"I'm going to turn over her crystal globe," he said coldly, "and watch the snow come down."
He turned off the light and found his way to Monica's bed.
She pulled the blankets up to their chins.
"Please don't tell me that I scare you," he begged.
"That scares me. "You don't really scare me," she said.
"It's just the way you become obsessed with a case."
"Obsessed? I guess so. Maybe that's the way you've got to be to get anything done. I just don't like the idea of someone getting away with murder. It offends me. Is that so awful?"
"Of course not. But sometimes you can be vindictive, Edward."
"Oh, yes," he readily agreed.
"I plead guilty to that."
"Don't you sympathize with Diane at all?"
"Sure I do. She's human."
"Don't you feel sorry for her?"
"Of course,"
"But you're going to destroy her?"
"Completely," he vowed.
"But that's enough about Doctor Diane Ellerbee. What about us?"
"What about us?"
"Still friends?"
"Come closer," Monica said.
"I'll show you."
"Oh, yes," he said, moving.
"Thank you, friend."
Delaney prepared carefully for his meeting with Dr. Julius K. Samuelson: went over once again the biography Jason had submitted, reviewed his report on the first interrogation, read his notes on Samuelson's comments and behavior during that visit to Brewster.
He had told Boone and Jason that he intended to lean on Dr. Samuelson.
But in cops' lexicon, there are varieties of leaning, from brutal hectoring to the pretense of sorrowful sympathy. In this case, Delaney decided, tough intimidation would be counterproductive; he might achieve more with sweet reasonableness- an approach Delaney characterized as the "I need your help" style of interrogation.
He lumbered over to Samuelson's office at 79th Street and Madison Avenue. It was a harshly cold morning, the air still but the temperature in the teens. Delaney was thankful for his flannel muffler, vested suit, and balbriggan underwear. He thrust his gloved hands into his overcoat pockets, but he felt the cold in his feet, a numbing chill from the frozen pavement.
The doctor greeted him at the office door with a tentative smile. The little man was wearing his holey wool cardigan and worn carpet slippers.
He seemed staggered by the weight of Delaney's overcoat, but he hung it away manfully and offered a cup of black coffee from a desk thermos.
Delaney accepted gratefully.
"Doctor Samuelson," Delaney began, keeping his voice low-pitched and conversational, "thank you for giving me your valuable time. I wouldn't have bothered you, but some things have come up in the investigation of Simon Ellerbee's death that puzzle us, and I hoped you might be able to help."
The doctor made a gesture.
"Whatever I can do," he said.
"First of all, we have discovered that for the past year or so, Doctor Simon had been having an affair with Joan Yesell, one of his patients."
Samuelson stared at him through the thick curved lens of his wire-rimmed glasses.
"You are certain of this?"
"Absolutely, sir. Not only from a statement by the lady concerned, but from the testimony of corroborating witnesses.
You were probably the Ellerbees' best friend, doctor-saw them frequently in town, visited their Brewster home on weekends-yet in our first meeting you stated that Doctor Simon was faithful to his wife, and theirs was a happy marriage. You had no inkling of Simon's infidelity?"
"Well-ah-I might have had a suspicion. But you cannot condemn a man because of suspicion, can you? Besides, poor Simon is dead, and what good would it do to tarnish his reputation? Is this important to your investigation?"
"Very important."
"You mean the patient involved, this Joan Yesell, may have killed him?"
"She is being watched."
Samuelson shook his head dolefully.
"What a dreadful thing. And what a fool he was to get involved with a patient.
Not only a horrendous breach of professional ethics, but a despicable insult to his wife. Do you think she was aware of his philandering?"
She says no. Do you think she was?"
"Mr. Delaney, how can I possibly answer a question like that? I don't know what Diane thinks."
"Don't you, doctor? I noticed some unusual facts in your personal history.
First, you were acquainted with both Ellerbees for some time prior to their marriage. Second, you suffered a breakdown two weeks after their marriage. Third, you continue to maintain a close relationship with Diane. I don't wish to embarrass you or cause you pain, but whatever you tell me will be of tremendous help in convicting Simon's killer. And will, of course, be held in strictest confidence.
Doctor Samuelson, are you in love with Diane Ellerbee?"
The diminutive man looked like he had been struck a blow.
His nartow shoulders sagged. The large head on a stalky neck fell to one side as if he hadn't the strength to support it. His grayish complexion took on an even unhealthier pallor.
"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?"