Going down in the elevator, he debated with himself whether or not to include the Ouija board episode in his report. He finally decided to put it in. Hadn't Delaney said he wanted everything?

And everything was exactly what Delaney was getting in the daily reports. He was satisfied; better too much than not enough. Most of the stuff was boilerplate, but there were some significant revelations:

– Benjamin Calazo reported that Isaac Kane said he had left the Community Center at 9:00 P.m. on the night of the crime, but Kane admitted he hadn't returned home right away.

He was unable or unwilling to account for the intervening time. -L.

Vincent Symington, according to Ross Konigsbacher, had a sheet. A few years previously he had been arrested in a raid on a gay after-hours joint on 18th Street. There was no record of the disposition of the case. -Timothy Hogan spent some time shmoozing with workers at Ronald J.

Bellsey's wholesale meat market, and had learned that six months ago Bellsey and a butcher had a bloody fight with meat hooks that resulted in serious injuries to the butcher. He had sued, but the case was settled out of court. -Joan Yesell, Helen K. Venable wrote, had injured herself more seriously in her suicide attempt than first thought.

Tendons in her wrist had been cut, and Yesell was not expected to return to work for at least a month. -Detective Robert Keisman reported that Harold Gerber's sheet listed several arrests for assaults, refusing to obey the lawful order of a police officer, and committing a public nuisance. Because of Gerber's war record, all charges were eventually dropped. But, Keisman noted, Gerber had received a less than honorable discharge from the army due to several offenses, including slugging an officer. -Finally, Brian Estrella wrote about his meeting with Sylvia Mae Otherton, briefly mentioning the incident involving the Ouija board.

Edward X. Delaney told Monica about that, thinking she'd be amused. But that most rational of women didn't laugh.

All in all, Delaney was gratified. He had the feeling that the investigation was beginning to lurch forward. It was not unlike an archeological dig, with each layer scraped away bringing him closer to the truth.

Detective Ross (Kraut) Konigsbacher thought he already knew the truth about L. Vincent Symington: The guy was a screaming faggot. It wasn't only that arrest on his record, it was the way he dressed, the way he walked, even the way he handled a cigarette.

Every dick had a different way of working, and Konigsbacher liked to circle his prey, learn all he could about him, study his lifestyle.

Then, when he felt he knew his target from A to Z, he'd go for the face-to-face and shatter the guy with what he had learned about him.

The Kraut talked to Symington's neighbors, the super of his townhouse, owners of stores where he shopped. Konigsbacher even got in to interview the personnel manager of the investment counseling firm where Symington worked.

Using a phony business card, Konigsbacher said he was running a credit check on Symington in connection with a loan application for a cooperative apartment. The manager gave Symington a glowing reference, but the Kraut discounted that because he thought the personnel guy was a fruitcake, too.

Outside of business hours, L. Vincent Symington Red to prowl. He dined at a different restaurant almost every night, sometimes alone, sometimes with another man, never with a broad.

After dinner, he'd go bar-hopping. But invariably, around midnight, he'd end up in a place on Lexington Avenue near 40th Street, the Dorian Gray.

From the outside it didn't have much flash; the facade was distressed pine paneling with one small window that revealed a dim interior with lighted candles on the tables and a piano at the rear. It was usually crowded.

On the third night Konigsbacher tailed Symington to the Dorian Gray, waited about five minutes, then went inside. It turned out to be the most elegant gay bar the Kraut had ever seen-and he had seen a lot of them, from the Village to Harlem.

This joint was as hushed as a church, with everyone speaking in whispers and even the laughter muted. The black woman at the piano played low-keyed Cole Porter, and the bartender-who looked like a young Tyrone Power-seemed never to clink a bottle or glass.

The Kraut stood a moment at the entrance until his eyes became accustomed to the dimness. There were maybe two or three women in the place, but all the other patrons were men in their thirties and forties.

Practically all of them wore conservative, vested suits. They looked like bankers or stockbrokers, maybe even morticians.

Most of the guys at the small tables were in pairs; the singles were at the bar. Konigsbacher spotted his victim sitting alone near the far end.

There was an empty barstool next to him. The Kraut sauntered down and swung aboard. The bartender was there immediately.

"Good evening, sir," he said.

"What may I bring you?"

The Kraut would have liked a belt of Jack Daniel's with a beer chaser, but when he looked around he saw all the other customers at the bar were having stemmed drinks or sipping little glasses of liqueur.

"Vodka martini straight up with a twist, please," he said, surprised to find himself whispering.

"Very good, sir."

While he waited for his drink, he glanced at the tinted mirror behind the bar and locked stares with L. Vincent Symington. They both looked away.

He drank half his martini, slowly, then pulled a pack of Kents and a disposable lighter from his jacket pocket. The beautiful bartender was there immediately with a small crystal ashtray. The Kraut lighted his cigarette, then left the pack and lighter on the bar in front of him.

A few moments later Symington took a silver case from his inside pocket, snapped it open, selected a long, cork-tipped cigarette.

"I beg your pardon," he said to Konigsbacher in a fluty voice.

"I seem to have forgotten my lighter. May I borrow yours?"

It was like a dance, and the Kraut knew the steps.

"Of course," he said, flicked the lighter, and held it for the other man. Symington grasped his hand lightly as if to steady the flame. He took a deep drag of his cigarette and seemed to swallow the smoke.

"Thank you," he said.

"Dreadful habit, isn't it?"

"Sex, you mean?" Konigsbacher said, and they both laughed.

Ten minutes later they were seated at a small table against the wall, talking earnestly. They leaned forward, their heads almost touching.

Beneath the table, their knees pressed.

"I can tell, Ross," Symington said, "that you take very good care of yourself."

"I try to, Vince," the Kraut said.

"I work out with weights every morning."

"I really should do that."

He hesitated, then asked, "Are you married, Ross?"

"My wife is; I'm not."

Symington leaned back and clasped his hands together, "Love it," he said.

"Just love it! My wife is; I'm not. I'll have to remember that."

"How about you, Vince?"

"No. Not now. I was once. But she walked out on me.

Taking, I might add, our joint bank account, our poodle, and my personal collection of ancient Roman coins."

"So you're divorced?"

"Not legally, as far as I know."

"You really should be, Vince. You might want to remarry someday."

"I doubt that," Symington said.

"I doubt that very much."

"It's a sad, sad, sad, sad world," the Kraut said mournfully, "and we must grab every pleasure we can."

"Truer words were never spoken," the other man agreed, snapped his fingers at the pretty waiter, and ordered another round of drinks.

"Vince," Konigsbacher said, "I have a feeling we can be good friends. I hope so, because I don't have many."

"Oh, my God," Symington said, running his palm over his bald pate.