He handed over three typewritten reports and his card in case more information was needed. They went out into the hallway and Delaney helped Daddy Warbucks on with his natty coat.

"Really a great home," Parnell said, looking around. "I'd like one exactly like it. Well, maybe someday."

"Just don't start writing checks," Delaney warned.

"Not me," the detective said, laughing. "I haven't got the chutzpah.

Besides, I can't work a computer."

They shook hands and Delaney thanked the other man for his help. Parnell departed, bowler cocked at a jaunty angle, attache case swinging.

Delaney went back to the kitchen, smiling. He had enjoyed the company of Daddy Warbucks. He was always interested in other dicks' cases-especially new scams and innovative criminal techniques.

He made a "wet" sandwich, leaning over the sink to eat it.

Slices of canned Argentine corned beef with a layer of sauerkraut and a few potato chips for crunch. And Dijon mustard.

All on thick slabs of sour rye. Washed down with dark Heineken.

Finished, he cleaned up the kitchen and returned to the study. He put on his reading glasses and went over the three financial statements Parnell had given him. He saw nothing of importance that Daddy Warbucks hadn't covered in his oral report.

The detective was right: The idea that Diane Ellerbee might have chilled her husband for his gelt just didn't wash; she had ten times his wealth and Delaney couldn't see her as an inordinately avaricious woman.

So that, he supposed, was that. Unless Jason T. Jason came up with something in the biographies, the only way to go was investigation of Simon Ellerbee's patients.

And right on cue, the telephone rang. This time it was Abner Boone. He said Dr. Diane Ellerbee would see them that evening at nine o'clock.

"Suppose I pick you up about fifteen minutes early," Boone suggested.

"Make it a half-hour early," Delaney said. "Charlie Parnell stopped by, and I want to bring you up to date on what he found out."

Delaney turned sideways on the front passenger seat, looking at Abner Boone as he filled him in on Charlie Parnell's report.

They were parked near the East 84th Street townhouse.

Boone was a tall, gawky man who walked with a shambling lope, wrists and ankles protruding a little too far from his cuffs. He had short, gingery hair, lightly freckled complexion, big, horsey teeth. There was a lot of "country boy" in his appearance and manner, but Delaney knew that masked a sharp mind and occasionally painful sensitivity.

"Well, sir," the Sergeant said when Delaney had finished, "The lady sure sounds like a powerhouse. All that money to manage, two houses, and a successful career. But you know who interests me most in this thing?"

"The victim?" Delaney guessed.

"That's right. I can't get a handle on him. Everyone says how brilliant he was. Maybe that's so, but I can't get a mental picture of him-how he dressed, talked, what he did on his time off. From what-Doctor Diane and Samuelson told us, he seems almost too good to be true."

"Well, you can't expect his widow and best friend to put him down. I'm hoping his patients will open up and tell us a little more about him. I guess it's about time; we don't want to keep the doctor waiting."

On the lobby intercom, Dr. Diane Ellerbee told them to come up to the third floor, then buzzed them in. They tramped up the stairway, carrying their hats. She met them in the hallway and shook hands firmly with both of them.

"This may take a little time," she said briskly, "so I thought we'd be more comfortable in the sitting room."

She was wearing a long-sleeved jumpsuit of black silk, zipped from high collar to shirred waist. Her wheaten hair was down, splaying about her shoulders in a silken skein. As she led the way toward the rear of the house, Delaney admired again her erect carriage and the flowing grace of her movements.

She ushered them into a brightly lighted chamber, comfortably cluttered with bibelots, framed photos, bric-a-brac. One wall was a ceiling-high bookcase jammed with leather-bound sets, paperbacks, magazines.

"The rooms downstairs are more formal than this," she said with a half-smile. "And neater. But Simon and I spent most of our evenings here.

It's a good place to unwind. Let me have your coats, gentlemen. May I bring you something-coffee, a drink?" They both politely declined.

She seated them in soft armchairs, then pulled up a ladderback chair with a cane seat to face them. She sat primly, spine straight, chin lifted, head held high.

"Julie--!" she started, then: "Doctor Samuelson approves of my cooperating with you, but I must say I am not absolutely certain I am doing the right thing. The conflict is between my desire to see my husband's murderer caught and at the same time protect the confidentiality of his patients."

"Doctor Ellerbee," Delaney said, "I assure you that anything you tell us will be top secret as far as we're concerned."

"Well…" she said, "I suppose that's as much as I can hope for. One other thing: The patients I have selected as potential assailants are only six out of a great many more."

"We've got to start somewhere, ma'am," Boone said. "It's impossible for us to run alibi checks on them all."

"I realize that," she said sharply. "I'm just warning you that my judgment may be faulty. After all, they were my husband's patients, not mine. So I'm going by his files and what he told me. It's quite possible -probable, in fact-that the six people I've selected are completely innocent, and the guilty person is the one I've passed over."

"Believe me," Delaney said, "we're not immediately and automatically going to consider your selections to be suspects.

They'll be thoroughly investigated, and if we believe them to be innocent, we'll move on to others in your husband's caseload. Don't feel you are condemning these people simply by giving us their names. There's more to a homicide investigation than that."

"Well, that makes me feel a little better. Remember, psychotherapy is not an exact science-it is an uncertain art.

Two skilled, experienced therapists examining the same patient could very likely come up with two opposing diagnoses.

You have only to read the opinions of psychiatrists testifying in court cases to realize that."

"We used to call them alienists," Delaney said. "Usually they confused a trial more than they helped."

"I'm afraid you're right," she said with a wan smile. "Objective criteria are hard to recognize in this field. Well, having said all that, let me show you what I've done."

She rose, went over to a small Sheraton-styled desk, came back with two pages of typescript.

"Six patients," she told them. "Four men, two women. I've given you their names, ages, addresses. I've written a short paragraph on each, using my husband's notes and what he told me about them. Although I've listed their major problems, I haven't given you definitive labelsschizoid, psychotic, manic-depressive, or whatever. They were not my patients, and I refuse to attempt a diagnosis. Now let me get started."

She donned a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses.

Curiously, these old-fashioned spectacles softened her chiseled features, gave her face a whimsical charm.

"I should warn you," she said, "I have listed these people in no particular order. That is, the first mentioned is not, in my opinion, necessarily the most dangerous. All six, I believe, have the potential for violence. I won't read everything I've written-just give you a very brief synopsis… "Number One: Ronald J. Bellsey, forty-three. He saw my husband three times a week. Apparently a violent man with a history of uncontrollable outbursts of anger. Ronald first consulted my husband after injuring his wife in a brutal attack. At least he had sense enough to realize he was ill and needed help.