It's really the worst part of a case-the opening, when everything is mush."

"No great hurry to clear it," the Sergeant said. "Is there?"

Delaney didn't want to tell him there was-that it had to be closed by the end of the year if Deputy Thorsen wanted that third star for Michael Suarez, but the Sergeant was a sharp man and probably aware of the Departmental politics involved.

"I'd just like to tidy it up fast," he said casually, "or admit failure and get back to my routine. Can you drop me?"

"Of course," Boone said, "if I can get that clunker started."

The Sergeant was driving his personal car, an old, spavined Buick he had bought at a city auction of towed-away cars. But the wheels turned, and he delivered Delaney to his brownstone.

"Give you a call, sir," he said, "as soon as I set up something with Doctor Diane."

"Good enough," Delaney said. "And brief Suarez on our talk with Samuelson.

I promised to keep him in the picture."

Monica was in the living room, watching a women's talk show on television.

"What's the topic this morning?" Delaney inquired pleasantly. "Premature ejaculation?"

"Very funny," Monica said. "How did you make out with Samuelson?"

He was tempted to tell her about the doctor's comments about the Ellerbees' Pygmalion-Galatea relationship, but he didn't mention it, fearing it would sound like gloating.

"We got nothing you can hang your hat on," he said. "Just general background stuff. I'll tell you about it tonight."

He went into his study, sat at his desk, and wrote out a full report on the interrogation of Dr. Julius K. Samuelson, doing his best to recall the psychiatrist's exact words.

There was something in that interview that disturbed him, but he could not for the life of him think of what it was. He read over his report of the questioning, and still could not pinpoint it. But he was convinced something was there.

His vague disquiet was characteristic of the entire case, he decided. So far, the investigation of the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee was all obscure overtones and subtle shadings. The damned case was a watercolor.

Most homicides were oils-great, bold slashings of pigment laid on with a wide brush or palette knife. Killings were generally stark, brutal affairs, the result of outsize passions or capital sins.

But this killing had the whiff of the library about it, something literary and genteel, as if plotted by Henry James. ' Perhaps, Delaney admitted, he felt that way because the scene of the crime was an elegant townhouse rather than a roach-infested tenement. Or maybe because the people involved were obviously educated, intelligent, and with the wit to lie smoothly if it would serve their purpose.

But murder was murder. And maybe a delicate, polite case like this needed a lumbering, mulish old cop to strip away all the la-di-dah pretense and pin an artful, perceptive, refined killer to the goddamned wall.

"We ought to start thinking about Thanksgiving," Monica said at breakfast. "It'll be here before you know it. A turkey, I suppose…

"Oh… I don't know," Delaney said slowly.

"How about a goose?"

"A roast goose," he said dreamily. "Maybe with wild rice and brandied apples. Sounds good. You do the goose and I'll do the apples. Okay?"

"It's a deal."

"Are the girls coming down?"

"No, they're going to a friend's home. But they'll be here for Christmas."

"Good. Would you like to invite Rebecca and Abner for Thanksgiving dinner?

We can't eat a whole goose by ourselves."

"That would be fun. I think they'd like it. How about Jason and his family?"

"That guy could demolish a roast goose by himself. But if I ask Boone, I'll have to ask Jason. I suspect he'll want to have Thanksgiving dinner at home with his family, but I'll check and let you know."

"What are your plans for today, Edward?"

"I want to stick around in case Abner calls to tell me when we're going to meet with Doctor Diane. Where are you off "More Christmas shopping. I want to get it all done and out of the way so I can relax and enjoy the holiday season."

"Until the bills come in," he said. "Have fun."

He went into the study to read the morning Times and smoke his breakfast cigar. He was halfway through both when the phone rang. He expected it to be Boone, but it was not.

"Edward X. Delaney here," he said.

"Good morning. This is Detective Charles Parnell."

"Oh, yes. How are you?"

"Fine, sir, And you?"

"Surviving," Delaney said. "You probably don't remember, but you and I have met. It was at a retirement party for Sergeant Schlossman."

"Sure," Parnell said, laughing. "I remember. I tried to chug-a-lug a quart bottle of Schaefer and upchucked all over Captain Rogers' new uniform. I haven't had a promotion since! Listen, Abner Boone said you wanted these financial reports on the people in the Ellerbee case as soon as possible."

"Don't tell me you've got them already?"

"Well, I may not be good, but I'm fast. I've got a single typed page on each of them. It's not Dun amp; Bradstreet, but it should give you what you want. I was wondering if I could bring them by and go over them with you. Then if there's anything else you need, you can steer me in the right direction.

"Of course," Delaney said promptly. "I'll be in all morning. You have my address?"

"Yep. Be there in half an hour."

Delaney relighted his cigar and finished the Times. It was perfect timing; he had put the newspaper together neatly and was taking it into the living room to leave for Monica when the front door bell chimed.

The detective they called Daddy Warbucks was wearing a black bowler with a rolled brim, and a double-breasted topcoat THE Fourth DEAMY Sin 77 of taupe gabardine. He carried an attache case of polished calfskin.

Seeing Delaney blink, Pamell grinned. "It's my uniform," he explained.

"I work with bankers and stockbrokers. It helps if I look like I belong to the club. Off duty, I wear cord jeans and a ratty sweatshirt."

"Haven't seen a derby in years," Delaney said admiringly.

"On you it looks good."

After his hat and coat had been hung away in the hall closet, the detective was revealed in all his conservative elegance: a three-piece suit of navy flannel with muted pin-stripe, light blue shirt with starched white collar and cuffs, a richly tapestried cravat, and black shoes with a dull gloss-wingtips, of course.

"Sometimes I feel like a clown in this getup," he said, following Delaney back to the study, "but it seems to impress the people I deal with. Beautiful home you've got here." :"Thank you."

"You own the whole house?"

That's right."

If you ever want to rent out a floor, let me know. The wife and I and two kids are jammed into a West Side walk-up."

But his comments were without bitterness, and Delaney pegged him for a cheerful, good-natured man.

" Tell me something," he asked Pamell, "that suit fits so snugly, where do you carry your piece?"

"Here," Daddy Warbucks said. He turned, lifted the tail of his jacket, and revealed a snub-nosed revolver in a belt holster at the small of his back. "Not so great for a quick draw, but it's a security blanket. Do you carry?"

"Only on special occasions," Delaney said. "Listen, can I get you anything -coffee, a cola?"

"No, but thanks. I'm up to my eyeballs in coffee this morning."

"Well, then," Delaney said, "why don't you sit in that armchair and make yourself comfortable."

"I smell cigar smoke," Parnell said, "so I guess it's okay if I light a cigarette."

"Of course."

While the detective lit up, Delaney studied the man.

Crew-cut pepper-and-salt hair. A horsey face with deep furrows and laugh crinkles at the corners of the eyes. A good set of strong choppers. A blandly innocent expression. A rugged ugliness there, but not without charm. He looked like a good man to invite to a party.