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Graham looked at the familiar green box the Leeds movie came in. Their name and address were on it. And Gateway Film Laboratory, St. Louis, Mo. 63102.

His mind retrieved “St. Louis” just as it would retrieve any telephone number he had ever seen. What about St. Louis? It was one of the places where the Tattler was available on Monday night, the same day it was printed—the day before Lounds was abducted.

“Oh me,” Graham said. “Oh Jesus.”

He clamped his hands on the sides of his head to keep the thought from getting away.

“Do you still have Metcalf on the phone?”

Crawford handed him the receiver.

“Byron, it’s Graham. Listen, did those reels of Jacobi film you sent—were they in any containers? . . . Sure, sure I know you would have sent ’em along. I need help bad on something. Do you have the Jacobi bank statements there? Okay, I want to know where they got movie film developed. Probably a store sent it off for them. If there’re any checks to pharmacies or camera stores, we can find out where they did business. It’s urgent, Byron. I’ll tell you about it first chance. Birmingham FBI will start now checking the stores. If you find something, shoot it straight to them, then to us. Will you do that? Great. What? No, I will not introduce you to Hotlips.”

Birmingham FBI agents checked four camera stores before they found the one where the Jacobis traded. The manager said all customers’ film was sent to one place for processing.

Crawford had watched the films twelve times before Birmingham called back. He took the message.

Curiously formal, he held out his hand to Graham. “It’s Gateway,” he said.

43

Crawford was stirring an Alka-Seltzer in a plastic glass when the stewardess’s voice came over the 727’s public-address system.

“Passenger Crawford, please?”

When he waved from his aisle seat, she came aft to him. “Mr. Crawford, would you go to the cockpit, please?”

Crawford was gone for four minutes. He slid back into the seat beside Graham.

“Tooth Fairy was in New York today.”

Graham winced and his teeth clicked together.

“No. He just tapped a couple of women on the head at the Brooklyn Museum and, listen to this, he ate a painting.”

“Ate it?”

“Ate it. The Art Squad in New York snapped to it when they found out what he ate. They got two partial prints off the plastic pass he used and they flashed them down to Price a little while ago. When Price put ’em together on the screen, he rang the cherries. No ID, but it’s the same thumb that was on the Leeds kid’s eye.”

“New York,” Graham said.

“Means nothing, he was in New York today. He could still work at Gateway. If he does, he was off the job today. Makes it easier.”

“What did he eat?”

“It was a thing called The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun. William Blake drew it, they said.”

“What about the women?”

“He’s got a sweet touch with the sap. Younger one’s just at the hospital for observation. The older one had to have four stitches. Mild concussion.”

“Could they give a description?”

“The younger one did. Quiet, husky, dark mustache and hair—a wig, I think. The guard at the door said the same thing. The older woman—he could’ve been in a rabbit suit for all she saw.”

“But he didn’t kill anybody.”

“Odd,” Crawford said. “He’d have been better off to wax ’em both—he could have been sure of his lead time leaving and saved himself a description or two. Behavioral Science called Bloom in the hospital about it. You know what he said? Bloom said maybe he’s trying to stop.”