"Is it that obvious?" he asked with a failed smile.

Delaney nodded.

"Well, then-yes, I love her. Have since the first time I met her. She was studying with Simon then. My wife had died years before that. I suppose I was a lonely widower. Still am, for that matter. I thought Diane was the most beautiful woman I had ever met. Had ever seen. Her beauty simply took my breath away."

"Yes, she's lovely."

"Every man who has met her feels the same way. I have always felt there is something unearthly about her beauty. She seems to be of a different race than human. There! You see the extent of my hopeless passion?"

That line was spoken with wry self-mockery.

"Why hopeless?" Delaney asked.

"Look at me," Samuelson said.

"A shrimp of a man.

Twenty years older than Diane. And not much to look at.

Besides, there was Simon: a big, handsome, brilliant fellow closer to her own age. I could see the way she looked at him, and knew I had no chance. Is all this making me a prime suspect in the murder?"

"No," Delaney said, smiling, "it's not doing that."

"Well, I didn't do it, of course. I could never do anything like that. I abhor violence. Besides, I loved Simon almost as much as I did Diane-in a different way."

"You've spent a lot of time with her, doctor. Especially since her husband's death. Would you say she's a proud woman?"

"Proud? Not particularly. Confident, certainly."

"Very sure of herself?"

"Oh, yes."

"Obstinate?"

"She can be stubborn on occasion."

"What you're saying is that she likes her own way?"

Samuelson thought that over for a few seconds.

"Yes," he said finally. "I think that's a fair assessment: She likes her own way. That's hardly a fault, Mr. Delaney."

"You're right, sir, it isn't; we all like to get our own way.

Prior to Simon's death, did Diane give any indication at all that she was aware of her husband's unfaithfulness? Please think carefully before you answer, doctor; it's very important.

Samuelson poured them both more coffee, emptying the desk thermos. Then he sat back, patting the Waves of his heavy russet hair. Delaney wondered again if it might be a rug.

"I honestly cannot give you a definite answer," the psychiatrist said.

"Certain things, the way people talk and act, can seem perfectly normal, innocuous. Then someone like you comes along and asks, can you interpret that talk and those actions in this manner-is the person in question suspicious, jealous, paranoid, depressive, or whatever? And almost invariably the speech and actions can be so interpreted. Do you understand what I am saying, Mr. Delaney? Human emotions are extremely difficult to analyze. They can mean almost anything you want them to mean: open and above board or devious and contrived."

"I do understand that, doctor, and agree with you. But even with that disclaimer, can you state definitely that Diane was not aware of her husband's infidelity?"

"No, I cannot say that."

"Then, from your observations of her during the past year, can you say she may have been aware?"

"Possibly," Dr. Samuelson said cautiously.

Delaney sighed, knowing he was not going to get any more than that.

"Doctor, Diane strikes me as being a very controlled woman, always in command of herself. Do you agree?"

"Oh, yes."

"Did you ever see her when she was not in control?"

"Only once," Samuelson said with a rueful smile.

"And then it was over such a stupid thing. It happened last year. I was out at their Brewster home for the weekend. It was in the fall, and quite cool. Simon liked to have dinner on the patio, and planned to grill steaks on the barbecue. Diane insisted it was too cold to eat out-of-doors, and wanted us to stay inside.

A furious argument erupted. I stayed out of it, of course. They really went at it, hammer and tongs, and said a lot of things I'm sure they were sorry for later. Finally Diane grabbed the package of steaks-they were beautiful sirloins-ran out of the house, and threw them in the stream. That was the end of our steak dinner. But at least it had the effect of clearing the air, and after a while we were laughing about it, We opened two cans of tuna and had a salad and baked potatoes."

"Indoors?" Delaney said.

"Indoors," Samuelson said.

"That was the only time I ever saw Diane lose her temper. But I admit her anger was frightening."

"I recall," Delaney said, "that when I was speaking to her of the possibility of patients assaulting their psychiatrists, I asked her if she had ever been attacked. She said most of her patients were children, but when they struck her, she hit back.

Is this the usual treatment in situations like that?"

Dr. Samuelson shrugged.

"It is not a technique that I myself would use, but whatever works…

Psychotherapy is not an exact science."

"So I have learned. One final question, doctor-a very personal one: Have you asked Diane Ellerbee to marry you?"

Samuelson looked at him strangely.

"I think you are in the wrong business, Mr. Delaney. Perhaps you should be sitting behind this desk."

"You haven't answered my question."

"The answer is -yes, I asked Diane to marry me. She said no.

"A very independent woman," Delaney remarked.

Samuelson nodded.

Schlepping home in the cold, Delaney pondered the interview and what it had yielded. Not a hell of a lot. He liked that story about Diane throwing the sirloins in the stream. Last year, steaks; this year, a ball peen hammer.

The one question he hadn't been able to ask still gnawed at him: Doctor Samuelson, do you think Diane Ellerbee murdered her husband? Samuelson would have been outraged, and, considering his infatuation, would have been on the phone, warning her, the moment Delaney left his office.

Better that Diane should believe herself unsuspected and safe.

The shock would be that much greater.

He suddenly acknowledged they had all they were going to get. It was time for him to make his move. Not because of Thorsen's end-of-the-year deadline, although that was a consideration, but because the investigation had come up against a blank wall.

There was not going to be a sudden, neat denouement, the killer nabbed and proven guilty. He would have to settle for a half-loaf. But it would not be the first time that had happened to him, he reflected grimly, and he could live with it. All was best, but something was better than nothing.

He worked out the way he was going to handle it, manipulating people by appealing to their self-interest. It wouldn't be perfect justice -but when had justice ever been perfect?

He stopped at a couple of shops on the way home, and when he entered his empty brownstone-the women out shopping again, he supposed-he headed directly for the kitchen. There he made himself two toasted bagel sandwiches layered with cream cheese, sliced red onion, and capers. One sandwich got a thick slab of lox, the other smoked sturgeon.

He spent almost an hour on the phone, tracking down Thorsen and Suarez.

He finally got everything coordinated, and both men promised to be at the brownstone at 9:30 P.m.

Then he tried calling Dr. Diane Ellerbee at her office and at her Brewster home, but got no answer.

He worked all afternoon putting his files in order, holding out only those documents he might need. He then made notes of the presentation he intended to deliver to Thorsen and Suarez. He was confident he would succeed; he couldn't see that they had any choice but to go along with him.

He leaned back in his swivel chair, realizing it was all winding down.

End of the trail. There was a certain satisfaction in that, and a certain sadness, too. It had been a nice chase, an excitement, but now it was done.

He reviewed the way he had handled it and couldn't see how he might have worked it differently with better results. If he had made any error, it was in looking for complexities in a homicide that was essentially simple: The Case of the Betrayed Wife. A detective couldn't go far wrong if he stuck to the obvious.