That doesn’t mean much, of course; they nearly always do. But this one was in a beer joint or a restaurant, and I think it could be identified—”

“How?” she asked wonderingly. “I mean, how did you find out?”

“Dumb luck,” I said. “You play for the breaks, and sometimes you get one. Most of those booths have fans in ‘em, you know; this one did, and the fan had a bad bearing. It was just noisy enough to hear. And I heard a jukebox start up.”

I stopped, thinking about it. This guy was off his rocker, but still he was smart enough to hang up when that music started. Well, it didn’t mean anything. A sexual psychopath didn’t necessarily have to be stupid; he was just unbalanced.

She frowned. “Then they might have caught him? I mean, if they had listened to you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “With luck, and enough men to cover all the places in town within a few minutes—” Her County police force was none of my business. And they could have been swamped and shorthanded. Police forces usually were.

“You say you were a policeman?” she asked. “Then you aren’t any more?”

“No,” I said.

I put the whisky back in the bag and closed it. The room key was on the desk where she’d dropped it. I put it in my pocket. She stood up. Instead of helping her, I watched to see how she handled it. She was still a little shaky, but apparently all right.

“Thank you for everything, Mr. Chatham,” she said.

“How many times have you fainted lately?”

She smiled ruefully. “It was so ridiculous. I think this was only the second time in my life. But why?”

“You ought to see a doctor. You need a check-up.”

“That’s silly. I’m perfectly healthy.”

“You’re running on your reserve tanks now. And when they’re empty you’re going to crash. You don’t weigh a hundred pounds.”

“A hundred and ten. You don’t know your own strength.”

“Okay,” I said. It was none of my business.

I went out and lifted the other bag from the station wagon.