"No, no change."
Delaney: "Nervousness? Fear? Sudden fits of silence or outbursts of anger? Anything like that?"
"No, nothing."
Boone: "Did he ever say he had been threatened by any of his patients?"
"No. He was an extremely competent man. I'm sure he would have known how to handle such threats-if any had been made."
Delaney: "Have you ever been married?"
"Once. My wife died of cancer twenty years ago. I never remarried."
Boone: "Children?"
"One son killed in an automobile accident."
Delaney: "So the Ellerbees were the only family you had?"
"I have brothers and sisters. But the Ellerbees were very close friends.
Two beautiful people. I loved them both."
Boone: "They never fought?"
"Of course they fought occasionally. What married couple doesn't But always with good humor."
Delaney: "When you went over to the Ellerbees' townhouse that Friday night and went upstairs, did you hear anything? Like someone might still be in the house, moving around?"
"No, I heard nothing."
Boone: "Did you smell anything unusual? Perfume, incense, a strong body odor-anything like that?"
"No. Just the damp. It was a very wet night."
Delaney: "There were no signs of forced entry, so we assume the victim buzzed the door open for someone he was expecting or knew. Now we're back to the possibility of one of Ellerbee's patients putting him down.
We want Doctor Diane to go through her husband's caseload and select those she thinks might be capable of murder."
"Yes, she told me that. Last night. Boone: "She relies on your opinion.
Will you advise her to cooperate?"
"I have already so advised her. The law prevents her from giving you her husband's files, but I think that here the public good demands she at least name those parties she thinks might be capable of violence. You have the complete list and I assume will run a basic check on them all."
Delaney: "Checking that many alibis is almost impossible, so I'm glad you've encouraged Mrs. Ellerbee to cooperate.
She obviously respects your opinions. Are you a father figure?" Dr.
Samuelson, confidence regained, relaxed. His enlarged eyes glittered behind the heavy glasses.
"Oh, I doubt that," he said softly. "Diane is a very independent woman.
Her beauty warms the heart. But she is very intelligent and capable.
Simon was a lucky man. I told him that often, and he agreed."
"Thank you for your help," Delaney said, rising abruptly.
"I hope we may consult you again if we need more information."
"Of course. Anytime. You think you will find the person who did this thing?"
"If we're lucky," Delaney said.
Outside, they dashed across Madison to a luncheonette that had not yet filled up with the breakfast crowd. They ordered black coffee and jelly doughnuts and took them to a small, Formica-topped table alongside the tiled wall.
"I'm proud of you," Delaney said.
"How so?"
"You knew about Pygmalion and Galatea."
Boone laughed. "Blame it on crossword puzzles. You pick up a lot of useless information."
"Funny thing," Delaney said, "but just last night I was talking to Monica about the fact that so many beautiful women make a career out of just being beautiful. But from what Samuelson said, Simon was the one who convinced Diane she had a brain in addition to looks."
I think the good doctor is in love with her."
"That wouldn't be hard. But what chance would he have?
Did you see the photos of Ellerbee in the file? A big, handsome guy.
Samuelson looks like a gnome compared to him."
"Maybe that's why he snuffed him," Boone said.
"You really think that?"
"No. Do you?" I can't see it," Delaney said. "But there's a hell of a lot I can't see about this thing. For instance, I asked Samuelson if Simon had fits of silence or outbursts of anger. Now that was an almost word-for-word quote from Diane. She said her husband was a lovely man, but occasionally had fits of silence and outbursts of anger. Samuelson, supposedly a close friend, says he never noticed anything like that."
"Maybe he thought it was of no consequence, or maybe he was trying to protect the memory of a dead friend."
"Right now, I'd say we can scratch Diane and Samuelson," Delaney said,
"unless Parnell or Jason can come up with something. That leaves the victim's patients as our best bet.
Will you call the widow and set up a meet to get the list of possibles from her?"
"Sure. I also better check in with Suarez's crew and find out how many of the patients they've already tossed."
"Right. You know, so far this whole thing is smoke-you realize that, don't you?"
"No doubt about that."
"Nothing hard," Delaney said fretfully, "nothing definite.
It's really the worst part of a case-the opening, when everything is mush."
"No great hurry to clear it," the Sergeant said. "Is there?"
Delaney didn't want to tell him there was-that it had to be closed by the end of the year if Deputy Thorsen wanted that third star for Michael Suarez, but the Sergeant was a sharp man and probably aware of the Departmental politics involved.
"I'd just like to tidy it up fast," he said casually, "or admit failure and get back to my routine. Can you drop me?"
"Of course," Boone said, "if I can get that clunker started."
The Sergeant was driving his personal car, an old, spavined Buick he had bought at a city auction of towed-away cars. But the wheels turned, and he delivered Delaney to his brownstone.
"Give you a call, sir," he said, "as soon as I set up something with Doctor Diane."
"Good enough," Delaney said. "And brief Suarez on our talk with Samuelson.
I promised to keep him in the picture."
Monica was in the living room, watching a women's talk show on television.
"What's the topic this morning?" Delaney inquired pleasantly. "Premature ejaculation?"
"Very funny," Monica said. "How did you make out with Samuelson?"
He was tempted to tell her about the doctor's comments about the Ellerbees' Pygmalion-Galatea relationship, but he didn't mention it, fearing it would sound like gloating.
"We got nothing you can hang your hat on," he said. "Just general background stuff. I'll tell you about it tonight."
He went into his study, sat at his desk, and wrote out a full report on the interrogation of Dr. Julius K. Samuelson, doing his best to recall the psychiatrist's exact words.
There was something in that interview that disturbed him, but he could not for the life of him think of what it was. He read over his report of the questioning, and still could not pinpoint it. But he was convinced something was there.
His vague disquiet was characteristic of the entire case, he decided. So far, the investigation of the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee was all obscure overtones and subtle shadings. The damned case was a watercolor.
Most homicides were oils-great, bold slashings of pigment laid on with a wide brush or palette knife. Killings were generally stark, brutal affairs, the result of outsize passions or capital sins.
But this killing had the whiff of the library about it, something literary and genteel, as if plotted by Henry James. ' Perhaps, Delaney admitted, he felt that way because the scene of the crime was an elegant townhouse rather than a roach-infested tenement. Or maybe because the people involved were obviously educated, intelligent, and with the wit to lie smoothly if it would serve their purpose.
But murder was murder. And maybe a delicate, polite case like this needed a lumbering, mulish old cop to strip away all the la-di-dah pretense and pin an artful, perceptive, refined killer to the goddamned wall.
"We ought to start thinking about Thanksgiving," Monica said at breakfast. "It'll be here before you know it. A turkey, I suppose…
"Oh… I don't know," Delaney said slowly.
"How about a goose?"
"A roast goose," he said dreamily. "Maybe with wild rice and brandied apples. Sounds good. You do the goose and I'll do the apples. Okay?"