"Very bright young man," Cohen went on. "He normally doesn't schmooze people. I'm sure, you being a professional journalist and all, that you have considered the police department may have a reason for a.s.signing an attractive young bachelor to schmooze you."

"You find him attractive, Leonard, is that what you're saying?" Louise asked innocently. "I'll have to tell him."

His lips tightened momentarily, but he didn't back off.

"You're going to see him again, huh?"

"Oh, G.o.d, Leonard, I hope so," Louise said. "He's absolutely marvelous in the sack!" She waited until his eyes widened. "Put that in your file, too, why don't you?" she added, and then walked away.

TEN.

Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson was sitting on the sill of a wall of windows that provided a view of lower Market Street, the Delaware River and the bridge to New Jersey.

"So, I went down to Homicide," he said, nearing the end of his story, "and finally got to meet Miss Wells, also known as Dutton."

"Where had she been?" Brewster Payne asked. Mawson had aroused his curiosity. Through the entire recital of having been given a runaround by the police, and the gory details of the brutal murder of Jerome Nelson, he had not been able to guess why Mawson was telling it all to him.

"She wouldn't tell me," Mawson said. "She's a very feisty young woman, Brewster. I think she was on the edge of telling me to b.u.t.t out.''

"How extraordinary," Payne said, dryly, "that she would even consider refusing the services of 'Philadelphia's most distinguished pract.i.tioner of criminal law.'"

"I knew d.a.m.ned well I made a mistake telling you that," Mawson said. "Now I'll never hear the end of it."

"Probably not," Payne agreed.

"I have an interesting theory," Mawson said, "that she spent the night with the cop."

"Miss Dutton? And which cop would that be, Mawson?" Payne asked.

"Inspector Wohl," Mawson said. "He took her away from the apartment, and then he brought her in in the morning."

"I thought, for a moment, that you were suggesting there was something romantic, or whatever, between them," Payne said.

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting," Mawson said. "He's not what comes to mind when you say 'cop.' Or 'inspector.' For one thing he's young, and very bright, and well dressed . . . polished if you take my meaning."

"Perhaps they're friends," Payne said. "When he heard what had happened, he came to be a friend."

"She doesn't look at him like he's a friend," Mawson insisted, "and unless Czernick is still playing games with me, he didn't even know her until yesterday. According to Czernick, he a.s.signed him to the Wells/Dutton girl to make sure she was treated with the appropriate kid gloves for a TV anchorwoman."

"I don't know where you're going, I'm afraid," Payne said.

"Just file that away as a wild card," Mawson said. "Let me finish."

"Please do," Payne said.

"So, after she signed her statement, and she rode off into the sunrise with this Wohl fellow, I came here and put in a call to Wells in London. He wasn't there. But he left a message for me. Delivered with the snotty arrogance that only the English can manage. Mr. Wells is on board British Caledonian Airways Flight 419 to New York, and 'would be quite grateful if I could make myself available to him imm-ee-jut-ly on his arrival at Philadelphia.' "

"Philadelphia?" Payne asked, smiling. Mawson's mimicry of an upper-cla.s.s British accent was quite good. "Does British Caledonian fly into here?"

"No, they don't. I asked the snotty Englishman the same question. He said, he 'raw-ther doubted it. What Mr. Wells has done is shed-yule a helicopter to meet the British Caledonian air-crawft in New York, don't you see? To take him from New York to Philadelphia.' "

Payne set his coffee cup on the end table beside the couch.

"You're really very good at that," he said, chuckling. "So you're going to meet him at the airport here?"

Mawson hesitated, started to reply, and then stopped.

"Okay," Brewster Payne said. "So that's the other question."

"I don't like being summoned like an errand boy," Mawson said. "But on the other hand, Stanford Fortner Wells is Wells Newspapers, and there-"

"Is a certain potential, for the future," Payne filled in for him. "If he had counsel in Philadelphia, he would have called them."

"Exactly."

"We could send one of our bright young men to the airport with a limousine," Payne said, "to take Mr. Wells either here, to see you, or to a suite which we have reserved for him in the ... what about the Warwick? . . . where you will attend him the moment your very busy schedule-shed-yule-permits.''

"Good show!" Mawson said. "Raw-ther! Quite! I knew I could count on you, old boy, in this sticky wicket."

Payne chuckled.

"You said 'the other question', Brewster," Mawson said.

"What, if anything, you should say to Mr. Wells about where his daughter was when you couldn't find her, and more specifically, how much, if at all, of your suspicions regarding Inspector Wall-"

"Wohl. Double-U Oh Aitch Ell," Mawson interrupted.

"Wohl," Payne went on. "And his possibly lewd and carnal relationship with his daughter."

"Okay. Tell me."

"Nothing, if you're asking my advice."

"I thought it might show how bright and clever we are to find that out so soon," Mawson said.

"No father, Mawson, wants to hear from a stranger that his daughter is not as innocent as he would like to believe she is."

Mawson laughed.

"You're right, Brewster," he said. He walked to the door and opened it. "Irene, would you ask Mr. Fengler to come over, please? And tell him to clear his schedule for the rest of the day? And then reserve a good suite at the Warwick, billing to us, for Mr. Stanford Fortner Wells? And finally, call that limousine service and have them send one over, to park in our garage? And tell them I would be very grateful if it was clean, and not just back from a funeral?"

"Yes, sir," she said, smiling.

"h.e.l.lo, Matt," Mawson said. "How are you?"

"Morning, Colonel," Matt said. "I was hoping to see Dad."

"Having just solved all the world's problems, he's available for yours," Mawson said, and turned to Brewster Payne. "Mart's waiting for you."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," Payne said, and got up from the couch. "I wonder what's on his mind?"

He had, in fact, been expecting to see Matt, or at least to have him telephone. He had heard from Matt's mother how awkward it had been at the Moffitt home, and later at the funeral home, making the senseless death of Matt's uncle even more difficult for him. He had half expected Matt to come out to Wallingford last night, and, disappointed that he hadn't, had considered calling him. In the end he had decided that it would be best if Matt came to him, as he felt sure he would, in his own good time.

He went in the outer office and resisted the temptation to put his arms around Matt.

"Well, good morning," he said.

"If I'm throwing your schedule in disarray, Dad-" Matt said.

"There's nothing on my schedule, is there, Irene?"

"Nothing that won't wait," she said. "Go on in, Matt," Payne said, gesturing toward his office. "I've got to step down the corridor a moment, and then I'll be with you."

He waited until Matt was inside and then told Irene Craig that she was to hold all calls. "It's important. You heard about Captain Moffitt?"

"I didn't know what to say to him," she said. "So I said nothing."

"I think a word of condolence would be in order when he comes out," Payne said, and then went in his office and closed the door.

Matt was sitting on the edge of an antique cherrywood chair, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I'm very sorry about your uncle d.i.c.k, Matt," Brewster Payne said. "He was a fine man, and I know how close you were. Aside from that, I have no comforting words. It was senseless, brutal, unspeakable."

Matt looked at him, started to say something, changed his mind, and said something else: "I just joined the police department."

My G.o.d! He's not joking!

"That was rather sudden, wasn't it?" Brewster Payne said. "What about the Marine Corps? I thought you were under a four-year obligation to them?''

"I busted the physical," Matt said. "The marines don't want me."

"When did that happen?"

"A week or so ago," Matt said. "My fault. When I went to the naval hospital, the doctor asked me why didn't I take the flight physical, I never knew when I might want to try for flight school. So I took it, and the eye examination was more thorough than it would have been for a grunt commission, and they found it."

"Found what?"

"It had some Latin name, of course," Matt said. "And it will probably never bother me, but the United States Marine Corps can't take any chances. I'm out."

"You didn't say anything," Brewster Payne said.

"I'm not exactly proud of being a 4-F," Matt said. "I just . . . didn't want to."

"Perhaps the army or the air force wouldn't be so particular," Brewster Payne said.

"It doesn't work that way, Dad," Matt said. "I already have a brand-new 4-F draft card."

"Think that through, Matt," Brewster Payne said. "You should be embarra.s.sed, or ashamed, only of things over which you have control. There is no reason at all that you should feel in any way diminished by this."

"I'll get over it," Matt said.

"It is not really a good reason to act impulsively," Brewster Payne said.

"Nor, he hesitates to add, but is thinking, is the fact that Uncle d.i.c.k got himself shot a really good reason to act impulsively; for example, joining the police force."

"The defense rests," Brewster Payne said, softly.

"Actually, I was thinking about it before Uncle d.i.c.k was killed," Matt said. "From the time I busted the physical. The first thing I thought was that it was too late to apply for law school."

"Not necessarily," Brewster Payne said. "There is always an exception to the rule, Matt."

"And then, with sudden clarity, I realized that I didn't want to go to law school," Matt went on. "Not right away, anyway. Not in the fall. And then I saw the ads in the newspaper, heard them on the radio . . . the police department, if not the Marine Corps, is looking for a few good men."

"I've noticed the advertis.e.m.e.nts," Brewster Payne said. "And they aroused my curiosity to the point where I asked about them. The reason they are actively recruiting people is that the salary is quite low-"

"Thanks to you," Matt said, "that really isn't a problem for me."

"Yes, I suppose that's true," Payne said.

"I went out and got drunk with a cop last night."

"After you left the Moffitts', you mean? I thought maybe you would come home."

"I wanted to be alone, so I went to the bar in the Hotel Adelphia. It's a great place to be alone."

"And there you met the policeman? And he talked you into the police?"

"No. I'd met him that afternoon before. At Uncle d.i.c.k's house. Mr. Coughlin introduced us. Staff Inspector Wohl. He was wounded, too. He was a friend of Uncle d.i.c.k's, and he was there ... at the Waikiki Diner. I think he was probably in the Adelphia bar to be alone, too. I spoke to him at the bar."

"Wohl?" Brewster Payne parroted.

"Peter Wohl," Matt said. "You know him?"

"I think I've heard the colonel mention him," Payne said. "Younger man? The word the colonel used was 'polished.' "

"He would fit in with your bright young men," Matt said. "If that's what you mean."

"I don't know how you manage to make 'bright young men' sound like a pejorative," Brewster Payne said, "but you do."

"I know why you like them," Matt said. "Imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. If you started chewing tobacco this morning, they'd all be chawin' an' spitting by noon."

Payne chuckled. "Is it that bad?"