"On Wednesday afternoon," the mother said promptly.

"The Wednesday before he died. At one o'clock."

The Sergeant sighed.

"Mrs. Yesell, these questions are addressed to your daughter. It would be best if she answered."

"On Wednesday afternoon," Joan Yesell said.

"The Wednesday before he died.

At one o'clock."

Her voice was so low, tentative, that they strained to hear.

She kept her head down, staring at her clasped hands.

"That was the usual time for your appointment?"

"Yes.

"How often did you see Doctor Simon?"

"Twice a week."

"And how long had you been consulting him?"

"Four years."

"Three," Mrs. Yesell said firmly.

"It's been three years, dear."

"Three years," the daughter said faintly.

"About."

"Did Doctor Ellerbee ever mention to you that he had been attacked or threatened by any of his patients?"

"No." Then she raised her head to look at them with faraway eyes.

"Once he was mugged while he was walking to his garage late at night, but that happened years ago."

"Miss Yesell," Delaney said, "I have a question you may feel is too personal to answer. If you prefer not to reply, we'll understand completely.

Why were you going to Doctor Ellerbee?"

She didn't answer at once. The clasped hands began to twist, "I don't see -- 2' Mrs. Yesell began, but then her daughter spoke.

"I was depressed," she said slowly.

"Very depressed. I attempted suicide.

You probably know about that."

"And you feel Doctor Simon was helping you?"

She came briefly alive.

"Oh, yes! So much!"

She could not, in all kindness, be called an attractive young woman. Not ugly, but grayly plain. Mousy hair and a pinched face devoid of makeup.

She lacked her mother's bold presence and seemed daunted by the older woman's assertiveness.

Her clothing was monochromatic: sweater, skirt, hose, shoes-all of a dull beige. Her complexion had the same cast.

She looked, if not unwell, sluggish and beaten. Even her movements had an invalid's languor; her thin body was without shape or vigor.

"Miss Yesell," Boone said, "did you notice any change in Doctor Simon recently? In his manner toward you or in his personality?"

"No "I Mrs. Blanche Yesell said.

"No change."

"Madam," Delaney thundered, "will you allow your daughter to answer our questions -please." Joan Yesell hesitated.

"Perhaps," she said finally. "The last year or so.

He seemed-oh, I don't know exactly. Happier, I think. Yes, he seemed happier. More-more lighthearted. He joked."

"And he had never joked before?"

"No."

"You have stated," Boone said, "that on the night Ellerbee was killed, you returned home directly from work and never went out again until the following day. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

Delaney turned to Mrs. Yesell with a bleak smile.

"Now is your chance, ma'am," he said.

"Can you confirm your daughter's presence here that night?"

"Of course."

"Did you have any visitors, see any neighbors, make or receive any phone calls that night?"

"No, we did not," she said decisively.

"Just the two of us were here."

"Read? Watched television?"

"We played two-handed bridge."

"Oh?" Delaney said, rising to his feet.

"And who won?"

"Mama," Joan Yesell said in her wispy voice.

"Mama always wins."

They thanked the ladies politely for their help, reclaimed coats and hats, and left. They didn't speak until they were back in the car.

"I can understand why the daughter's depressed," Delaney remarked.

"Yeah," Boone said.

"The old lady's a dragon."

"She is that," Delaney agreed.

"The only time the daughter contradicted her was about Ellerbee's manner changing. The mother said no."

"How the hell would she know?" Boone said.

"She wasn't seeing him twice a week."

"Exactly," Delaney said.

"Could you drop me uptown, Sergeant? Let's call it a day."

Just before Delaney got out of the car in front of his brownstone, Boone said, "If you had to make a wild guess, sir, which of the six would you pick as the perp?"

"Oh, I don't know," Delaney said thoughtfully.

"Maybe Ronald Bellsey. But only because I don't like the guy. Who's your choice?"

"Harold Gerber-for the same reason. We're probably both wrong."

Delaney grunted.

"Probably. Too bad. there's not a butler involved. See you tomorrow morning, Sergeant. Give my best to Rebecca."

Monica was in the kitchen, cutting up chicken wings. She had four prepared bowls before her: Dijon mustard, Worcestershire sauce, chicken broth, flavored bread crumbs. She looked up when he came in, and he bent to kiss her cheek.

"Just one sandwich," he pleaded.

"I haven't had a thing all day, and we're not eating for hours. One sandwich won't spoil my appetite."

"All right, Edward. Just one."

He rummaged through the refrigerator, saying, "I really deserve this.

I've had a hard day. Did you know that psychiatrists have a very high suicide rate? The highest of all doctors except ophthalmologists."

He was standing at the sink, but turned to face her, sandwich clamped in one big hand, a glass of beer in the other.

"Don't tell me you think Doctor Ellerbee crushed in his own skull with a hammer?"

"No, I just mentioned it because I'm beginning to understand what shrinks go through. No wonder they need a month a year to recharge their batteries. These patients of Ellerbee's are wild ones. It's hard to get a handle on them. They don't live in my world."

Monica nodded.

"Do you think women are more sensitive than men?" he asked her.

"Sensitive?" Monica said.

"Physically, you mean? Like ticklisht."

"No, not that. Sensitive to emotions, feelings, the way people behave.

We've been asking everyone if they noticed any change recently in Doctor Ellerbee's manner. The reason is to find out if he was being threatened or blackmailed or anything like that. All the men we asked said they saw no change. But so far, three women have said yes, they noticed a change.

They don't agree on how he changed, but all three said there was a difference in his manner in the last six months. That's why I asked you if women are more sensitive to that sort of thing than men."

"Yes," Monica said, "we are."

Five hours later, when Delaney had finished bringing his files up to the minute and Monica had long since cleaned up the dinner dishes, he came out of his study and asked, "Do you know anyone who's under analysis?"

She looked up at him.

"Yes, Edward, I know two or three women who are in therapy."

"Well, will you ask them how they pay? I mean, do they fork over cash or a check after every session or does the doctor bill them by the month?

I'm just curious about how the shrink's money comes in."

"You think that has something to do with Ellerbee's murder?"

"I don't know. There's so much I don't know about this case. Like how does a psychiatrist get patients? Referrals from other doctors? Or do patients walk in off the street or use the Yellow Pages? I just don't know."

"I'll ask around," Monica promised.

"I suspect every case is different."

"I suspect the same thing," he grumbled.

"Makes it hard to figure percentages."

And, four hours later, when they were in their upstairs bedroom preparing for sleep, he said, "I haven't even looked at the Sunday Times. Was there anything on the Ellerbee case?"

"I didn't notice anything. But there's an interesting article in the magazine section about new colors for women's hair.

Would you like me to get pink streaks, Edward?"

"I'd prefer kelly green," he said.

"But suit yourself."

"Monster," she said affably and crawled into her bed.