The Main

Probably the same killer. Probably the same woman. Jealousy? Over a period of six years? Hardly what you would call a flash of jealous anger. One woman. One killer. Perhaps the woman was the killer. And… what kind of woman could unite a Canadian professor, an American businessman, and an illegal Italian alien with sperm on his brain?

The freshest of these old cases is thirty months old. All traces would be healed over by now.

He sighs and puts the files into a thick interdepartmental envelope to send them over to Gaspard in homicide. LaPointe can picture Gaspard’s anger when he discovers he has inherited a set of killings with a sex link. Just the kind of thing the newspapers salivate over. Unknown Knife Slayer Stalks… Police Baffled…

All the while he is eating in a cheap café, unaware of what is on his plate, all the while he walks slowly through the Main, putting the street to bed, LaPointe carries the details of the two files in the back of his mind, turning over the sparse references to personal life, looking for bits that match up with what he knows about Tony Green. But nothing. No links. He is standing outside his apartment on Esplanade, looking up at the dark windows of his second-story flat, when he decides to return to the Quartier Général and muck around with late paper work, rather than face a night alone with his coffee and his Zola.

“What in hell are you doing here?”

“Jesus Christ! You startled me, sir.”

“You leave something behind?”

Guttma

“So?”

“It’s about that packet of files you left for Sergeant Gaspard.”

With a jerk of his thumb, LaPointe evicts Guttma

“Oh, yes, sir. He could hardly contain his delight. He was particularly colorful on the subject of Dr. Bouvier. He said he needed that kind of help about as much as starving Pakistanis need Red Cross packages filled with menus.”

“Hm-m. But that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my office.”

Guttma

LaPointe is puddling about in his paper work. “Joans aren’t supposed to have ideas. It ruins their typing,” he says without looking up.

“As it turned out, it wasn’t much of an idea.”

“No kidding? Let’s hear it.”

Guttma

LaPointe laughs. “The lines would meet on the doorstep of the killer?”

“Something like that. Or if not at the doorstep of the killer, at least on the doorstep of the woman they all made love with. I assume it was one woman, don’t you?”

“Either that or a whorehouse.”

“Well, either way, it would be one dwelling.”

LaPointe looks up at the map on which Guttma

Guttma

“I see.” LaPointe moves aside the files Guttma

“Can I get you a cup of coffee, sir?”

“If you’re getting one for yourself.”

While Guttma

With a brimming paper cup in each hand, Guttma

LaPointe glances up. This kid is usually so controlled, so polite. As Guttma

“What’s your problem?”

“Sir?”

“Trouble with this girl of yours?”

“No, that isn’t it. That’s turning out to be a really fine thing.”

“Oh? How long have you known her? A week?”

“How long does it take?”

LaPointe nods. That is true. He had been sure he wanted to spend his life with Lucille after knowing her for two hours. Of course, it was a year before they had the money to get married.

“No, it isn’t the girl,” Guttma

There is no response at all from LaPointe. Perhaps a slight shrug. He never gives advice in this kind of situation; he doesn’t want the responsibility.

There is an uncomfortable, interrogative quality to the silence, so LaPointe looks up at the wall map for something to fill it. “What’s that northwest-southeast line supposed to be?”

Guttma

“I know that.”

“And the circle is his apartment—the rooming house with the concierge with the broken lip? So I just drew a line between them and continued it on southeast to see where it would lead. Just an approximation. It cuts through the middles of blocks and such, but it must have been the general direction he came from.”

“Yes, but he wasn’t going back to his rooming house.”

“Sir?”

“He was going to the Happy Hour Whisky à Go-Go, remember? He had a date with that dancer’s retarded kid.”

Guttma

“Sure. To maybe thirty square blocks and six or eight thousand people. Just for the hell of it, let’s take a look at the other lines. What’s the one ru

“That’s the McGill professor. The X is where his body was found; the circle is his office on the campus.”

“How do you know he was going to his office?”

“Assumption. His apartment was up north. Why would he walk west unless he was going to the campus? Maybe to do some late work. Grade papers, something like that.”

“All right. Assume it. Now, what about the other line? The north-south one?”

“That’s the American. His body was found right… here. And his hotel was downtown, right… ah… here. So I just extended the line back.”

“But he wouldn’t have walked south.”

“Sure he would. That was the direction to his hotel, and also the best direction to go to find taxis.”

“What about his car?”

“Sir?”

“Look in the report. There was something about a rented car. It was found three days later, after the rental agency placed a complaint. Don’t you remember? The car was ticketed for overparking. Bouvier made some wiseassed note about the bad luck of getting a parking ticket the same night you get killed.”

Guttma