He threw his lists aside. Perhaps, he thought, he was deceiving himself by believing there was a link between the four killings that was eluding him. Maybe because he wanted a link, he had convinced himself that one existed.

An hour later, when Monica came into the study yawning and blinking, he was still staring morosely at the papers on his desk. When she asked him what he was doing, he replied, "Nothing." And that, he reflected sourly, was the truth.

There were days when he wanted to be the lowliest of plainclothesmen, assigned to ringing doorbells and asking questions. Or a deskbound researcher, poring over stacks of yellowed arrest records, looking for a name, a number, anything. At least those men were doing something.

It seemed to him that his role in the Hotel Ripper case was that of the "consultant" Boone had mentioned. He was the kindly old uncle whose advice was solicited, but who was then shunted aside while younger, more energetic men took over the legwork and the on-the-spot decision making.

He could not endure that inactivity. An investigation was precisely that: tracking, observing, studying, making a systematic examination and inquiry. A criminal investigation was a search, and he was being kept from the challenge, the excitement, the disappointments and rewards of searching.

Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen had been right; he had cop's blood; he admitted it. He could not resist the chase; it was a pleasure almost as keen as sex. Age had nothing to do with it, nor physical energy. It was the mystery that enticed; he would never be free from the lust to reveal secrets.

His opportunity for action came sooner than expected…

On Friday morning, May 16th, the Delaneys sat down to breakfast at their kitchen table. The Chief looked with astonishment at the meal Monica had prepared: kippers, scrambled eggs, baked potatoes, sauteed onions.

"What," he wanted to know, "have you done to justify serving a magnificent breakfast like this?"

She laughed guiltily.

"It's the last meal you'll get from me today," she said. "I'm going to be busy. So I thought if you start out with a solid breakfast, it might keep you from sandwiches for a few hours. You're putting on weight."

"More of me to love," he said complacently, and dug into his food with great enjoyment. They ate busily for a while, then he asked casually, "What's going to keep you busy all day?"

"The American Women's Association is having a three-day convention in New York. I signed up for today's activities. Lectures and a film this morning. Then lunch. Seminars and a general discussion this afternoon. Then dinner tonight."

"You'll take a cab home?"

"Of course."

"Make the driver wait until you're inside the door."

"Yes, Daddy."

They ate awhile in silence, handing condiments back and forth. Delaney liked to put the buttered onions directly on his steaming potato, with a little coarsely ground black pepper.

"Where is the convention being held?" he asked idly. "Which hotel?"

"The Hilton."

He paused, holding a forkful of kipper halfway to his mouth. He gazed up in the air, over her head.

"How do you know the convention is at the Hilton?" he asked slowly.

"I got a notice in the mail. With an application blank."

"But there was no notice in the papers?"

"I didn't see any. Today is the first day. There may be stories tomorrow."

He took his bite of kipper, chewed it thoughtfully.

"But there was nothing in the papers about it?" he asked again. "No advance notice?"

"Edward, what is this?"

Instead of answering, he said, "What other conventions are being held at the Hilton today?"

"How on earth would I know that?"

"What conventions are being held at the Americana right now?"

"Edward, will you please tell me what this is all about?"

"In a minute," he said. "Let me finish this banquet first. It really is delicious."

"Hmph," she said, with scorn for this blatant effort to placate her. But she had to wait until he had cleaned his plate and poured each of them a second cup of black coffee.

"You don't know what conventions are at the Hilton," he said, "except for the one you're attending. I didn't know there were any conventions at the Hilton today. Neither of us know what conventions are being held right now at the Americana or any other New York hotel. Why should we know? We're not interested."

"So?"

"So for weeks now I've been looking for a link between the Hotel Ripper homicides. Something that ties them all together. Something we've overlooked."

She stared at him, puzzling it out.

"You mean there were conventions being held at all the hotels where the murders were committed?"

He stood, moved heavily around to her side of the table. He leaned down to kiss her cheek.

"My little detective," he said. "Thank you for a great breakfast and thank you for the lead. You're exactly right; the killings were at hotels where conventions were being held. And this was as early as the middle of February. Not precisely the height of the convention season in New York. But the killer picked hotels with conventions, sales meetings, big gatherings. Why not? She wants lots of people around, lots of single, unattached men. She wants crowds in the lobbies and dining rooms and cocktail lounges. She wants victims ready for a good time, maybe already lubricated with booze. So she selects hotels with conventions. Does that make sense?"

"It makes sense," Monica said. "In an awful way. But how does she know which hotels are having conventions?"

"Ah," he said, "good question. I've never seen a list in the daily papers. Have you?"

"No."

"But it must exist somewhere. The city's convention bureau or tourist bureau or some municipal office must keep track of these things. I know they make an effort to bring conventions to the city. Maybe they publish a daily or weekly or monthly list. And maybe the hotel association does, too. Anyway, the killer knows where the conventions are and heads for them."

"It doesn't sound like much of a clue to me," Monica said doubtfully.

"You never can tell," he said cheerfully. "You just never know. But if you do nothing, you have no chance to get lucky."

He helped Monica clean up and waited until she had departed for her first meeting at the New York Hilton. By that time he had figured out exactly how he was going to handle it.

He locked the front door, went into the study, and phoned Midtown Precinct South. He asked for Detective Second Grade Daniel Bentley, the expert on Manhattan hotels.

"Hello?"

"Bentley?"

"Yeah. Who's this?"

"Edward X. Delaney here."

"Oh, hiya, Chief. Don't tell me we got her?"

"No," Delaney said, laughing. "Not yet. How's it going?"

"Okay. I can't cover every bar and cocktail lounge, but I'm putting at least one man in every big hotel between Thirty-fourth and Fifty-ninth, river to river, between eight and two every night. You know we had a guy at the Cameron Arms when Bergdorfer was offed?"

"Yes, I heard that."

"So much for decoys," Bentley said mournfully. "But maybe next time we'll luck out."

Delaney paused, reflecting how everyone took it for granted that there would be a next time.

"About that Jerome Ashley kill at the Coolidge," Detective Bentley went on. "We checked with the bartenders and waitresses in the cocktail lounges. No one remembers a guy with scarred hands. But two of the waitresses on duty that night don't work there anymore. We're tracking them down. Nothing comes easy."

"It surely doesn't. Bentley, I wonder if you can help me."

"Anything you say, Chief."

"I'd like to talk to a hotel security officer. Preferably an ex-cop. Are there any working in hotels now?"

"Oh hell yes. I know of at least three. Guys who took early retirement. The pay's not bad and the work isn't all that hard, except maybe in the big hotels. Why do you ask? Anything cooking?"