Dorothea, he had written, if you are reading this, then Iam dead.

You know how little store I set by dreams andpremonitions and such; but for the last few days strangethoughts have just crept into my head, and I have thesuspicion that death is very close to me. If so, so. There'sno help for it. Don't waste time trying to puzzle out the whysand wherefores; they're old news now. Just know that I loveyou, and that I have always loved you in my way. I'm sorryfor whatever unhappiness I've caused, or am causing now,but it was out of my hands.

I have some instructions regarding the disposal of mybody. Please adhere to them to the letter. Don't let anybodytry to persuade you out of doing as I ask.

I want you to have my body watched night and dayuntil I'm cremated. Don't try and take my remains back toEurope. Have me cremated here, as soon as possible, thenthrow the ashes in the East River.

My sweet darling, I'm afraid. Not of bad dreams, or ofwhat might happen to me in this life, but of what my enemiesmay try to do once I'm dead. You know how critics can be:they wait until you can't fight them back, then they start thecharacter assassinations. It's too long a business to try andexplain all of this, so I must simply trust you to do as I say.

Again, I love you, and I hope you never have to read thisletter.

Your adoring,

Swann.'

'Some farewell note,' Harry commented when he'dread it through twice. He folded it up and passed itback to the widow.

'I'd like you to stay with him,' she said. 'Corpse-sit,if you will. Just until all the legal formalities are dealtwith and I can make arrangements for his cremation. Itshouldn't take them long. I've got a lawyer working onit now.'

'Again: why me?'

She avoided his gaze. 'As he says in the letter, he wasnever superstitious. But I am. I believe in omens. Andthere was an odd atmosphere about the place in the daysbefore he died. As if we were watched.'

'You think he was murdered?'

She mused on this, then said: 'I don't believe it wasan accident.'

'These enemies he talks about..."

'He was a great man. Much envied.'

'Professional jealousy? Is that a motive for murder?'

'Anything can be a motive, can't it?' she said.'People get killed for the colour of their eyes, don'tthey?'

Harry was impressed. It had taken him twenty yearsto learn how arbitrary things were. She spoke it asconventional wisdom.

'Where is your husband?' he asked her.

'Upstairs,' she said. 'I had the body brought backhere, where I could look after him. I can't pretend Iunderstand what's going on, but I'm not going to riskignoring his instructions.'

Harry nodded.

'Swann was my life,' she added softly, apropos ofnothing; and everything.

She took him upstairs. The perfume that had methim at the door intensified. The master bedroom hadbeen turned into a Chapel of Rest, knee-deep in spraysand wreaths of every shape and variety; their mingledscents verged on the hallucinogenic. In the midst ofthis abundance, the casket - an elaborate affair in blackand silver - was mounted on trestles. The upper halfof the lid stood open, the plush overlay folded back.At Dorothea's invitation he waded through the tributesto view the deceased. He liked Swann's face; it hadhumour, and a certain guile; it was even handsome in itsweary way. More: it had inspired the love of Dorothea;a face could have few better recommendations. Harrystood waist-high in flowers and, absurd as it was, felta twinge of envy for the love this man must haveenjoyed.

'Will you help me, Mr D'Amour?'

What could he say but: 'Yes, of course I'll help.' That,and: 'Call me Harry.'

He would be missed at Wing's Pavilion tonight. He hadoccupied the best table there every Friday night for thepast six and a half years, eating at one sitting enoughto compensate for what his diet lacked in excellenceand variety the other six days of the week. Thisfeast - the best Chinese cuisine to be had south ofCanal Street - came gratis, thanks to services he hadonce rendered the owner. Tonight the table would goempty.

Not that his stomach suffered. He had only beensitting with Swann an hour or so when Valentin cameup and said:

'How do you like your steak?'

'Just shy of burned,' Harry replied.

Valentin was none too pleased by the response. 'I hateto overcook good steak/ he said.

'And I hate the sight of blood,' Harry said, 'even if itisn't my own.'

The chef clearly despaired of his guest's palate, andturned to go.

'Valentin?'

The man looked round.

'Is that your Christian name?' Harry asked.

'Christian names are for Christians,' came the reply.

Harry nodded. 'You don't like my being here, am Iright?'

Valentin made no reply. His eyes had drifted pastHarry to the open coffin.

'I'm not going to be here for long,' Harry said, 'butwhile I am, can't we be friends?'

Valentin's gaze found him once more.

'I don't have any friends,' he said without enmity orself-pity. 'Not now.'

'OK. I'm sorry.'

'What's to be sorry for?' Valentin wanted to know.'Swann's dead. It's all over, bar the shouting.'

The doleful face stoically refused tears. A stone wouldweep sooner, Harry guessed. But there was grief there,and all the more acute for being dumb.

'One question.'

'Only one?'

'Why didn't you want me to read his letter?'

Valentin raised his eyebrows slightly; they were fineenough to have been pencilled on. 'He wasn't insane,'he said. 'I didn't want you thinking he was a crazy man,because of what he wrote. What you read you keep toyourself. Swann was a legend. I don't want his memorybesmirched.'

'You should write a book,' Harry said. 'Tell the wholestory once and for all. You were with him a long time, Ihear.'

'Oh yes,' said Valentin. 'Long enough to know betterthan to tell the truth.'

So saying he made an exit, leaving the flowers to wilt,and Harry with more puzzles on his hands than he'dbegun with.

Twenty minutes later, Valentin brought up a tray offood: a large salad, bread, wine, and the steak. It wasone degree short of charcoal.

'Just the way I like it,' Harry said, and set toguzzling.

He didn't see Dorothea Swann, though God knowshe thought about her often enough. Every time heheard a whisper on the stairs, or footsteps along thecarpetted landing, he hoped her face would appear atthe door, an invitation on her lips. Not perhaps themost appropriate of thoughts, given the proximity ofher husband's corpse, but what would the illusionist carenow? He was dead and gone. If he had any generosity ofspirit he wouldn't want to see his widow drown in hergrief.

Harry drank the half-carafe of wine Valentin hadbrought, and when - three-quarters of an hour later -the man re-appeared with coffee and Calvados, he toldhim to leave the bottle.

Nightfall was near. The traffic was noisy on Lexingtonand Third. Out of boredom he took to watching thestreet from the window. Two lovers feuded loudlyon the sidewalk, and only stopped when a brunettewith a hare-lip and a pekinese stood watching themshamelessly. There were preparations for a party inthe brownstone opposite: he watched a table lovinglylaid, and candles lit. After a time the spying began todepress him, so he called Valentin and asked if therewas a portable television he could have access to. Nosooner said than provided, and for the next two hourshe sat with the small black and white monitor on thefloor amongst the orchids and the lilies, watchingwhatever mindless entertainment it offered, the silverluminescence flickering on the blooms like excitablemoonlight.

A quarter after midnight, with the party across thestreet in full swing, Valentin came up. 'You want anight-cap?' he asked.