The attorneys' offices were on the sixth floor of a modern, ten-story office building. Clean lobby, no doorman, self-service elevator. Chief Delaney looked around, then inspected the register on the wall.

"Lawyers, art dealers, three foundations," he noted. "A trade magazine. A guy who repairs violins. Odds and ends. Not much traffic, I'd guess."

The elevator was small, but efficient enough. Silent. They stepped out at the sixth floor. They still hadn't seen anyone. Boone motioned down the corridor. He paused outside the walnut-paneled door bearing the golden legend: SIMON & BREWSTER, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW. He looked at Delaney questioningly. The Chief waved him farther along the tiled hallway, then halted. He put his lips close to Boone's ear.

"When Susan Hemley went into Simon's inner office," he whispered, "which direction did she go?"

Boone thought a moment, turning, trying to orient himself. He pointed on down the corridor. They moved that way, to a frosted glass doorway with nothing on it but a number in gilt figures. They walked beyond it and found another door exactly like it, but with a higher number. Delaney looked at Boone, but the sergeant shrugged helplessly.

The Chief went back to the first frosted glass door and, standing to one side so his shadow would not be seen from inside, he unpeeled the little square of masking tape from its paper carrier. He stuck it lightly and deftly to the glass, at eye-height, next to the frame.

"Bright light out here," he said to Boone. "If that's the door to Simon's private office we should be able to see the tape from inside. For identification. So we don't get it mixed up with a door to a john or a storeroom. Let's go ..."

He led the way and took off his straw skimmer when he entered the office. It was June 1st.

"Here we are, Miss Hemley," Boone smiled. "Right on time."

"You certainly are," she said. "A little early, in fact. Mr. Simon's on the phone. I'll tell him you're here as soon as he gets off."

"Miss Hemley, I'd like you to meet Chief Delaney. Chief, Miss Susan Hemley."

She held out her hand, and Delaney took it and bent over it in a bow that was almost courtly.

"Miss Hemley," he said. "Happy to meet you. Now I can understand the sergeant's enthusiasm."

"Oh Chief!" she said. "This is such a-a thing for me. I've read all about you. Your cases. You're famous!"

"Oh," he said, making a gesture. "The papers ... You understand, I'm sure. They exaggerate. How long have you worked for Mr. Simon?"

"Almost six years," she said. "He's such a pleasure."

"So I understand," he said. "Well, our business shouldn't take long. We'll be out of your lovely hair before you know it."

Her hand rose mechanically, fingers poked at the tight blonde curls. Eyes glittered behind the black horn-rims.

"It's the Maitland case, isn't it?" she said breathlessly.

He nodded gravely, put a forefinger solemnly to his closed lips.

"I understand," she whispered. "I won't say a word."

A light went out on her six-button telephone. She caught it at once.

"He's off," she said. "I'll tell him you're here."

She rose and moved lithely to the door of Simon's inner office. Her full skirt whipped about her good legs. She knocked once, opened the door, entered, closed the door behind her. A ballet.

"You were right," Delaney murmured to Boone. "It's there."

She came back to them in a moment.

"Mr. Simon will see you now, gentlemen," she said brightly.

She ushered them in and closed the door gently, regretfully. The man behind the desk rose and came forward smiling, hand outstretched.

"Chief," he said. "Sergeant. I'm J. Julian Simon."

They shook hands, and Delaney remembered what Lincoln had said about men who "part their name in the middle."

Simon, moving smoothly and confidently, got them seated on a tufted, green leather chesterfield. Then he pulled over a castered armchair in the same leather and sat down facing them. He offered cigarettes in a silver case. When they declined, he returned the case to his inside jacket pocket without lighting a cigarette for himself. He leaned back, crossed his knees casually.

"Gentlemen," he said, "how may I help you?"

He was a shining man, so polished that a steely glow seemed to surround him. Silvery hair brushed to a mirror gleam. A white mustache exquisitely trimmed and waxed. A pink-and-white complexion massaged to health. Teeth too good to be true. Eyes like disks of sky. Fingernails alight with clear polish. Gold wristwatch, tie clasp, and rings, one set with a square diamond, a tiny ice cube.

And the clothes! A suit of hard grey sharkskin with soaring lapels. Shirt of water blue. A tie that appeared to have been clipped from a sheet of chromium. Black moccasins with tassels as bushy as a shaving brush, the leather so glossy it seemed to have been oiled.

And his manner as artfully finished as his appearance. A resonant voice that flowed, deeply burbling. A laugh that boomed. Gestures as smooth, slow, and ornate as those of a deep-sea diver. Earnestness in his gaze. Sincerity in his brilliant smile. Elegance in the lift of white eyebrow or the casual droop of a crossed foot. Altogether, a marvelous product.

"Sorry to bother you again with questions on the Maitland case, counselor," the Chief said, "but we just can't walk away from it."

"Of course not," the lawyer trumpeted. "We all want the crime solved and justice meted out."

"A beautiful office you have here," the Chief said, looking around. A glass door was set into an embrasure beyond the couch. It could not be seen clearly from where they sat.

"Thank you, Chief Delaney," Simon said complacently. He looked with satisfaction at his paneled walls, open bookcases, and framed Spy prints. "Nothing like oak and leather to impress the clients-what?"

The laugh boomed out, and they smiled dutifully.

"I suppose you want to know about Saul Geltman," the lawyer said, "since it's my only connection with the case. As I have heretofore stated, he entered my office, here, at approximately ten o'clock on the morning I've been told Victor Maitland was killed. Saul and I are both busy men, and we had postponed our conference too many times."

"You handle all his legal affairs, sir?" Sergeant Boone asked. "The Galleries too?"

"I do indeed," Simon nodded. "Also, his tax situation and estate planning. And I occasionally offer advice on his investment program, although I admit he sometimes doesn't take it!" Mouth snapped open, china teeth shone. "So we had a lot to discuss when we finally did get together that Friday morning. To reiterate, he arrived at approximately ten A.M. We discussed various matters, and around noon I called out for sandwiches and soft drinks. Which reminds me: I am derelict in my duties as host. I have a small but well-equipped bar here. May I offer you gentlemen anything?"

"Thank you, no," Delaney said. "But we appreciate the thought. Then after lunch you returned to your discussions?"

"Well, actually we talked as we ate, of course. The conference continued until about one-thirty when Saul left and, I understand, returned to the Geltman Galleries. And that's all I can tell you, gentlemen."

"He left at exactly one-thirty, counselor?" Delaney asked.

"Oh, not precisely." Simon waved such exactitude away: a matter of no importance. "Five minutes either way. To the best of my remembrance."

"Counselor, was Mr. Geltman out of your sight at any time on that Friday between ten and one-thirty?"

"Approximately," the lawyer admonished him.

"Approximately," Delaney agreed.

"No, he was not out of my sight between the approximate hours of ten and one-thirty that Friday. Oh, wait!" He snapped his finger crisply. "He did go into the john. Back there." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing at a solid wooden door set into the wall between oak bookcases. "But he was only gone two or three minutes."

"Other than that, he was in your sight every minute during the period specified?"

"He was."

"Thank you very much," Chief Delaney said suddenly, clapped his notebook shut, rose abruptly. "You've been very cooperative, and we appreciate it."

Sergeant Boone stood up, and so did J. Julian Simon. The lawyer seemed surprised at the unexpected end of the questioning, pleasantly surprised. He beamed, grew more expansive, did everything but throw his arms about the cops' shoulders.

"Always happy to help out New York's Finest," he caroled.

"When the lunch came, did Miss Hemley bring it in?" Delaney demanded sharply.

"What?" Simon said, shaken. "I don't understand."

"You ordered sandwiches for you and Geltman. When your order was delivered, did Susan Hemley bring it into your office?"

"Why-ah-no, she didn't."

"Then the delivery man from the deli brought it in?"

"No, that's not the way it happened at all," Simon said, regaining his poise. "Miss Hemley called me on the intercom and said the delivery boy was outside with the lunch. So I went out, paid him, and brought the lunch back in here. But I fail to see-"

"It's nothing," Delaney assured him. "I'm an old woman; I admit it. I like to have every little detail straight, exactly how everything happened. Now I know. It certainly is a handsome office you have here, counselor."

He wandered about a moment, Sergeant Boone following him. The Chief inspected the caricatures on the walls, stroked the oak bookcases, touched the marble top of a small sideboard. And glanced toward the glass door. As did Sergeant Boone. They both saw the little square of masking tape clearly, outlined against the lighted corridor.

There were thanks and handshakes all around. More handshakes and farewells when they left Susan Hemley in the outer office. In the empty corridor, Delaney motioned Boone to stay where he was. Then he moved back to the frosted glass door and, standing to one side again, peeled the tape away. He came back to Boone, rolling the tape into a little ball between his fingers. He dropped it into his side pocket.

"Destroying the evidence," he said. "A felony."

There was a passenger in the elevator when it came down, so they didn't speak. Out on the street, walking toward their parked car, Delaney said. "I don't think he was lying about how the lunch got into the inner office, but just to make sure, check the delicatessen where it came from. Find out if the delivery boy saw Geltman. Also Susan Hemley. Did she take the sandwiches into the inner office, or did it happen as Simon told us? And if it did, did she see Geltman while the door was open? Maybe you better have another lunch with her."

"Can't I do it on the phone, Chief?" Boone asked.

Delaney looked sideways at him, surprised.

"Don't you like her?" he asked.

"She scares me," the sergeant confessed.

"Go on, have lunch with her," Delaney smiled. "She's not going to bite you."

"I'm not so sure," Boone said mournfully.

They sat awhile in the parked car, windows down, waiting for the car to cool. They were silent, going over the permutations and combinations.

"He could have made it out to the corridor," Boone offered finally. "Without Hemley seeing him."

"Could have," Delaney agreed. "Risky but possible. So we scratch another alibi. Now none of them is home free."

Boone nodded gloomily.

"Sergeant," Delaney said, almost dreamily, "I'm a bigot."

Boone turned to look at him.

"What, sir?"

"I am," the Chief insisted. "I have two great unreasoning prejudices. First, I hate Brussels sprouts. And second-" he paused dramatically "-I don't trust men who wear pinkie rings."

"Oh, that," Boone grinned.

"Yes," Delaney said. "That. Run him through Records, will you? Maybe he's got a sheet."

"J. Julian Simon?" Boone said incredulously. "A sheet?"

"Oh yes," Delaney nodded. "Maybe."

"Wow," Abner Boone said, looking at the overhead racks of customers' clay pipes. "This place must be a thousand years old."

"Not quite," Delaney said. "But it didn't open yesterday either."

They were in Keen's English Chop House, waiting for Lieutenant Bernard Wolfe to arrive. The Chief had rated a booth in the main dining room. When the ancient waiter had asked, "A little something, gentlemen?" the Chief had ordered a dry Gibson up, and looked to Boone.

"Just tomato juice for me," the sergeant said stolidly.

"A Virgin Mary," the waiter nodded wisely. "Also known as a Bloody Shame."

Boone grinned at him.

"You're so right," he said.

"If this place ever closes," Delaney said, looking around, "I'm dead. I mean, I'm not talking about the Pavilion and Chauveron and places like that. All gone. But I was never in them. I'm talking about places like Steuben's Tavern and the Blue Ribbon and Connolly's on Twenty-third Street. Good, solid eating establishments. All gone. Beveled glass, Tiffany lamps, a mahogany bar. Enrico and Paglieri down in the Village. Moscowitz and Lupowitz over on Second Avenue. The food! You wouldn't believe. Real cops' restaurants when you wanted to spread. Things like boiled beef and horseradish sauce, a nice corn beef and cabbage, venison in season. Once I had wild-boar chops at Steuben's. Can you imagine? Honest drinks. Waiters who knew what it was all about. It's going, sergeant," he ended sorrowfully. "This place is one of the best and the last. If it disappears, where the hell are you going to get mutton in Manhattan?"

"Beats me, sir," Boone said solemnly, and Delaney laughed.

"Yes," he said, "I do get carried away. But it's hard to see the old places die. Although I suppose some good new places are coming along. The blessing of this city. It keeps rejuvenating itself. Well ... here's our drinks. Now, where's Wolfe?"

And there he was, standing by their booth ... but they couldn't believe it.

Tall, slender as a whip, with a devil's black beard and mustache. A suit of bottle-green velvet with nipped waist and flaring tails. A puce shirt, open collar, knotted scarf of paisley silk about a muscled throat. A dark, flashing man, lean, with hard eyes and a soft smile. All of him sharp as a blade, coldly handsome, a menace to every woman on earth and half the men. He took their startled looks, threw his head back, flashing the California whites.

"Don't let the threads fool you," he said. "My working uniform. At home in Brooklyn I wear dirty chinos and basketball sneakers. You must be Chief Delaney. I'm Loot Bernie Wolfe. Don't get up."

They shook hands all around, and he slid in next to Boone. The waiter appeared at his elbow, and he ordered a kir. He seemed to live with that raffish smile.

"Great," he said, looking around at the smoky walls and faded memorabilia. "I'll have a suckling pig on toast. Would you believe the last time I was in here was when I proposed?"