She loosed a final cry from the belly of the thing, andas it rose it seemed to Harry that the beast attempted agrin. Its face crinkled up grotesquely, the eyes narrowinglike those of a laughing Buddha, the lips peeling back toexpose a sickle of brilliant teeth. Behind this display thecry was finally hushed. In that instant the tiger leapt.

Harry fired into its devouring bulk and as the shot metits flesh the leer and the maw and the whole striped massof it unwove in a single beat. Suddenly it was gone, andthere was only a drizzle of pastel confetti spiralling downaround him. The shot had aroused interest. There wereraised voices in one or two of the apartments, and thelight that had accompanied Butterfield from the elevatorwas brightening through the open door of the Bernsteinresidence. He was almost tempted to stay and see thelight-bringer, but discretion bettered his curiosity, andhe turned and made his descent, taking the stairs two andthree at a time. The confetti tumbled after him, as if ithad a life of its own. Barbara's life, perhaps; transformedinto paper pieces and tossed away.

He reached the lobby breathless. The doorman wasstanding there, staring up the stairs vacantly.

'Somebody get shot?' he enquired.

'No,' said Harry, 'eaten.'

As he headed for the door he heard the elevatorstart to hum as it descended. Perhaps merely atenant, coming down for a pre-dawn stroll. Perhapsnot.

He left the doorman as he had found him, sullen andconfused, and made his escape into the street, puttingtwo block lengths between him and the apartmentbuilding before he stopped running. They did not botherto come after him. He was beneath their concern, mostlikely.

So what was he to do now? Valentin was dead, BarbaraBernstein too. He was none the wiser now than he'd beenat the outset, except that he'd learned again the lessonhe'd been taught in Wyckoff Street: that when dealingwith the Gulfs it was wiser never to believe your eyes.The moment you trusted your senses, the moment youbelieved a tiger to be a tiger, you were half theirs.

Not a complicated lesson, but it seemed he hadforgotten it, like a fool, and it had taken two deathsto teach it to him afresh. Maybe it would be simplerto have the rule tattooed on the back of his hand, sothat he couldn't check the time without being reminded:Never believe your eyes.

The principle was still fresh in his mind as he walkedback towards his apartment and a man stepped out of thedoorway and said:

'Harry.'

It looked like Valentin; a wounded Valentin, a Valentinwho'd been dismembered and sewn together again bya committee of blind surgeons, but the same man inessence. But then the tiger had looked like a tiger, hadn'tit?

'It's me,' he said.

'Oh no,' Harry said. 'Not this time.'

'What are you talking about? It's Valentin.'

'So prove it.'

The other man looked puzzled. 'This is no time forgames,' he said, 'we're in desperate straits.'

Harry took his .38 from his pocket and pointedat Valentin's chest. 'Prove it or I shoot you,' hesaid.

'Are you out of your mind?'

'I saw you torn apart.'

'Not quite,' said Valentin. His left arm was swathedin makeshift bandaging from fingertip to mid-bicep. 'Itwas touch and go ...'he said,'... but everything hasits Achilles' heel. It's just a question of finding the rightspot.'

Harry peered at the man. He wanted to believe thatthis was indeed Valentin, but it was too incredible tobelieve that the frail form in front of him could havesurvived the monstrosity he'd seen on 83rd Street. No;this was another illusion. Like the tiger: paper andmalice.

The man broke Harry's train of thought. 'Yoursteak ...'he said.

'My steak?'

'You like it almost burned,' Valentin said. 'I protested, remember?'

Harry remembered. 'Go on,' he said.

'And you said you hated the sight of blood. Even, if itwasn't your own.'

'Yes,' said Harry. His doubts were lifting. 'That'sright.'

'You asked me to prove I'm Valentin. That's the bestI can do.' Harry was almost persuaded. 'In God's name,'Valentin said, 'do we have to debate this standing on thestreet?'

'You'd better come in.'

The apartment was small, but tonight it felt morestifling than ever. Valentin sat himself down with agood view of the door. He refused spirits or first-aid.Harry helped himself to bourbon. He was on his thirdshot when Valentin finally said:

'We have to go back to the house, Harry.'

'What?'

'We have to claim Swann's body before Butterfield.'

'I did my best already. It's not my business any more.'

'So you leave Swann to the Pit?' Valentin said.

'She doesn't care, why should I?'

'You mean Dorothea? She doesn't know what Swannwas involved with. That's why she's so trusting. She hassuspicions maybe, but, insofar as it is possible to beguiltless in all of this, she is.' He paused to adjust theposition of his injured arm. 'She was a prostitute, youknow. I don't suppose she told you that. Swann oncesaid to me he married her because only prostitutes knowthe value of love.'

Harry let this apparent paradox go.

'Why did she stay with him?' he asked. 'He wasn'texactly faithful, was he?'

'She loved him,' Valentin replied. 'It's not unheardof.'

'And you?'

'Oh I loved him too, in spite of his stupidities. That'swhy we have to help him. If Butterfield and his associatesget their hands on Swann's mortal remains, there'll be allHell to pay.'

'I know. I got a glimpse at the Bernstein place.'

'What did you see?'

'Something and nothing,' said Harry. 'A tiger, Ithought; only it wasn't.'

'The old paraphernalia,' Valentin commented.

'And there was something else with Butterfield. Something that shed light: I didn't see what.'

'The Castrate,' Valentin muttered to himself, clearlydiscomfited. 'We'll have to be careful.'

He stood up, the movement causing him to wince. 'Ithink we should be on our way, Harry.'

'Are you paying me for this?' Harry inquired, 'or amI doing it all for love?'

'You're doing it because of what happened at WyckoffStreet,' came the softly-spoken reply. 'Because you lostpoor Mimi Lomax to the Gulfs, and you don't want tolose Swann. That is, if you've not already done so.'

They caught a cab on Madison Avenue and headed backuptown to 61st Street, keeping their silence as they rode.Harry had half a hundred questions to ask of Valentin.Who was Butterfield, for one, and what was Swann'scrime was that he be pursued to death and beyond? Somany puzzles. But Valentin looked sick and unfit forplying with questions. Besides, Harry sensed that themore he knew the less enthusiastic he would be aboutthe journey they were now taking.

'We have perhaps one advantage -' Valentin said asthey approached 61st Street. 'They can't be expectingthis frontal attack. Butterfield presumes I'm dead, andprobably thinks you're hiding your head in mortalterror.'

'I'm working on it.'

'You're not in danger,' Valentin replied, 'at least notthe way Swann is. If they were to take you apart limb bylimb it would be nothing beside the torments they havewaiting for the magician.'

'Illusionist,' Harry corrected him, but Valentin shookhis head.

'Magician he was; magician he will always be.'

The driver interrupted before Harry could quoteDorothea on the subject.

'What number you people want?' he said.

'Just drop us here on the right,' Valentin instructedhim. 'And wait for us, understand?'

'Sure.'

Valentin turned to Harry. 'Give the man fiftydollars.'

'Fifty?

'Do you want him to wait or not?'

Harry counted four tens and ten singles into thedriver's hand.

'You'd better keep the engine running,' he said.