The white eyebrows rose even farther. More murmurs.

Then he hung up the phone.

"Miss Otherton will see you now," he said. "Apartment twelve-C." Then, his bleary eyes glistening, he leaned over the counter. "Is it about that doctor who got killed?" he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

They turned away.

"She was devastated," he called after them. "Just devastated."

"Damned old gossip," the Sergeant said angrily in the elevator. "By tonight everyone in the building will know Otherton had a call from the cops."

"Calm down," Delaney said. "Everyone loves a gruesome murder-especially an unsolved one. They'd like to think the perp will get away with it."

Boone looked at him curiously. "You really believe that, sir?"

"Sure," Delaney said cheerfully. "It feeds their fantasies.

They can dream of knocking off wife, husband, boss, lover, or that pain in the ass next door-and walking away from it scot-free." Boone pushed the buzzer at the door of apartment 12-C.

They waited. And waited. Finally they heard sounds of bolts being withdrawn, and the door opened a few inches, held by a chain still in place.

A muffled voice said, "Let me see your identification."

Obediently, the Sergeant passed his ID wallet through the chink. They waited. Then the door closed, the chain came off, and the door was opened wide.

.Wipe your feet on the mat," the woman said, "before you come in." They obeyed.

The apartment was so dimly lighted-heavy drapes drawn across all the windows-that it was difficult to make out much of anything. Heavy furniture loomed along the walls, and they had a muddled impression of an enormous overstuffed couch and two armchairs placed about a round cocktail table.

Delaney smelled sandalwood incense, and, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw vaguely Oriental wall hangings, a torn shoji used as a room divider.

The woman who faced them, head bowed, wadded tissue clutched in one hand, seemed as outlandish as her overheated apartment. She wore a loose garment of black lace over a lining of deep purple satin. The pointed hem came to her ankles, and her small feet were shod in glittery evening slippers.

She wore a torrent of necklaces: pearls and rhinestones and shells and wooden beads. Some were chokers and some hung to her shapeless waist.

Her plump fingers were equally adorned: rings on every finger, and some with two and three rings. And as if that weren't enough, stacks of bracelets climbed both arms from wrists to elbows.

"Miss Sylvia Mae Otherton?" Sergeant Boone asked.

The bowed head bobbed.

"I wonder if we might take off our coats, ma'am. We won't stay long, but it is warm in here."

"Do what you like," she said dully.

They took off their coats, and, holding them folded, hats; top, took seats on the couch. It was down-filled, and unexictedly they sank until they were almost swaddled.

The only illumination in the room came from a weak, blue-tinted bulb in an omate floor lamp of cast bronze shaped like a striking cobra. In this watery light they strained to see the features of Sylvia Mae Otherton when she folded herself slowly into one of the armchairs opposite them.

They could smell her perfume; it was stronger than the incense.

"Miss Otherton," Boone said gently, "as I suppose you've guessed, this concerns the murder of Doctor Simon Ellerbee.

We're talking to all his patients as part of our investigation. I know you'll want to help us find the person responsible for Doctor Ellerbee's death."

"He was a saint," she cried. "A saint!"

She raised her head at this last, and they got a clear look at her for the first time.

A fleshy face, now riddled with grief. Chalky makeup, round patches of rouge, and lips so caked with lipstick that they were cracked. Her black hair hung limply, uncombed, and long glass pendants dangled from her ears. Under brows plucked into thin carets her eyes were swollen and brimming.

"Miss Otherton," Boone continued, "it's necessary that we establish the whereabouts of Ellerbee's patients on the night of the crime. Where were you that Friday evening?"

"I was right here," she said. I very, very rarely go out."

"Did you have any visitors that night?"

"No. "Did you see any neighbors-in the lobby or the hallways?"

"No."

"Did you receive any phone calls?"

"No. Boone gave up; Delaney took over.

"How did you spend that evening, Miss Otherton?" he asked. "Read? Watch television?"

"I worked on my autobiography," she said. "Doctor Simon got me started.

He said it would help if I tried to recall everything and write it down."

"And did you then show what you had written to Ellerbee?"

"Yes. And we'd discuss it. He was so sympathetic, so understanding. Oh, what a beautiful man!"

"You saw him twice a week?"

"Usually. Sometimes more when 1-when I had to."

"How long had you been seeing Doctor Ellerbee?"

"Four years. Four years and three months."

"Did you feel he was helping you?"

"Oh, yes! My panic attacks are much less frequent now.

And I don't do those-those things as often. I don't know what's going to happen to me with Doctor Simon gone. His wife-his widow-is trying to find another therapist for me, but it won't be the same.", "What things?" Boone said sharply. "You said you don't do those things as often. What were you referring to?"

She raised her soft chin. "Sometimes when I go out, I hit people."

"Have they done anything to you?"

"No' "Just anyone?" Delaney said. "Someone on the street or in a restaurant?"

"Men with beards," she said in a husky voice, her head slowly bowing again.

"Only men with beards. When I was eleven years old, I was raped by my uncle."

"And he had a beard?"

She raised her head and stared at him defiantly. "No, but it happened in his office, and he had an old engraving of Ulysses Grant on the wall."

It's Looney Tunes time, Delaney thought, and was vaguely ashamed they had dragged that confession from this hapless woman.

"But your assaults on bearded men became less frequent after you started seeing Doctor Ellerbee?"

"Oh, yes! He was the one who made the connection between bearded men and the rape."

"When was the last time you made an attack on a stranger')"

"Oh… months ago."

"How many months?"

"One or two."

"It must have been very painful for you-when Doctor Ellerbee told you the reason for your hostility toward bearded men. "He didn't tell me. He never did that. He just let me discover it for myself."

"But that was painful?"

"Yes," she said in a whisper. "Very. I hated him then, for making me remember."

"Was this a recent discovery?"

"Months ago."

"How many months?"

"One or two," she said again.

"But earlier you called Doctor Simon a saint. So your hatred of him didn't last."

"No. I knew he was trying to help me.

Delaney glanced at the Sergeant. -Miss Otherton," Boone said, "did you know any of Doctor Simon's other patients?"

"No' I rarely saw them, and we never spoke-" Do you know Doctor Diane Ellerbee?"

"I met her twice and spoke to her once on the phone."

"What do you think of her?" Boone asked.

"She's all right, I guess. Awfully skinny. And cold. She doesn't have Doctor Simon's personality. He was a very warm man.

"Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm him? Anyone who threatened him?"

"No. Who would want to kill a doctor? He was trying to help everyone."

"Did you ever attack Doctor Simon?"

"Once," she said and sobbed. "I slapped him."

"Why did you do that?"

"I don't remember."

"How did he reactt "He slapped me back, not hard. Then we hugged each other, laughing, and it was all right."

She seemed willing enough to continue talking-eager in fact. But the sandalwood incense, her perfume, and the steamy heat were getting to them.