Mrs. Stillman stopped to catch her breath. Quinn sensed that she was on the verge of a scene and that one more word might put her over the edge. He had to speak now, or the conversation would run away from him.

"How was Peter finally discovered?" he asked.

Some of the tension went out of the woman. She exhaled audibly and looked Quinn in the eyes.

"There was a fire," she said.

"An accidental fire or one set on purpose?"

"No one knows."

"What do you think?"

"I think Stillman was in his study. He kept the records of his experiment there, and I think he finally realized that his work had been a failure. I'm not saying that he regretted anything he had done. But even taking it on his own terms, he knew he had failed. I think he reached some point of final disgust with himself that night and decided to bum his papers. But the fire got out of control, and much of the apartment burned. Luckily, Peter's room was at the other end of a long hall, and the firemen got to him in time. "

"And then?"

"It took several months to sort everything out. Stillman's papers had been destroyed, which meant there was no concrete evidence. On the other hand, there was Peter's condition, the room he had been locked up in, those horrible boards across the windows, and eventually the police put the case together. Stillman was finally brought to trial."

"What happened in court?"

"Stillman was judged insane and he was sent away."

"And Peter?"

"He also went to a hospital. He stayed there until just two years ago.

"Is that where you met him?"

"Yes. In the hospital."

"How?"

"I was his speech therapist. I worked with Peter every day for five years."

"I don't mean to pry. But how exactly did that lead to marriage?"

"It's complicated.

"Do you mind telling me about it?"

"Not really. But I don't think you'd understand."

"There's only one way to find out."

"Well, to put it simply. It was the best way to get Peter out of the hospital and give him a chance to lead a more normal life."

"Couldn't you have been made his legal guardian?"

"The procedures were very complicated. And besides, Pete was no longer a minor."

"Wasn't that an enormous self-sacrifice on your part?"

"Not really. I was married once before-disastrously. It's not something I want for myself anymore. At least with Peter there's a purpose to my life."

"Is it true that Stillman is being released?"

"Tomorrow. He'll be arriving at Grand Central in the evening."

"And you feel he might come after Peter. Is this just a hunch, or do you have some proof?"

"A little of both. Two years ago, they were going to let Stillman out. But he wrote Peter a letter, and I showed it to the authorities. They decided he wasn't ready to be released, after all.”

"What kind of letter was it?"

"An insane letter. He called Peter a devil boy and said there would be a day of reckoning."

"Do you still have the letter?"

"No. I gave it to the police two years ago."

"A copy?"

"I'm sorry. Do you think it's important?"

"It might be."

"I can try to get one for you if you like."

"I take it there were no more letters after that one.

"No more letters. And now they feel Stillman is ready to be discharged. That's the official view, in any case, and there's nothing I can do to stop them. What I think, though, is that Stillman simply learned his lesson. He realized that letters and threats would keep him locked up."

"And so you’re still worried."

"That's right.

"But you have no precise idea of what Stillman's plans might be."

"Exactly."

"What is it you want me to do?"

"I want you to watch him carefully. I want you to find out what he's up to. I want you to keep him away from Peter."

"In other words, a kind of glorified tail job."

"I suppose so."

"I think you should understand that I can't prevent Stillman from coming to this building. What I can do is warn you about it. And I can make it my business to come here with him."

"I understand. As long as there's some protections

"Good. How often do you want me to check in with you?"

"I'd like you to give me a report every day. Say a telephone call in the evening, around ten or eleven o'clock."

"No problem."

"Is there anything else."

"Just a few more questions. I'm curious, for example, to know how you found out that Stillman will be coming into Grand Central tomorrow evening."

"I've made it my business to know, Mr. Auster. There's too much at stake here for me to leave it to chance. And if Stillman isn't followed from the moment he arrives, he could easily disappear without a trace. I don't want that to happen."

"Which train will he be on?"

"The six-forty-one, arriving from Poughkeepsie."

"I assume you have a photograph of Stillman?"

"Yes, of course."

"There's also the question of Peter. I'd like to know why you told him about all this in the first place. Wouldn't it have bee better to have kept it quiet?"

"I wanted to. But Peter happened to be listening in on the other phone when I got the news of his father's release. There was nothing I could do about it. Peter can be very stubborn, and I've learned it's best not to lie to him. "

"One last question. Who was it who referred you to me?"

"Mrs. Saavedra's husband, Michael. He used to be a police man, and he did some research. He found out that you were the best man in the city for this kind of thing."

"I'm flattered."

"From what I've seen of you so far, Mr. Auster, I'm sure we've found the right man."

Quinn took this as his cue to rise. It came as a relief t stretch his legs at last. Things had gone well, far better than h had expected, but his head hurt now, and his body ached with a exhaustion he had not felt in years. If he carried on any longer he was sure to give himself away.

"My fee is one hundred dollars a day plus expenses," he said. "If you could give me something in advance, it would be proof that I'm working for you-which would ensure us a privileged investigator-client relationship. That means everything that passes between us would be in strictest confidence."

Virginia Stillman smiled, as if at some secret joke of her own. Or perhaps she was merely responding to the possible double meaning of his last sentence. Like so many of the things that happened to him over the days and weeks that followed, Quinn could not be sure of any of it.

"How much would you like?" she asked.

"It doesn't matter. I'll leave that up to you."

"Five hundred?"

"That would be more than enough."

"Good. I'll go get my checkbook." Virginia Stillman stood up and smiled at Quinn again. "I'll get you a picture of Peter's father, too. I think I know just where it is."

Quinn thanked her and said he would wait. He watched her leave the room and once again found himself imagining what she would look like without any clothes on. Was she somehow coming on to him, he wondered, or was, it just his own mind trying to sabotage him again? He decided to postpone his meditations and take up the subject again later.

Virginia Stillman walked back into the room and said, "Here's the check. I hope I made it out correctly."

Yes, yes, thought Quinn as he examined the check, everything is tip-top. He was pleased with his own cleverness. The check, of course, was made out to Paul Auster, which meant that Quinn could not be held accountable for impersonating a private detective without a license. It reassured him to know that he had somehow put himself in the clear. The fact that he would never be able to cash the check did not trouble him. He understood, even then, that he was not doing any of this for money. He slipped the check into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.