"Thank you, Miss Otherton," Delaney said, struggling out of the depths of the couch. "You've been very cooperative.

Please try to recall anything about Doctor Simon that might help us.

Perhaps a name he mentioned, or an incident. For instance, do you think his manner or personality changed in, say, the last six months or year?"

"Strange you should ask that," she said. "I thought he was becoming a little quieter, more thoughtful. Not depressed, you understand, but a little subdued. I asked him if anything was worrying him, and he said no."

"You've been very helpful," Boone said. "We may find it necessary to come back and ask you more questions. I hope you won't mind."

"I won't mind," she said forlornly. "I don't have many visitors."

"I'll leave my card," the Sergeant said, "in case you remember something you think might help us."

In the elevator, going down, Delaney said, "Odd. She says he was such a warm guy. That's not the feeling I got from that private office of his."

"I wonder what was bothering him," Boone said. "If anything was."

"The question is," Delaney said, "did she hate him enough to dust him?

She says she hated him after he made her recall the rape. Maybe he dredged up something else out of her past that really set her off."

"You think she's strong enough to bash in his skull?"

"When the adrenaline is flowing, a flyweight could do that, and she's a hefty woman."

"Yeah. That's why I'm going home and shave. I don't want to take any chances!"

That night, after dinner, Delaney told Monica about his day. She listened intently, fascinated.

"Those poor people," she mourned when he had finished.

"Yes. They're not exactly demented, but neither Isaac Kane nor Sylvia Mae has both oars in the water. And there are four more patients I want to meet."

"It depresses you, Edward?"

"It's not exactly a million laughs."

He had started a small fire in the grate and turned off the living room lamps. They sat on the couch, close together, staring into the flames.

Suddenly he put his arm about her shoulders.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "But it's cold out there, and dark."

"It's going to be a mixed-up weekend," he warned Monica on Saturday morning. "I want to brace the other four patients before the new boys report in on Monday morning. And Jason called; he's coming by this afternoon."

"Don't forget to ask Boone and Jason about Thanksgiving dinner."

"I'll remember," he promised.

He went into the study to scribble a rough schedule, consulting the patients' addresses on Dr. Diane Ellerbee's list. He decided to hit Ronald J. Bellsey and L. Vincent Symington on Saturday and Joan Yesell and Harold Gerber on Sunday.

He and Boone would have to return to the brownstone to hear Jason's report, and it was possible some of the patients wouldn't be home. But if all went well, Delaney could spend Sunday evening bringing his files up to date in preparation for briefing the six new detectives.

By the time Boone arrived, Delaney had the weekend organized. Everything but the weather. It was a miserable day, with lowering clouds, sharp gusts of rain, and a mean wind that came out of the northwest, whipping coattails and snatching at hats.

Bellsey lived on East 28th Street. They drove south on Second Avenue, windshield wipers working in fits and starts, and the ancient heater fighting a losing battle against the windchill factor.

"I keep hoping someone will steal this heap," the Sergeant said.

"But I guess even the chop shops don't want it. One of these days I'll hit the lottery and get a decent set of wheels.

By the way, I talked to the dick who checked out Bellsey. The subject claims he was home on the night Ellerbee got snuffed.

His wife confirms. Not much of an alibi."

"Not much," Delaney agreed.

"Did you find out what Bellsey does for a living?"

"Yeah. He's manager of a big wholesale butcher on West Eighteenth Street. They handle high-class meats and poultry, and sell only to restaurants and hotels."

"That reminds me," Delaney said.

"Would you and Rebecca like to come over for Thanksgiving Day dinner?

We're having roast goose."

"Sounds good to me," Boone said.

"Thank you, sir. But I'll have to check with Rebecca first in case she's made other plans."

"Sure. Either way, why don't you ask her to give Monica a call."

Ronald J. Bellsey lived in a new high-rise on the corner of Third Avenue. They found a parking space on 29th Street and walked back through the windswept rain, holding on to their hats. They were then told by the lobby attendant that Mr. and Mrs. Bellsey were not at home, having gone shopping no more than fifteen minutes earlier.

"Shit," the Sergeant said as they plodded back to the car.

"Well, I guess we can't expect to win them all."

"We'll try him again this afternoon," Delaney said.

"No one's going to spend all day shopping in this weather. Let's give L.

Vincent Symington a go. He lives in Murray Hill; Thirty-eighth Street east of Park. Did you get any skinny on him?"

"He's a bachelor. Works for an investment counseling outfit on Wall Street.

On the night of the murder, he says he was at a big dinner-dance at the Hilton. Some of the other guests remember seeing him there, but it was such a mob scene, he could easily have ducked out, murdered Ellerbee, and gotten back to the Hilton without anyone noticing he was gone. it's never neat and tidy-is it, sir?"

"Never," Delaney said.

"Always loose ends. You know what they call them in the navy?

Irish pennants. that's what this case is-all Irish pennants."

Symington lived in an elegant townhouse with bay windows on the first two floors, fanlights over the upper windows, and a mansard roof of greened copper. A lantern of what appeared to be Tiffany glass hung suspended over the front door.

"Money," Delaney pronounced, surveying the building.

"Probably all floor-throughs."

He was right; there were only five names listed on the gleaming brass bell plate. L. VINCENT SYMINGTON, printed in a chaste script, was opposite the numeral 3. Boone pressed the button and leaned down to the intercom grille.

"Who is it?" a fluty voice asked.

"Sergeant Abner Boone, New York Police Department. Is this Mr.

Symington?"

"Yes.

"Could we speak to you for a few minutes, sir?"

"What precinct are you from?"

"Manhattan North."

"Just a minute, please."

"Cautious bastard," Boone whispered to Delaney.

"He's calling the precinct to see if I exist."

Delaney shrugged.

"He's entitled."

They waited almost three minutes before the buzzer sounded. They pushed inside and climbed the carpeted stairs.

The man waiting for them on the third-floor landing might have been wary enough to check with Manhattan North, but he nullified that prudence by failing to ask for their ID.

"I suppose this is about Dr. Ellerbee." he said nervously, retreating to his doorway.

"I've already talked to the police about that."

"Yes, sir, we know," the Sergeant said.

"But there are some additional questions we wanted to ask."

Symington sighed.

"Oh, very well," he said petulantly.

"I hope this will be the end of it."

"That," Boone said, "I can't guarantee."

The apartment was meticulously decorated and looked, Delaney thought, about as warm and lived-in as a model room in a department store.

Everything was just so: color coordinated, dusted, polished, shining with newness. No butts in the porcelain ashtrays. No stains on the velvet upholstery.

No signs of human habitation anywhere.

"Beautiful room," he said to Symington.

"Do you really think so? Thank you so much. You know, everyone thinks I had a decorator, but I did it myself. I can't tell you how long it took.