"It never happened to Doctor Simon, but it happened to a friend of his, so he was very careful."

"Let's talk about the Friday he was killed. Did anything unusual happen that day?" She thought a moment.

"Noo," she said finally, "it was ordinary. Lousy weather; it poured all day. But nothing unusual happened in the office."

"What time did you leave?"

"A few minutes after five. Right after Mrs. Brizio arrived."

"Ah," he said, "Mrs. Lola Brizio… She was the last patient listed in his appointment book."

"That's right. She came in once a week, every Friday, five to six."

"Tell me about her."

Mrs, Brizio? Gee, she must be sixty-at least. And very, very rich. That dreamy chinchilla coat she wears -I could live five years on what she paid for that. But a very nice lady. I mean, not stuck-up or anything like that. Real friendly. She was always telling me the cute things her grandchildren said."

"What was her problem?"

"Kleptomania. Can you believe it? With all her loot. She'd go in these stores, like Henri Bendel, and stuff silk scarves and costume jewelry in her handbag. Been doing it for years.

The stores knew about it, of course, and kept an eye on her.

They never arrested her or anything because she was such a good customer. I mean, she bought a lot of stuff in addition to what she stole. So they'd let her swipe what she wanted and just add it to her bill. She always paid. She came to Doctor Simon about three years ago."

Carol Judd burst out laughing.

"The first session she had, she stole a crystal ashtray off Doctor Simon's desk, and he didn't even notice until she was gone. Can you imagine?"

"Sixty years old, you say?"

"At least. Probably more."

"A big woman?"

"Oh, no! A little bitty thing. Not even five feet tall. And fat. A roly-poly."

"All right," Delaney said, tentatively eliminating Mrs. Lola Brizio as a possible suspect, "after she arrived at five o'clock, you left a few minutes later. Is that correct?"

"Right."

"Did Doctor Simon tell you he was expecting a late patient?"

"No, he didn't."

"Wasn't that unusual?"

"Oh, no, it happened all the time. Like maybe in the evening he'd get a panic call from some patient who had to see him right away. The next morning he'd just leave a note on my desk telling me to bill so-and-so for a session."

"Did Doctor Diane ever have late patients?"

"Oh, sure. They both did, all the time."

"Apparently, after six o'clock, when Mrs. Lola Brizio was gone, Doctor Simon told his wife that he was expecting a late patient, but didn't tell her who or when. Isn't that a little surprising?"

"Not really. Like I said, it happened frequently. They'd tell each other so it wouldn't interfere with their plans for the night-dinner or the theater, you know-but I don't think they'd mention who it was that was coming in. There was just no need for it."

Delaney sat silently, brooding, and somewhat depressed.

As explained by Carol Judd, the mystery patient now seemed no mystery at all. It was just routine.

"And you have no idea who the late patient was on that Friday night?" he asked her.

"No, I don't."

"Well, whoever had the appointment," he said, trying to salvage something from his inquiries, "was probably the last person to see Doctor Simon alive. And may have been the killer. But let's suppose the late patient arrived at seven and left at eight. Would it-"

"Fifteen minutes to eight. Patients got forty-five minutes."

"What did the doctor do in those fifteen minutes between patients?"

"Relax. Return phone calls. Look over the files of the next patient.

Maybe have a cup of coffee."

"All right," he said, "let's suppose the late patient arrived at seven and left at fifteen minutes to eight. Do you think it's possible that sometime during the evening Doctor Simon got a phone call from another patient who wanted to see him? A second late patient?"

"Of course it's possible," she said.

"Things like that happened all the time."

Which left him, he thought, nowhere.

"Thank you very much, Miss Judd," he said, heaving himself out of the silly canvas sling and putting on his hat.

"You've been very cooperative and very helpful."

She rose from her folded position on the floor without using her hands-just unflexed her limber body and floated UP.

"I hope you catch the person who did it," she said, suddenly solemn and vengeful.

"I wish we had the death penalty.

Doctor Simon was a dear, sweet man, and no one deserves to die like that. I cried for forty-eight hours after it happened. I Still can't believe he's gone."

Delaney nodded and started for the door. Then he stopped and turned.

"One more thing," he said.

"Did Doctor Simon ever mention to you that he had been attacked or threatened by a patient?"

"No, he never did."

"In the past year or six months, did you notice any change in him? Did he act differently?"

She stared at him.

"Funny you should ask that. Yes, he changed. In the last year or so. I even mentioned it to my boyfriend. Doctor Simon became, uh, moodier. He used to be so steady. The same every day: pleasant and kind to everyone.

Then, in the last year or so, he became moodier. Some days he'd really be up, laughing and joking. And other days he'd be down, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders."

"I see."

"About a month ago," she added, "he wore a little flower in his lapel.

He never done that before. He really was a dreamy man."

"Thank you, Miss Judd," Delaney said, tipping his homburg.

When he came outside, he found the day transformed. A thick cloud cover was churning over Manhattan, the wind had taken on a raw edge, the light seemed sourish and menacing.

The gloom fitting his mood exactly.

He was disgusted with himself, for he had been trying to bend the facts to fit a theory instead of devising a theory that fit all the facts.

That kind of thinking had been the downfall of a lot of wild-assed detectives.

It was those two sets of footprints soaked into the Ellerbees' carpet that had seduced him. That and the gap in the victim's time schedule. It seemed to add up to two late patients on the murder night. But though Carol Judd said it was possible, there wasn't a shred of evidence to substantiate it.

Still, he told himself stubbornly, it was crucial to identify Ellerbee's late visitor or visitors. One of them had been the last person to see the victim alive and was a prime suspect.

Plodding uptown, he remembered what he had said to Monica about assembling a jigsaw puzzle. He had told her that he had found some straight-edged pieces and was putting together the frame. Then all he needed to do was fill in the interior pieces of the picture.

Now he recalled that some puzzles were not pictures at all.

They were rectangles of solid color: yellow, blue, or blood red. There was no pattern, no clues of shape or form. And they were devilishly hard to complete.

When he entered the brownstone, he heard the phone ringing and rushed down the hallway to the kitchen. But Monica was there and had already picked up.

"Who?" she said.

"Just a minute, please." She covered the mouthpiece with her palm and turned to her husband.

"Timothy Hogan," she reported. "Do you know him?"

"Hogan? Yes, he's one of the new men. I'll talk to him."

She handed him the phone.

"I couldn't get a hold of Jason or Boone," Hogan whined, "so that's why I'm calling. I'm at St. Vincent's Hospital."

"What happened?"

"I started checking out that Joan Yesell. She didn't report to work today.

Okay? So I go down to her place in Chelsea.

She ain't home, and her mother ain't home. So I start talking to the neighbors. Okay? This Joan Yesell, she tried to do the Dutch yesterday afternoon, but blew it. Just nicked her left wrist with a kitchen knife.