"That's better," Hilda Turner said firmly, and patted his arm rather roughly.

Mel and Officer Jones exchanged looks that said, She's a tougher lady than we knew. Mel realized that it was probably she, as the big sister, who had bossed Sven around since childhood, and he was accustomed to obeying her.

"You're going to get much better with me around, Sven. If nice Officer Jones can bring me here every day, or even every other day, I'm going to see that you come home soon, good as new. Do you understand me?"

Sven, confined by tubes and monitors, managed a slight nod.

"All right. Now tell me this word you've been saying over and over," Hilda said in firm voice. "Rabbit."

The nurses, the doctor, and everyone else in the crowded room clearly understood it this time.

"Rabbit?" Hilda asked. "What does that mean?"

"Rabbit!" he repeated loudly, then closed his eyes again and took a deep breath after this effort.

"Sven, take a nice nap," his sister said, pressing a freshly ironed handkerchief to her eyes. "I'll be back soon. You are going to recover."

She looked up at Officer Jones, and he turned her wheelchair around gingerly so as to not run over anybody's feet or some tubing or pull the plug out of some important bit of medical equipment. Mel held the door open and followed them.

"You're a courageous woman, Miss Turner," Mel said. "And I suspect you, and only you, can make him recover."

"Would you like to go down to the lunchroom and have a cup of coffee or tea?" Officer Jones asked Miss Turner.

Her voice was now a bit shaky as she said, "That would be very kind of you. He looked so awful with all those tubes and beeping machines. But he sat with me in this same hospital when I lost my lower legs. He must have been as worried then about me as I am about him now."

Officer Jones got her settled and went to fetch flavored but unsweetened tea for Miss Turner and coffee for himself and Mel.

Hilda Turner was getting a better grip on herself and confided in Mel, "I can hardly believe that I forgot something important. There's a corridor between this hospital and some small apartments for the families of seriously ill patients.

That's where Sven stayed when I was in here. Do you think I could stay there and save Officer Jones the trouble of hauling me here and back home every day?"

Mel said, "I'll find out."

"It's not that I can't afford it," she said with a faint smile.

Mel thought this was a good time to ask what they intended to do with all their money, but couldn't bring himself to do so when she was so worried.

Instead he asked, "What do you think 'rabbit' means to him? He said it so clearly."

"I have no idea. There's something tickling the back of my mind, but I can't quite grasp it."

"You'll let me know when you do, won't you?"

"It's probably something really trivial. I will tell you, if I can figure out why he'd say it. And, Detective, when you contact the manager of those apartments, would you explain I need one with bars to hold on to in the bathroom?"

When Officer Jones returned, carefully carrying their drinks on a flimsy tray, Mel explained what they'd been talking about while he was gone.

"Apartments for families? Who would have guessed? But I don't mind driving you every day, Miss Turner, if Detective VanDyne approves it. And my aunt, as I told you, never wants to drive it again."

"I can't put you to all that trouble," she said, once more becoming the big sister and bossy. "But I will have to be taken home and ask my neighbor to pack my clothing and medicines-if Detective VanDyne can get me an apartment."

"I'll use whatever clout it takes to see that you have one," Mel said.

"I could do your packing," Officer Jones said. She said, almost sounding girlish, "You? Packa ing up my underwear? I don't think so." Officer Jones turned slightly pink. "Oh."

After Mel had reserved an apartment adjoining the hospital that met Miss Turner's needs and Officer Jones had her on her way home to be helped to pack by her neighbor, Mel returned to his office to start over with his stacks of paperwork that both the death of Denny and the attack on Sven had generated. He'd already put what he'd gone through in three piles on the counter behind his desk.

The first pile was papers that were entirely irrelevant. This was the smallest pile. The second consisted of doc.u.ments and copies of interviews that he suspected might not be worthwhile, but which he'd go through again. Papers that he believed might contain the key to either or both of the crimes made up the largest pile. And he still had a big ma.s.s of folders and loose papers remaining that would end up in one of the piles.

When he'd made significant headway, he went around the corner and bought a sandwich, chips, and a soda to eat a late lunch at his desk. Then he called Jane.

"Did you learn any more about anything useful at your needlepoint cla.s.s this morning?"

"Tazz didn't show up, thank goodness. I think I really scared her away."

"She deserved being scared away."

"I just wish I could scare Elizabeth away." "Who is Elizabeth?"

"One of the other people in the needlepointing cla.s.s. She's such a snoop. She mentioned to Ms. Bunting that she's seen Ms. Bunting's husband drop her off and wanted to know what he did while she was in cla.s.s. As if it were any of her business. Ms. Bunting said he was going to the country club where he'd played golf earlier. He'd lost his driver."

"What driver? He has somebody who drives him around?"

"No, it's an old-fashioned name for a golf club, Ms. Bunting said. Like mashies, wedgies, spoons, lofters, niblicks, and something called deck, that might have been a club or a brand of club. Ms. Bunting wasn't sure which," Jane said.

"Elizabeth tried to correct her," Jane went on, "and tell her that golf clubs had numbers, not names. Ms. Bunting did a royal 'putting down,' saying that the clubs were her husband's father's.

Antiques. Very valuable, and designated by the names they were called when they were made."

"Sounds like this Elizabeth needs to take a few lessons in etiquette," Mel said.

"She's Junior League. She's expected to be polite. I guess n.o.body told her that when she signed up."

Mel shifted the subject, not much caring about Elizabeth's manners. "I have a little news for you. Officer Jones took Miss Turner to see her brother, and the visit really perked him up. She did the firm 'big sister' act, telling him to pull himself together. And it started to work."

"He's fully conscious, then?"

"No, but he opened his eyes for a brief moment and clearly said 'rabbit' so that it was understandable to everyone in the room. Not that it's revealed anything useful. His sister didn't know what he meant by it either. If anyone can bring him out of it, it's his sister. She's a much firmer, more determined woman than I imagined. Does 'rabbit' suggest anything to you?"

"I've never met or even seen the man. How would I know? My only guess, off the top of my head, is that he caught a glimpse of his attacker and only remembered that he had big yellowish teeth."

Mel laughed. "That's a big stretch of your imagination, Janey."

"Well, you asked and it could be true. Are you certain that these two crimes were done by the same person?"

"Not certain. But my gut instinct tells me they probably were. I just wanted to check in with you. Now I have to wade through the rest of my eighteen pounds of paperwork."

"Did you really weigh it?" Jane asked with a laugh.

"I just estimated."Nineteen Mel worked late Tuesday evening. He was determined to get through all the piles of paperwork he'd sorted. When it was done, he went to Mc-Donald's for a burger and fries. Since the food wasn't interesting, merely filling, he let his mind wander over what he knew. He was as certain as he could be that the death of Denny Roth and the attack on Sven Turner were related.

Sven had called his boss that night and said he'd do the theater early in the morning because he heard people talking inside. Maybe he had recognized the voices. Maybe he knew who both were. Was the other one "rabbit"?

Maybe Sven had even heard the sound of something crashing. The blow that killed Denny Roth.

But there was no point in waiting for Sven to come fully to his senses. He might never remember, nor be able to speak clearly enough to be una derstood except for that one word he'd gathered all his strength to say repeatedly.

Mel needed desperately to know more about Denny and still couldn't reach his parents. The local officer was getting as tired of checking their house as Mel was of perpetually trying to reach them by phone. Often the victim of a crime was the key to who perpetrated it. But Denny, so far, was a cipher. Maybe something would turn up soon that would be helpful. Some old bitter enemy who had tracked Denny down in Chicago, perhaps.

His only suspect was Professor Imry. And Mel couldn't convince himself that Imry was guilty. He was sly, ambitious, and tactless. Not a likeable person. But that didn't mean he was a killer who could go haywire over someone correcting his grammar.

Mel wouldn't have minded suspecting John Bunting, even though there was no reason to. He was a drunk and a lech. He'd also based his lifelong career on the skills of his wife. Without her, he'd have been nothing.

A man of his age who ignored his only daughter and his grandchildren was slime. It would be a joy to put him away for good. And probably a relief to his wife. Ms. Bunting had been chained to him her whole adult life, having to support him by her own talent and hard work, he suspected.

He sat up straighter. Why not give his interviews with Bunting's old friends a quick review?

The men he'd spoken to about Bunting's alibi really had very little to say about him. They were clearly more in touch with each other and only saw him infrequently, on the rare occasions when he visited Chicago. None of them had much in common with him except the schools they'd gone to so many decades ago. Perhaps they merely put up with him when he wanted to get together with them.

He riffled through his paperwork on the telephone interviews he'd had with each of them. He was right. They talked about each other. n.o.body had much to say about Bunting himself, except that they'd played golf with him one day, with a lunch afterward, and had a dinner with him as well.

It was Mel's own fault that he hadn't asked the right questions. The old boys were interesting and he'd let them off too easily. Because they were so old? No. None of them, however feeble in body, had seemed to have lost their wits and ambitions.

He'd interview them again, focusing on what they really thought about the actor. It might be useless. Or it might not be. Bunting wasn't a good man. Maybe he was a worse man than Mel knew. Or maybe not.

Of all the old friends of Bunting's he'd intera viewed before, the canniest was the attorney who was still going into the office, meddling. He'd succinctly answered the questions Mel asked and hadn't volunteered a single extra word.

Mel would make an appointment in the morning to see him in the office he still maintained.

The lawyer, Irving Walsh, welcomed him to his office Wednesday morning and asked a secretary to bring along coffee. "Do you mind if I smoke a cigar while we talk? I'll open a window if you wish."

"I like the smell of a good cigar, but have never smoked one. Please go ahead," Mel replied. He really hated the smell of cigars but wanted Walsh to be relaxed and content to talk.

When the secretary had left the coffee, a brand as expensive as the cigar, Mr. Walsh said, "We've spoken before, but on the phone. What more do you want to know?"

"There was a question I asked everyone else and neglected to ask you. After the dinner with your old friends and John Bunting, did you all leave the establishment together?"

Walsh picked up a silver-plated pen knife to cut the end off his cigar. When it was lighted and he had politely opened a window and turned on a small fan blowing toward the window, he said, "As a matter of fact, we didn't. John Bunting left early. He said his wife was waiting up for himand made a feeble joke about what a tight rein she kept on him."

"Did you happen to notice the time he left?"

"About an hour or forty-five minutes before the rest of us called it a night. Maybe about ten or a little earlier. I'd told my driver to pick me up at eleven."

"Are you certain of this?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because I asked the rest of the group you were with, and every one of them said you'd all left together and chatted on the sidewalk as your drivers arrived."

"They all had far more to drink than I did," Walsh said, fiddling with the growing ash on his cigar. I haven't had a single gla.s.s of anything alcoholic for years. Maybe they really thought he was still with us."

"Perhaps," Mel said. "Do you like John Bunting?"

"Why do you ask?"

"It's my job to ask nosy questions."