The fine hand of the deranged Blounts again. I said, "What sort of deal?"

"Put him in a psycho ward instead of the slammer. I get the impression Feeney's in on it. My guess is, they've already got some country club all picked out. Personally, I won't go for it. Not that my opinion's been asked."

An idea came to me that froze my innards. I didn't say it out loud. Bowman might not have disapproved.

I said, "It'll be useful to get Billy Blount's perceptions of these events. That's what I'm after."

"We agree on something."

"You've paid a call on Blount's friend Huey Brownlee. I take it you're aware somebody came through his window Saturday morning and went after him with a knife."

"I saw the report. A burglary attempt."

"It was the second knifing of a gay male in a week's time. There could be a connection."

"Sure, and there could be a connection between Watergate and the French and Indian wars. Relax, Strachey. Those people in that neighborhood slice each other up at the drop of a welfare check. I know. I've seen it. This was some junkie after your fag pal's twelve-hundred-dollar sound system. Believe me."

"You're quite the keen social observer, Sergeant."

"Thank you."

"You've also been to see Margarita Mayes."

"The lez."

"You found her roommate's name on Blount's phone book."

"Her girl friend. Did we leave that phone book behind in Blount's apartment? How slovenly."

"And an eighth of an ounce of grass in the fridge."

"Blount's refrigerator was boring. His homicidal proclivities are not. Who let you into that apartment?"

I fed him his line. "The lock fairy."

"That figures."

"Is Chris Porterfield in Mexico?"

He looked at me. "I can't tell you that."

"I'll tell you what I know," I lied. "Well trade."

He said, "You go first."

"All right. The morning of the killing, Blount borrowed money from someone for plane fare."

"How much?"

"A good bit."

"Who from?"

"I'll hold that for a while."

"Don't. You'll be committing a felony."

I said, "Maybe Chris Porterfield."

"Unh-unh."

"You don't know that."

He looked at me sullenly, regrouping the topography on the front of his head again. "At the time of the crime, you might as well know, Christine Porterfield was in Cuernavaca, Mexico. She entered Mexico on September twenty-sixth." He held up a telex printout. "I received this Friday at two o'clock. It took my federal colleagues three days—three days—to establish that simple fact."

"And she's still there?"

"Now you tell me something, you know so goddamn much about this. Which airport did Blount use? Not Albany. We checked that. Where'd he fly out of?"

"La Guardia."

"What time?"

"Around nine."

"A.M.?"

"a.m. The same day. Is Porterfield still in Mexico?" "She departed Cuernavaca October second." "Three days after the murder." "Correct. She flew back to Albany by way of JFK." "She's here now?" "No."

"Where then?"

"First this. How did Blount get to La Guardia? Not by bus. Not by train. How?"

I said, "He was driven."

"Who by? The person who lent him the money?"

"Yes."

"Aiding a fugitive, abetting a felony, accessory to murder. I may have to lock you up, Strachey." He reached for his phone.

"Idle threats. Anyway, with me loose I'll continue to add to your non-too-encyclopedic knowledge of this case. And in one week I'll have Kleckner's killer." This was a bit fanciful. "Well, maybe two."

He put the receiver down. "Add to my knowledge right now, Strachey. I think I can stand you for another ten minutes. Well, maybe five."

"If I'm not mistaken, it's your turn. Where is Chris Porterfield?"

He said, "I don't know."

"You know that her roommate lied about Chris's still being in Mexico. Why don't you bring her down here and work her over with a rubber hose?"

He looked at me stonily. "I may yet. That's not a bad idea."

"But you won't really have to, because you know that...." I cocked my head and waited.

"Because," he said, "I happen to know that on October fourth, two days after she returned to Albany from Mexico, Chris Porterfield flew to Cheyenne, Wyoming, and rented a Hertz car for a thirty-day period, the car to be returned at Cheyenne airport, and that the car has not yet been turned back in. So, Strachey, you are now in possession of privileged official information. It's your turn."

"Ask away."

"Who lent Blount the money and took him to La Guardia?"

I knew I'd come to regret this. I said, "Alfred Douglas. Sometimes known as Bowsie. Or Al."

"Who's he?"

"A hustler. Hangs out at the Greyhound station. I don't know where he lives, but your undercover guys could ask around down there at two or three in the morning."

He wrote the name down. "A hustler who owns a car?"

"He borrowed it from an uncle."

"Uncle?"

"A client. Trick."

"How much did he lend Blount?"

"Two hundred forty dollars."

"Jesus, I'min the wrong line of work."

"I doubt it. Your Cheyenne colleagues are on the lookout. for the Hertz car, I take it."

"They are. What else do you know?"

"You've got it all."

"You're lying."

I stood up, clenched my teeth like Bogart, and said, "All right, copper, I've had about all the abuse I'm going to take from you!"

He looked up at me with his plate of potatoes and said, "No, you haven't."

9

Back at the office i phoned Margarita mayes at here 'N' There 'n' Everywhere Travel and told her that the Cheyenne, Wyoming, police were looking for Chris Porterfield. She thanked me and said she would relay this useful information.

Next I called a New York Telephone Company employee I'd met a few years earlier at the Terminal bar who'd helped me out from time to time. He called back half an hour later with a list of long-distance calls made over the past month from Chris Porterfield and Margarita Mayes's home phone and from Here 'n' There 'n' Everywhere Travel. The lists were long, but nowhere was there included a call to Cheyenne, Wyoming. The closest was a call from the travel agency to a number in St. Louis, which didn't look useful, though I'd check it out. My friend at the phone company mentioned in passing that a Sergeant Bowman of the Albany Police Department had requested the same information a week earlier.

At noon I walked up Central and had a leisurely lunch at Elmo's. I paid cash, and Elmo said, "Have a nice day."

Under a hard, bright autumn sky, I headed over toward the

park and arrived at the Blounts' on State Street just after one. The maid let me in, and I waited on the much-talked-about sofa while the Blounts went over their lines offstage.

At one-ten they rolled down the foyer stairway and into the salon like a couple of presenters on the Academy Awards show, Stuart Blount with his elegant long arm, Jane Blount with her ashtray.

"We didn't expect to see you so soon," Blount said, "but we're absolutely delighted."