While they were picking their way carefully down the filthy staircase, Boone said in a low voice, "Are we really going to do all that, sir?

What you told him?"

"Hell, no," Delaney said grumpily.

"We haven't got the time."

They sat in the car a few moments, the heater coughing away, while Boone lighted a cigarette.

"You really think he's holding out?" Boone asked.

"I don't know," Delaney said, troubled.

"That session was nutsville. His moods shifted around so often and so quickly.

One minute he's cooperating, and the next he's a wiseass cracking jokes.

But remember, the man was in a dirty war and probably did his share of killing. For some guys-not all, but some-once they've killed, the others come easier until it doesn't mean a goddamn thing to them. The first is the hard one. Then it's just as mechanical as a habit. A life? What's that?"

"I feel sorry for him," Boone said.

"Sure. I do, too. But I feel sorrier for Simon Ellerbee.

We've got to ration our sympathy in this world, Sergeant; we only have so much. Listen, it's still early; why don't we skip lunch and drive up to Chelsea. Maybe we can catch Joan Yesell at home. Then we'll be finished and can take the rest of the day off."

"Sounds good to me. Let's go."

Joan Yesell lived on West 24th Street, in a staid block of almost identical brownstones. It was a pleasingly clean street, garbage tucked away in lidded cans, the gutters swept. Windows were washed, faqades free of graffiti, and a line of naked ginkgo trees waited for spring.

"Now this is something like," Delaney said approvingly, "Little Old New York. 0. Henry lived somewhere around here, didn't he?"

"East of here, sir," Boone said.

"In the Gramercy Park area. The bar where he drank is still in business."

"in your drinking days, Sergeant, did you ever fall into Mcsorley's Old Ale House?"

"I fell into every bar in the city."

"Miss it?" Delaney asked curiously.

"Oh, God, yes! Every day of my life. You remember the highs; you don't remember wetting the bed."

"How long have you been dry now-four years?"

"About. But dipsos don't count years; you take it day by day."

"I guess," Delaney said, sighing.

"My old man owned a saloon on Third Avenue-did you know that?"

"No, I didn't," Boone said, interested.

"When was this?"

"Oh, hell, a long time ago. I worked behind the stick on afternoons when I was going to night school. I saw my share of boozers. Maybe that's why I never went off the deep end -although I do my share, as you well know.

Enough of this.

What have you got on Joan Yesell?"

"One of Suarez's boys checked her out. Lives with her widowed mother.

Works as a legal secretary in a big law firm up on Park. Takes home a nice buck. Never been married.

Those three suicide attempts Doctor Diane mentioned proved out in emergency room records. She claims that on the evening Ellerbee was killed she was home all night. Got back from work around six o'clock and never went out. Her mother confirms."

"All right," Delaney said, "let's go through the drill again.

The last time-I hope."

The ornate wood molding in the vestibule had been painted a hellish orange.

"Look at this," Delaney said, rapping it with a knuckle.

"Probably eighteen coats of paint on there. You strip it down and there's beautiful walnut or cherry underneath. You can't buy molding like that anymore. Someone did a lousy restoration job."

There were two names opposite the bell for apartment 3-C: Mrs. Blanche Yesell and J. Yesell.

"The mother gets the title and full first name," Delaney noted.

"The daughter rates an initial."

Boone identified himself on the intercom. A moment later the door lock buzzed and they entered. The interior was clean, smelling faintly of disinfectant, but the colors of the walls and carpeting were garish. The only decorative touch was a plastic dwarf in a rattan planter.

The ponderous woman waiting outside the closed door of apartment 3-C eyed them suspiciously.

"I am Mrs. Blanche Yesell," she announced in a hard voice, "and you don't look like policemen to me."

Sergeant Boone silently proffered his ID. She had wire-rimmed pince-nez hanging from her thick neck on a black silk cord. She clamped the spectacles onto her heavy nose and inspected the shield and identification card carefully while they inspected her.

The blue-rinsed hair was pyramided like a beehive. Her features were coarse and masculine. (Later, Boone was to say, "She looks like a truck driver in drag.") She had wide shoulders, a deep bosom, and awesome hips. All in all, a formidable woman with meaty hands and big feet shod in nononsense shoes.

"Is this about Doctor Ellerbee?" she demanded, handing Boone's ID back to him.

"Yes, ma'am. This gentleman is Edward Delaney, and we'd Re to-2' "I don't want my Joan bothered," Mrs. Yesell interrupted.

"Hasn't the poor girl been through enough? She's already told you everything she knows. More questions will just upset her.

I won't stand for it."

"Mrs. Yesell," Delaney said mildly, "I assure you we have no desire to upset your daughter. But we are investigating a brutal murder, and I know that you and your daughter want to do everything you can to help bring the vile perpetrator to justice." Bemused by this flossy language, the Sergeant shot Delaney an amazed glance, but the plushy rhetoric seemed to mollify Mrs. Yesell.

"Well, of course," she said, sniffing, "I and my Joan want to do everything we can to aid the forces of law and order."

"Splendid," Delaney said, beaming.

"Just a few questions then, and we'll be finished and gone before you can say Jack Robinson."

"I used to know a man named Jack Robinson," she said with a girlish titter.

A certified nut, Sergeant Boone thought.

She opened the door and led the way into the apartment.

As overstuffed as she was: velvets and chintz and tassels and lace and ormolu, and whatnots, all in stunning profusion. Plus two sleepy black cats as plump as hassocks.

"Perky and Yum-Yum," Mrs. Yesell said, gesturing proudly.

"Aren't they cunning? Let me have your coats, gentlemen, and you make yourselves comfortable."

They perched gingerly on the edge of an ornate, pseudovictorian love seat and waited until Mrs. Yesell had seated herself opposite them in a heavily brocaded tub chair complete with antimacassar.

"Now then," she said, leaning forward, "how may I help you?"

They looked at each other, then back at her.

"Ma'am," Sergeant Boone said softly, "it's your daughter we came to talk to. She's home?"

"Well, she's home, but she's lying down right now, resting, and I wouldn't care to disturb her. Besides, I'm sure I can answer all your questions."

"I'm afraid not," Delaney said brusquely.

"Your daughter is the one we came to see. If we can't question her today, we'll have to return again until we can."

She glared at him, but he would not be cowed.

"Oh, very well," she said.

"But it's really quite unnecessary. Oh, Joan!" si7e caroled.

"Visitors!"

Right on cue, and much too promptly for one who had been lying down, resting, Joan Yesell entered from the bedroom with a timid smile. The men stood to be introduced.

Then the daughter took a straight-back chair and sat with hands clasped in her lap, ankles demurely crossed.

"Miss Yesell," Boone started, "we know how the murder of Doctor Simon Ellerbee must have shocked you."

"My Joan was devastated," Mrs. Yesell said.

"Just devastated." Another one! Delaney thought.

Boone continued: "But I'm sure you appreciate our need to talk to all his patients in the investigation of his death. Could you tell us the last time you saw Doctor Simon?"