A cab was letting someone out halfway down the block in front of the mosquelike City Center Theatre. I yelled and it waited with the door open, although I had to run to beat a determined woman who came charging across the street, brandishing a furled umbrella.

The cabby was a Negro who didn't bat an eyelash when I told him to take me to 123rd and Lenox. He probably figured it was my funeral and was happy to have the final tip. We drove uptown without any philosophy. A transistor radio on the front seat was loudly tuned to a scat-talking deejay on WOV: "the power-tower station, the nation's sensation ..."

He dropped me in front of Proudfoot Pharmaceuticals twenty minutes later and sped off in a cadenza of rhythm-and-blues. The shop remained closed for business, the long green shade hanging behind the glass door like a flag lowered in defeat. I knocked and rattled the knob without success.

Epiphany had mentioned an apartment above the store, so I walked to the building's entrance further down Lenox and checked the names on the mailboxes in the lobby. Third from the left: PROUDFOOT, 2-D. The hall door was unlatched, and I went inside.

The narrow, tiled hallway smelled of urine and boiling pigs' feet. I climbed the age-scalloped marble steps to the second floor and heard a toilet flush somewhere above. Apartment 2-D was at the far end of the landing. I rang the bell as a precaution, but there was no answer.

The lock was no problem. I had half a dozen keys to fit it. I pulled on my latex gloves and opened the door, sniffing instinctively for ether. The large, corner living room had windows facing both Lenox Avenue and 123rd Street. It was decorated with functional lay-away-plan furniture and African wood carvings.

The bed was carefully made in the bedroom. A pair of grimacing masks flanked a bird's-eye maple vanity table. I went through the dresser drawers and the closet without finding anything other than clothing and personal effects. Several silver-framed photographs stood on a bedside table, all of the same haughty, fine-featured woman. There was something of Epiphany in the lyric curve of her mouth, but the nose was flatter, and the eyes were wild and wide like a person possessed. I was looking at Evangeline Proudfoot.

She trained her daughter to be neat. The kitchen was clean and orderly, no dishes in the sink or crumbs on the table. Fresh food in the refrigerator was the only sign of recent habitation.

It was dark as a cave in the last room. The light switch didn't work, so I used my penlight. I didn't want to trip over any bodies and checked the floor first. Once upon a time the place must have been an extra bedroom, but that was long ago. The window glass had been painted the same deep, midnight blue as the walls and ceiling. Over this swirled a neon rainbow of graffiti. Leaves and flowers entwined along one wall. Crudely drawn fish and mermaids cavorted across another. The ceiling blazed with stars and crescent moons.

The room was a voodoo temple. A rough brickwork altar had been built against the far wall. It resembled a stall in an outdoor market with rows of covered earthenware jugs ranked in tiers. An elaborate wrought-iron cross crowned with a battered silk top hat stood in the center. A wooden crutch hung to one side. Candle stubs by the dozen oozed beneath gaudy chromoliths of Catholic saints curling on the bricks like ancient promo posters. Stuck into the floorboards in front of the altar, a rusted sabre swayed slightly at my touch.

I saw several gourd rattles and a pair of iron clappers on a shelf. An assortment of colored bottles and jars clustered next to them. A childlike painting of a tramp steamer filled most of the wall above the altar.

I thought of Epiphany in her white dress, chanting and moaning, while drums throbbed and the gourds whispered like snakes moving in dry grass. I remembered the deft turn of her wrist and a bright fountaining of rooster blood in the night. On my way out of the humfo, I bumped my head on a pair of decorated wood-and-skin conga drums hanging from the ceiling.

I went through the hall closet without a score but got lucky in the kitchen and found a flight of narrow stairs leading to the store below. I went over the back room, searching among the inventory of dried roots, leaves, and powders without knowing what to look for.

The front was dim and empty. There was a pile of unopened mail on the glass countertop. I checked it with my flash: a phone bill, several letters from herbal supply houses, a printed message from Congressman Adam Clayton Powell, and an appeal from the March of Dimes. On the bottom was a cardboard poster. My heart turned a sudden cartwheel. The face on the poster was Louis Cyphre!

He wore a white turban. His skin looked burnished by the desert wind. Across the top of the poster was printed: EL CIFR, MASTER OF THE UNKNOWN. The bottom bore this message: "The illustrious and All-knowing el cifr will address the congregation at the New Temple of Hope, 139 West 144th St., Saturday, March 21, 1959. 8:30 P.M. The public is cordially invited to attend. ADMISSION: FREE."

I slipped the poster inside my attache case. Who can resist a free show?

THIRTY.

After locking Epiphany Proudfoot's apartment, I walked up to 125th Street and caught a cab outside the Palm Cafe. The ride downtown on the West Side Highway gave me lots of time to think. I stared out at the Hudson, darker than the night sky, the brightly lighted stacks of luxury liners like floating carnivals between the pier sheds.

A carnival of death. Step right up and see the voodoo death ceremony! Hurry, hurry, hurry; don't miss the Aztec sacrifice! First time ever! The case was a sideshow. Witches and fortunetellers; a client who dressed in blackface like the Sheik of Araby. I was the rube on this macabre midway, dazzled by the lights and sleight of hand. The shadow-play events screened manipulations I could barely discern.

I needed a bar close to home. The Silver Rail on 23rd and Seventh was within crawling distance. If I left on my hands and knees at closing time, it's something I don't remember. How I found my bed at the Chelsea remains a mystery. Only the dreams seemed real.

I dreamt I was awakened from a deep sleep by the sounds of shouting on the street. I went to the window and parted the curtain. A mob seethed from curb to curb, howling and incoherent like a single, sinuous beast. Through this throng inched a two-wheeled cart, hauled by an ancient sway-backed nag. In the car were a man and woman. I got my binoculars from the attache case and had a closer look. The woman was Margaret Krusemark. The man was me.

In a moment of dream magic, I was suddenly in the cart, gripping the rough wooden rail while a faceless mob surged all around like an angry sea. Margaret Krusemark smiled seductively from the other side of the lurching cart. We were so close it was almost an embrace. Was she a witch on her way to burning? Was I the executioner?

The cart rolled on. Over the heads of the crowd I saw the guillotine's unmistakable silhouette rising above the steps of the McBurney Y.M.C.A. The Reign of Terror. Unjustly condemned! The cart jogged to a stop at the foot of the scaffold. Rude hands reached up and hauled Margaret Krusemark from her precarious perch. The crowd hushed, and she was permitted to mount the steps unassisted.

Among the front ranks of the spectators, one revolutionary caught my eye. He was dressed in black and carried a pike. It was Louis Cyphre. His Liberty cap hung at a rakish angle, crowned by a bold tricolored badge. When he saw me, he waved his pike and gave a mock bow.

I missed the spectacle on the scaffold. Drums rolled, the blade crashed, and when I looked up, the executioner stood with his back to me, showing Margaret Krusemark's head to an adoring crowd. I heard my name called and stepped from the cart to make room for a coffin. Louis Cyphre smiled. He was having a swell time.

The scaffolding was slick with blood. I nearly slipped as I turned to face the taunting crowd. A soldier caught my arm and directed me almost gently toward the table. "You must lie down, my son," the priest said.

I knelt for a final prayer. The executioner stood beside me. A gust of wind lifted the black flap of his hood. I recognized the pomaded hair and mocking smile. The executioner was Johnny Favorite!

I woke up screaming louder than the ringing telephone. I lunged for the receiver like a drowning man after a life preserver.

"Hello ... hello? Is this Angel? Harry Angel?" It was Herman Winesap, my favorite attorney.

"Angel speaking." My tongue felt several sizes too large for my mouth.

"Good God, man, where've you been? I've been calling your office for hours."

"I've been sleeping."

"Sleeping? It's practically eleven o'clock."

"I was working late," I said. "Detectives don't keep the same hours as Wall Street lawyers."

If his feathers were ruffled, he was sharp enough not to show it. "I appreciate that. You must do the job as you see fit."

"What's so important you couldn't leave a message?"

"You mentioned yesterday wanting to get together with Mr. Cyphre?"

"That's right."

"Well, he suggested lunch today."

"Same place as before?"

"No. Mr. Cyphre thought you might enjoy dining at Le Voisin. It's at 575 Park."

"What time?"

"One o'clock. You can still make it if you don't fall back to sleep."

"I'll be there."

Winesap hung up without his customary elaborate farewell. I dragged my aching self out of bed and limped to the shower. Twenty minutes of hot water and three cups of black coffee had me feeling almost human.

Wearing a pressed brown worsted suit, a white shirt crisp from the laundry, and an unstained necktie, I was ready for the snootiest French restaurant. I drove uptown on Park, through the old railway tunnel under Murray Hill and over the auto viaduct that swept around either side of Grand Central like a divided mountain highway. Four blocks further, the New York Central Building's cupola top punctuated Park Avenue like a corbeled-Gothic exclamation point. The ramp inside spilled traffic onto upper Park, an avenue metamorphosing from a uniform canyon of brick and masonry to an antiseptic cordillera of glass-walled towers.

I found a parking spot near the Christian Science Church on the corner of 63rd and Park and walked east across the avenue. Le Voisin's awning boasted a Park Avenue address, but the entrance was on 63rd Street. I went in and checked my coat and attache case. Everything about the place suggested the excellence of its customers' Dun & Bradstreet ratings.

The headwaiter greeted me with diplomatic reserve. I gave him Louis Cyphre's name, and he led me past the pastry tray to a table on the banquette. Cyphre stood up when he saw us coming. He was wearing grey flannel slacks, a navy blue yachting blazer, and a red-and-green silk foulard ascot. The embroidered insignia of the Racquet and Tennis Club adorned his breast pocket. Highlighting his lapel was a small gold star. It was upside down.

"Good to see you again, Angel," he said, gripping my hand.

We sat down and ordered drinks. I had a bottle of imported beer in deference to my hangover; Cyphre asked for Campari and soda. We made small talk while waiting. Cyphre told me of his plans for a trip abroad during Holy Week Paris, Rome, the Vatican. He called Easter Sunday in Saint Peter's a truly splendid ceremony. An audience with the Pope was scheduled. I stared at him without expression and pictured his patrician face crowned by a turban. El cifr, Master of the Unknown, meets his Holiness, the Supreme Pontiff.

We ordered lunch when the drinks arrived. Cyphre spoke to the waiter in French, and I couldn't follow what was said. I know enough of the language to stumble through a menu and ordered tournedos Rossini and an endive salad.

As soon as we were alone, Cyphre said: "And now, Mr. Angel, a full report to date, if you please." He smiled and sipped his ruby-red drink.

"There's a lot to tell. It's been a long week, and it's not over yet. Dr. Fowler is dead. Officially, it's suicide, but I wouldn't place any bets on it."

"Why not? The man was exposed, his career in jeopardy."

"There have been two other deaths, both murders, and both connected to this case."

"I take it that you haven't found Jonathan?"

"Not yet. I've found out a lot about him, none of it very endearing."

Cyphre twirled his swizzle-stick in his highball glass. "Do you think he's still alive?"

"So it would seem. I went up to Harlem Monday night to interview an old jazz piano player named Edison Sweet. I'd seen a photo taken of him with Favorite years ago, and it got me interested. I did some snooping and found that Sweet was a member of an uptown voodoo cult. This was the real thing: tom-toms, blood sacrifice, the whole bit. Back in the forties, Johnny Favorite was part of it, too. He was shacked up with a voodoo priestess named Evangeline Proudfoot and was heavy into the mumbo-jumbo. I learned all this from Sweet. The next day he was murdered. It was supposed to look like a voodoo killing, but whoever did it wasn't up on his veve."

"Veve?" Cyphre raised an eyebrow.

"Mystical voodoo symbols. They were smeared all over the walls in blood. An expert spotted them as phony. It was a red herring."

"You mentioned a second killing."

"I'll get to that; it was my other lead. I was curious about Favorite's society girlfriend and did some digging in that direction. It took me a while to find her even though she was under my nose the whole time. She was an astrologer named Margaret Krusemark."

Cyphre leaned forward like an eager back-fence gossip. "The shipbuilder's daughter?"

"The one and only."

"Tell me what happened."

"Well, I'm pretty sure she and her father were the pair who took Favorite out of the clinic in Poughkeepsie. I went to her pretending to be a client wanting a horoscope, and she managed to send me on a wild-goose chase for a time. When I finally got things straightened out, I went back to her apartment to see what I could find, and -"

"You broke in?"

"I used a twirl."

"A what?"

"A skeleton key."

"I see," Cyphre said. "Please continue."

"Okay. I let myself into her apartment, planning on going over the place with a fine-tooth comb, only it didn't work out that way. She was in the living room, dead as a side of beef. Someone cut her heart out. I found that, too."

"How revolting." Cyphre wiped his lips with his napkin. "There was no mention of any heart in the papers today."

"The homicide boys like to leave out certain details so they have some way to judge all the crackpot confessions that come in."

"Did you call the police? I saw no mention of you in what I read."

"No one knows I was there. I skipped. It wasn't the smartest thing to do, but the law already has me connected to the Sweet killing, and I didn't want to set them up with a double-header."

Cyphre frowned. "How exactly are you connected to the Sweet killing?"

"I gave him my business card. The cops found it at his place."

Cyphre didn't look happy. "And the Krusemark woman? Did you give her a card as well?"

"No. I'm clean on that score. I found my name on her desk calendar and a horoscope she'd drawn up, but I took them with me."

"Where are they now?"

"They're in a safe place. Don't worry."

"Why not destroy them?"

"That was my first thought. But the horoscope may lead somewhere. When Margaret Krusemark asked for my birthdate, I gave her Favorite's."

At this point the waiter arrived with our order. He uncovered the plates with a magician's flourish, and a wine steward materialized bearing a bottle of Bordeaux. Cyphre went through the ritual of cork sniffing and mulling a sample swallow before nodding his approval. Two glasses were poured, and the waiters withdrew as silently as pickpockets frisking a crowd.

"Chateau Margaux forty-seven," Cyphre said. "Excellent year for the Haut-Medoc. I took the liberty of ordering something I thought would go well with both our meals."

"Thanks," I said. "I'm not much up on wine."

"You'll like this." He lifted his glass. "To your continuing success. I trust you were able to keep my name out of things when the police contacted you?"

"When they tried to strong-arm me, I gave them Winesap's name and said I was working for him. That way I was entitled to the same right to silence as a lawyer."

"Quick thinking, Mr. Angel. And what are your conclusions?"

"Conclusions? I have no conclusions."

"Do you think Jonathan killed all those people?"

"Not a chance."

"Why not?" Cyphre speared a forkful of pate.

"Because the whole deal seems made-to-order. I think Favorite is being set up as a fall guy."

"Interesting hypothesis."