Finally, when it had gone on more than two hours, and neither Delaney nor the three officers had sat down or removed their coats, he said suddenly: "All right, that's enough for now. Keep yourself available, Miss Yesell. There will be more questions. Don't even think of leaving town; you'll be watched."

He began to lead the procession from the apartment.

Detective Venable said hesitantly, "May I stay awhile?"

Delaney looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.

"Yes," he said, "you do that. Have a nice cup of tea."

Jason drove them uptown. Boone and Delaney sat in the back seat.

"That place smelled of cats," the Sergeant said.

"I don't care how often you change the litter box; you got cats, your apartment is going to smell of cats."

They discussed how they were going to check the buses and cab Joan Yesell claimed to have taken on the murder night. Probably an impossible task, involving bus schedules, drivers' time cards, and taxi trip-sheets, but it had to be done.

"You men write up reports on tonight's questioning," Delaney ordered.

"I'll do the same. Between the three of us, we should be able to recall everything."

They pulled up in front of Delaney's brownstone, but he made no movement to get out.

"All right," he said, "let's take a vote. Jason, was she telling the truth?"

"I think she's clean, sir," the officer said.

"Mostly because I can't see her having the muscle or the guts to pound in the skull of a guy she loved."

"Sergeant?"

"I think she was telling the truth. The second go-around was a replay of the first. Either she's one hell of an actress or she's telling it like it was."

"Yes," Delaney said morosely, "I'm afraid both of you are right."

"And besides," Boone added, "when we were up in Brewster, Samuelson said he doubted if a suicidal type would go for a homicide."

Delaney slowly stiffened. He turned to stare at the Sergeant.

"Lardy, lardy," he said with a wobbly smile.

"I do believe you just uttered the magic words."

He got out of the car without further comment and trudged up the steps to the front door. He put his homburg and overcoat in the hall closet, then went into the living room. The girls were at the theater with Peter and Jeffrey, but Monica was home, simultaneously watching television and meticulously checking her Christmas card list against those they had received in return. He stooped to kiss her cheek.

"How did it go?" she asked him.

"Okay," he said.

"Tell you about it later. I've got a call to make and then some things to look up. I never get to see you anymore," he complained.

"And whose fault is that?" she demanded.

It took him almost thirty minutes to locate Dr. Murray Walden, including a call to Deputy Thorsen to get the police psychiatrist's unlisted number. He finally tracked down Walden at a big dinner-dance at the Americana. The doctor had to be paged.

"This better be important, Delaney," the psychiatrist said.

"You dragged me away from the best tango New York has seen since Valentino."

"It is important. One question, but it's crucial. And I'd like a yes or no answer."

"That I can't guarantee. I told you, in my business nothing is definite."

You guys are as bad as lawyers. All right. I'll try anyway.

We've got a subject with a history of suicide attempts. Four, to be exact. Is such a person capable of homicide?"

Silence.

"Hello?" Delaney said.

"Walden? Are you there?"

"Yes, but let me get this straight. Is a suicidal type capable of homicide? Is that your question? The answer is yes. Under certain circumstances, anyone is capable of murder. But if you're asking me if it's probable, the answer is no. In fact, I've never heard of a suicidal type turning to homicide. That's not to say it's not possible."

"Thank you very much, doctor," Delaney said.

"Go back to your tango."

He spent another half-hour pulling certain reports and notes from the file cabinet. He laid all the documents on his desk, edges aligned and touching. He stared down at them with grim satisfaction, noting how they resembled pieces of that jigsaw puzzle, finally coming together and fitting.

He opened the door to the living room.

"Monica," he called, "could you come in for a while?"

She looked up.

"Oh-ho. Feeling guilty for neglecting me, are you?"

"Sure I am," he said, smiling.

"Also, I want your take on something."

She came into the study and took the club chair facing his desk.

"My," she said, "you look solemn."

"Do I? Serious maybe, not solemn. Listen, this may take some time." He hunched forward, forearms on his desk and told Monica of the night's events.

"What do you think?" he asked after he had related Joan Yesell's story.

"The poor girl," Monica said slowly.

"Were you hard on her, Edward?"

"As hard as I had to be. Does it sound to you like she's telling the truth?"

"I can believe it. A vulnerable woman like that. Not getting any younger.

A good-looking man telling her that he loves her. Edward, it was a romance, like she's watched on TV. Maybe her last chance to have a close relationship with a man. And sex. If he didn't offer to divorce his wife and marry her, I don't think she would have insisted or even objected.

Just being with him was so important to her."

"That's the way I see it," he said, nodding.

"And you've got to remember he was her doctor, giving her sympathy and understanding and confidence. A real father figure."

"Transference," Monica said.

"That's what they call it."

"Whatever," Delaney said.

"Anyway, I think she's innocent of the murder, and so do Boone and Jason. So that puts us back to square one-right? And we've still got the problem of the other set of footprints. But then, just before I got out of the car, Boone said something that triggered a memory. He reminded me that when we were up in Brewster, Samuelson had said that he didn't think a suicidal personality was capable of homicide."

"I don't remember him saying that."

"You were in the kitchen cleaning up when we were talking about it.

Boone's mentioning it reminded me of something.

That call I made was to Doctor Murray Walden, the Department's psychiatrist, a very brainy guy. He substantiated Samuelson's comment: that it was extremely unlikely a potential suicide would turn to homicide."

"Edward, why is that so important? It's added evidence that Joan Yesell is innocent, isn't it?"

"It's more than that. Because when the Sergeant mentioned it, I remembered the meeting I had with Diane Ellerbee when she gave me the names of six of her husband's patients-all presumably capable of murder.

She said she was including Joan Yesell because suicide, when tried so often, often develops into homicidal mania. Just to check my memory, I dug out my notes on that conversation. And here it is." He held up a sheet of paper.

"That's what she said. Now Diane is an experienced psychologist. Why should she say something like that when Samuelson and Walden say it's a crock of shit?"

He looked at Monica steadily, seeing how her face tightened as she began to understand the full import of what he had just told her.

"Edward, are you suggesting..

"I'm not suggesting anything; I'm stating it flatly with no doubts whatsoever: Diane Ellerbee knocked off her husband."

"But you don't-"

"Wait a minute," he interrupted, holding up a palm.

"Before you tell me I'm nuts, let me give you some background on this.

Let's start with my own stupidity in not seeing it sooner. About seventy-five percent of all murders are committed by the spouse, relatives, or friends of the victim. I've known that since the day I got my gold shield. But I forgot the percentages in this case. Why? Probably because Diane Ellerbee was so beautiful, so intelligent. She overwhelmed me.