to one way of thinking, all murderers were in league with the devil. . . .

The Inspector dropped over, later that night, to find Miss Withers perched before her aquarium of tropical fish, so deeply immersed in that miniature world that she had to shake her head violently for a moment to get back to everyday. It was a sure sign that she was in mental turmoil.

She told him of her call on Inga Rasmussen, leaving out for the moment any mention of the Lieutenant, and also told him of her later venture into the house on East Sixty-fourth. “I see now what you mean about that man, Oscar,” she admitted. “He killed her, and he’s laughing!”

“He’ll have something else to laugh about,” the Inspector informed her wearily as he sank into a chair. “The Dispatch, it seems, is going to nail my hide to the wall in its Sunday section next week. They’ve dug up a lot of stuff on the Wayland murder, and they’ve stolen or faked some photos of the room. ‘Police Powerless in Weird Love Cult Killing’—you know the sort of thing. It embarrasses the mayor, and he blasts at the Commissioner, and the Commish blasts at me. It’s a hot seat to be sitting in. If Wayland would make just one mistake—”

“He doesn’t look like a man who makes mistakes,” Miss Withers said. “If only we could make one for him!” She provided the unhappy policeman with coffee and doughnuts, and insisted upon his smoking one of his fat green-brown perfectos, usually verboten in her vicinity. “Cheer up, Oscar. In a week, anything can happen!”

“Sure—I can break my leg,” he said dismally.

“I might have an idea,” she continued hopefully. “I do believe I feel one coming on!”

“Heaven save us from any more of your ideas,” Piper said ungallantly. “I’ve got headaches enough as it is.”

All the same, when the days of the week slipped by without any word from the lady who usually referred to herself as self-appointed gadfly to the police department, the Inspector began to get restive. He had postponed warning the powers upstairs about the forthcoming newspaper article, hoping against hope that something would happen. On Friday he called the press room downstairs, located the reporter who had tipped him off, and demanded to know what was the latest moment at which the article could be jerked. “It’s put to bed at five o’clock tonight,” he was told.

“Thanks,” said the Inspector grimly, and then put in a call for Miss Withers. “Just wondered how you are, and what’s new?” he opened.