The reason was obvious, of course. The criminal acted in hot passion; the detective had only cold resolve. The criminal was a child of the theater, inspired, thinking the play would go on forever. But along came the detective, a lumpish, methodical fellow, seeking only to ring down the curtain.

On May 30th, all the detectives met at Midtown Precinct North. If Delaney's hypothesis was correct-and most of them now believed it was, simply because no one had suggested any other theory that encompassed all the known facts-the next Hotel Ripper slaying would take place, or be attempted, during the week of June 1-7, and probably during midweek.

It was decided to assign every available man to the role of decoy. With the aid of the hotels' beefed-up security forces, all bars and cocktail lounges in large midtown Manhattan hotels would be covered from 8:00 p.m. until closing.

The lieutenants and sergeants worked out a schedule so that a "hot line" at Midtown North would be manned constantly during those hours. In addition, a standby squad of five men was stationed at Midtown South as backup, to be summoned as needed. The Crime Scene Unit was alerted; one of their vans took up position on West 54th Street.

Monica Delaney noted the fretfulness of her husband during the evenings of June 1-3. He picked up books and tossed them aside. Sat staring for an hour at an opened newspaper without turning a page. Stomped about the house disconsolately, head lowered, hands in his pockets.

She forbore to question the cause of his discontent; she knew. Wisely, she let him "stew in his own juice." But she wondered what would happen to him if events proved his precious theory wrong.

On the night of June 4th, a Wednesday, they were seated in the living room on opposite sides of the cocktail table, playing a desultory game of gin rummy. The Chief had been winning steadily, but shortly after 11:00 p.m., he threw his cards down in disgust and lurched to his feet.

"The hell with it," he said roughly. "I'm going to Midtown."

"What do you think you can do?" his wife asked quietly. "You'll just be in the way. The men will think you're checking up on them, that you don't trust them to do their jobs."

"You're right," he said immediately and dropped back into his chair. "I just feel so damned useless."

She looked at him sympathetically, knowing what this case had come to mean to him: that his expertise was valued, that his age was no drawback, that he was needed and wanted.

There he sat, a stern, rumpled mountain of a man. Gray hair bristled from his big head. His features were heavy, brooding. With his thick, rounded shoulders, he was almost brutish in appearance.

But she knew that behind the harsh facade, a more delicate man was hidden. He was at home in art museums, enjoyed good food and drink, and found pleasure in reading poetry-although it had to rhyme.

More important, he was a virile, tender, and considerate lover. He adored the children. He did not find tears or embraces unmanly. And, unknown to all but the women in his life, there was a core of humility in him.

He had been born and raised a Catholic, although he had long since ceased attending church. But she wondered if he had ever lost his faith. There was steel there that transcended personal pride in his profession and trust in his own rightness.

He had once confessed to her that Barbara, his first wife, had accused him of believing himself God's surrogate on earth. She thought Barbara had been close to the truth; there were times when he acted like a weapon of judgment and saw his life as one long tour of duty.

Musing on the contradictions of the man she loved, she gathered up the cards and put them away.

"Coffee?" she asked idly. "Pecan ring?"

"Coffee would be nice," he said, "but I'll skip the cake. You go ahead."

She was heating the water when the phone shrilled. She picked up the kitchen extension.

"Abner Boone, Mrs. Delaney," the sergeant said, his voice at once hard and hollow. "Could I speak to the Chief, please?"

She didn't ask him the reason for his call. She went back into the living room. Her husband was already on his feet, tugging down vest and jacket. They stared at each other.

"Sergeant Boone," she said.

He nodded, face expressionless. "I'll take it in the study."

She went back into the kitchen and waited for the water to boil, her arms folded, hands clutching her elbows tightly. She heard him come out of the study, go to the hallway closet. He came into the kitchen carrying the straw skimmer he donned every June 1st, regardless of the weather.

"The Hotel Adler," he told her. "About a half-hour ago. They've got the hotel cordoned, but she's probably long gone. I'll be an hour or two. Don't wait up for me."

She nodded and he bent to kiss her cheek.

"Take care," she said as lightly as she could.

He smiled and was gone.

When he arrived at Seventh Avenue and 50th Street, the Hotel Adler was still cordoned, sawhorses holding back a gathering crowd. Two uniformed officers stood in front of the closed glass doors listening to the loud arguments of three men who were apparently reporters demanding entrance.

"No one gets in," one of the cops said in a remarkably placid voice. "But no one. That's orders."

"The public has a right to know," one of the men yelled.

The officer looked at him pityingly. "Hah-hah," he said.

The Chief plucked at the patrolman's sleeve. "I am Edward X. Delaney," he said. "Sergeant Boone is expecting me."

The cop took a quick glance at a piece of scrap paper crumpled in his hand.

"Right," he said. "You're cleared."

He held the door open for Delaney. The Chief strode into the lobby, hearing the howls of rage and frustration from the newsmen on the sidewalk.

There was a throng in the lobby being herded by plainclothesmen into a single file. The line was moving toward a cardtable that had been set up in one corner. There, identification was requested, names and addresses written down.

This operation was being supervised by Sergeant Broderick. When Delaney caught his eye, the sergeant waved and made his way through the mob to the Chief's side. He leaned close.

"Fifth floor," he said in a low voice. "A butcher shop. An old couple next door heard sounds of a fight. The old lady wanted to call the desk and complain; the old geezer didn't want to make trouble. By the time they ended the argument and decided to call, it was too late; a security man found the stiff. I swear we got here no more than a half-hour after it happened."

"Decoys?" Delaney asked.

"Two," Broderick said. "A hotel man in the pub, one of our guys in the cocktail lounge. Both of them claim they saw no one who looked like the perp."

The Chief grunted. "I better go up."

"Hang on to your cookies," Broderick said, grinning.

The fifth floor corridor was crowded with uniformed cops, ambulance men, detectives, the DA's man, and precinct officers. Delaney made his way through the crush. Sergeant Boone and Ivar Thorsen were standing in the hallway, just outside an open door.

The three men shook hands ceremoniously, solemn mourners at a funeral. Delaney took a quick look through the door.

"Jesus Christ," he said softly.

"Yeah," Boone said, "a helluva fight. And then the cutting. The ME says not much more than an hour ago. Two, tops."

"I'm getting too old for this kind of thing," Thorsen said, his face ashen. "The guy's in ribbons."

"Any doubt that it was the Ripper?"

"No," Boone said. "Throat slashed and nuts stabbed. But the doc says he might have been dead when that happened."

"Any ID?"

Sergeant Boone flipped the pages of his notebook, found what he was seeking.

"Get a load of this," he said. "His paper says he was Nicholas Telemachus Pappatizos. How do you like that? Home address was Las Vegas."